Fuck the lines. And certainly fuck reading between them.
When it comes to romance, give me literal, thank-you-very-much-for-the-bluntness communication. If love is a book, then I’m a post-structuralist. I give no credence to authorial intention. And I sure as hell don’t pine for nuance and subtleties circled by little red hearts and smiley faces emoticons.
The other night I noticed a considerably disconcerting trend in a text-message-conversation with a girl I was subtly trying to woo/take off her clothes with me: I had more or less initiated the last 4 to 7 topics/exchanges.
This was, in theory, bad news.
As you know, relationships are no less about raw power leveraging than Wrestle Mania is about well-grasped folding chairs. And my cutesy, wink-and-nod, creative, word-play flirtation had left me on the mat while my mask-clad opponent was steadying herself for a violent leap from the top rung.
But since I’m no longer reading between lines (nor asking her to read between mine), I just parlayed this momentary faux pas into a direct blow: “Yo what the fuck’s up?” I texted.
Did this work? Well. No. She didn’t respond. Which is basically the equivalent of showing up to work to swear at your boss and make a scene before quitting except it’s a Saturday and the office is closed.
But I did cut her off at the legs. And the next day, she reaffirmed what my shaking ego had suggested (concerned about the distance, girl stuff about commitment, blah blah blah).
Language is generally a herpes bath of mixed meanings. So if you ever want to achieve even a semblance of meaningful communication in a limited sexual partnership, you better underscore, bold, and capitalize all the important words.
Some of you may say this approach is anti-intellectual, cynical, or even worse, some form of strict-constructionism. Am I the Antonin Scalia of sexting? Ahh!
Maybe.
But most fundamentalist-literal interpretative philosophies are usually motivated by moments of acute-to-general trauma in someone’s past when their general faith in ambiguity or dissonance has been irretrievably compromised. In other words, I’ve too often at bars talked about forgotten 1990s pop gems instead of “Do you have a boyfriend? Do you like making out in alleyways/stranger’s apartments?”
So from here on out, it’s all full-disclosure. No longer will I cloak self-interest behind witty banter about Ethan Hawke films! No longer will I dither about good pick-up-lines on the dance-floor when a perfectly good pelvic thrust during R. Kelly’s “Bump n’ Grind” will do just as well!
The next time I hear the following lines from a dating/sexting partner (“We need to talk”), I will respond with, “So you’re no longer okay driving two hours to have sex with me in your car?” And the next time I hear, “I think the distance is too much,” I will take the opportunity to simply say, “You know, I AM getting my prescription changed.”
And if she ever tries again to tell me she’s going to a frat party and then the next text I get is from like 4:30 a.m. or whatever and she thinks that she can subtly tell me she’d rather make out with collegiate dweebs than hang with a real man like me, well, then, I guess I will refuse to read between the lines and continue pestering her/reading her Facebook page.
There is no glory in a lover’s obstinacy. But there is the cold comfort of honesty. And the chance of vague threats about potential legal action.
~Dunstan McGill
Photo courtesy Government & Heritage Library, State Library of NC
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