I have never been on a blind date.
I have never used a dating website.
I have never had sex on the first date.
What is wrong with this picture?
I’ll tell you: absolutely nothing.
There is a lot of pressure as a woman to put oneself “out there.” To me this sounds like hurtling yourself untethered out of a spacecraft but which apparently means meeting new people at a rate considered appropriate by Cosmopolitan magazine. Being single, for some reason, is often made out to be some sort of crime against humanity, worthy of the same gruesome punishment as eating too many Oreos. If you’re not in a relationship by age 22, your family begins to ask if you’ve met any nice young men lately. If you’ve managed to make it to thirty without at least one marriage, you’re either a closeted lesbian or “obsessed with her career.” And if you’re not having sex? The social kiss of death, my friends. God forbid anyone on the planet should be more interested in a good book than a good fuck.
Unfortunately, this pressure has manifested itself in many young women as desperation, and desperation is a slippery slope. Women who are kept up nights by the earsplitting sound of their biological clock ticking, or simply the echoing taunts of their non-single friends, are women who are being put in danger every single day. Why?
Because a woman’s reproductive abilities peak at a certain age, there is an unspoken assumption that the weight of sustaining the human race falls on our shoulders. For him, this date is just a way to kill a Friday night. But for us, this date is not just a date; the face of our species depends upon it, or so you’d think from the reactions of our friends and family: “Go on, live a little! Give him a shot!” “Are you seriously going to pass that up? He drives a Lambourghini!” “I guess the human skin mask is a little creepy, but come on! Look at that jawline!”
We are constantly being told to get out there, slap on some makeup, make an effort, for God’s sake. If we have the misfortune of meeting someone who doesn’t have track marks and a beard that smells like dead pigeons, those we formerly considered our loved ones practically grab his penis and stuff it inside us, frantic for our eggs to be fertilized as soon as possible. Those of us in relationships longer than a year or so must face the inevitable question: “So, are you guys engaged or what?” Then as soon as you get married, they want to know where the hell the offspring is. It becomes a Baton Death March down the long, brutal path of womanhood.
It is important to remember in your twenties (or hell, any time, really) that yo’ body is YO’ body, and you ain’t gotta give it to nothin’ or nobody. If you want your sole sexual activity for the next twenty years to be with a large body pillow, then that is your prerogative. And it doesn’t matter how old you are – meeting people is a delicate situation. You don’t want to find yourself chained in a basement somewhere, gagged with your own panties, on account of having trusted someone that could have been Mr. Right and actually turned out to be Mr. Most Wanted.
A relationship will come if you want it to, but unless you are really digging somebody for your own personal reasons, don’t feel like you have to entertain other people’s genitals in the privacy of your home, just because the world is reverting to the 19th century is the most frightening ways. In short: “To thine own self be true, and fuck everyone else.” – William Shakespeare