Never, in my wildest nightmares, (prepare for comical exaggeration) did I ever believe I would empathise with a man. But a few weeks ago, I found myself sat on a bus watching a man experience what it’s like to be a girl.
With every rotation of the wheels, he turned his phone over in his hands to reveal a blank lock screen. But just to double check, he pulls up the screen to reveal no new notifications—she hadn’t texted him back. Until the screen lit up, revealing a message I couldn’t read. It was then that I realised my eyesight is worse than I thought.
Must book in with Specsavers.
The speed of light has competition in this man. He raced to that chat faster than I jump to conclusions. He retypes a full response four times, before settling on what I can only imagine was a variation of ‘okay’ from the vague shape I could make out.
The cycle repeats a few more times. Until she replies, he reads it, and doesn’t respond.
I have not stopped thinking about this man. His sad stares out the bus window, watching the world pass him by contemplating everything he could’ve possibly ever done wrong.
Of course it pains me not to know strangers’ business, but that’s not why I’ve been thinking about him so often. It made me think. He made me think, do men obsess over replies to us like we do to them? Do men *dramatic pause* care?
I’ve had a recent revelation that I absolutely hate texting people I don’t really know. There’s a false intimacy we create with it, especially with men in the early stages of dating talking whatever we’re calling it now.
There’s two parts to this for me. The first is that I don’t want a pen pal, I want to go on a date and decide never to see you again that way. If I’m enduring hearing all about how your job is actually integral to the world’s survival (he’s a car salesman) I need a margarita in my hand. Secondly, I don’t want to be giving so much time and effort to a literal stranger. I offer multiple subscriptions, none of which are available to men from the internet until after date three. We can discuss the plans on offer then.
Honestly, I really hate texting men in any capacity. Going to all the trouble of consulting the council, formulating a perfect response that silences him. He’s so impressed, he doesn’t respond.
But maybe, just maybe, they might obsess over their responses too? A scientific breakthrough. Get NatGeo on the phone, we’ve made a discovery of a new species. The Yearner.
Here I’d like to pause to list a few opening messages I’ve received from some lovely, intelligent members of our society;
fwb or not your thing?
*snap code*
;) ;) ;)
so respectfully, when you gonna sit on my face
hey
mmmm
<3
hello bikini xx
Unfortunately, my bikini couldn’t come to the phone, leave me alone Matt, who’s looking for ‘still figuring it out’ at his big old age of 30.
My point is, in a world full of lustful men, a yearner, and not a performative yearner, among us is a discovery worth shouting about.
For the purposes of my sanity we’re going to ignore the presence of the performative male. Which by the way, are we not just rebranding the pick me boy? I don’t have the energy to suss out a new level of lies.
It’s not really within me to trust a man. Especially when so often, I’m met with the grace and respect of gravel. No matter what you do to it, it never stays where it should, gets everywhere, and hurts like hell if you fall for it.
Since that bus ride though, I’ve witnessed a real yearner. They exist. And glimpses that maybe some men are, deep down, just girls, gives me a glimmer of hope.