No, I don't want to sleep with you

stop sexualising me dammit!

I don’t know when it all changed. I try to think back to my early 20s, when I dated a lot. When I was such a social butterfly that I had so many male friends, friends who just wanted to be my “friend” and not sleep with me. I wonder if everything shifted sometime in the last three years, when I took a step back from the dating world to fix a broken heart.

Maybe I missed something in that gap. Maybe the dating world evolved while I was healing, and I didn’t get the update. Because now it feels like men no longer have any interest in who you are or what you do, they’re only concerned about your favorite style in bed.

When I decided to place my foot back into the dating world last year, I was confused for a long time. I remember asking my best friend if I was the problem. Why do all the guys I meet want to know my sexual preferences? Why are you suddenly interested in my sex life when I was just explaining to you this novel idea I have in mind?

I was beyond dumbfounded.

It’s disgusting. Being sexualized like that. Because it doesn’t just mean you want sex, it means you see me as an object. As a thing. Not as a woman. Not as someone who has dreams. Not as someone who wants to tell you about her dreams, someone who enjoys watching the sunset, who loves to cook her favorite recipe, and who loves to complain about the state of the world. You don’t see me at all.

I started to blame myself at one point. Maybe it is me. Maybe I’m the one attracting these kinds of men, men who lead with lust and nothing else. Men whom I term as perverts. I started to tell myself that maybe I shouldn’t have added weight; perhaps it’s the weight causing all this. Maybe my boobs shouldn’t have gotten bigger. Perhaps they should’ve stayed smaller and unnoticeable. Maybe my body is the problem. I even took to despising my own body for having the kind of proportions it has. I took to wearing bigger clothes that aren’t revealing whenever I had to pass a place where men stayed.

Being sexualized isn’t just annoying - it’s dehumanizing. It’s a slow, quiet violence. It chips away at your self-worth until you start blaming your body, your voice, your existence.

I recently met a guy. One who, on the surface, checked all the boxes - physically. He smelled good. He looked intelligent. We would talk for days about everything and sometimes even argue about things that made no sense. And it felt fun. Playful. I thought we were having a good time.

I had even started growing a crush on him. He was my type, so why not?

Then one night, he called. I was telling him about this new newsletter idea, the one where I spiral about fictional characters and this recent movie I just watched, when he interrupted me and said:
"When are you coming to see me so you can rant about what you hate... in bed? I know you’d look good in bed with that running mouth of yours.”

The line went silent on my end. But he kept talking, not noticing that I had gone quiet. He had switched to thinking with his dick at that point, nothing I said would’ve mattered unless it fed into his fantasy.

To say I was shocked would be a lie. I wasn’t shocked.

I was tired.

What do you even say to that? Thanks? Gross? Are you okay? Can’t you just let me be a person? Can you be normal?

I think what kills me the most is, I’m not even looking for love right now, which I should because I’m at the age where I’m supposed to take my life seriously. I’m just trying to connect. Maybe laugh. Maybe talk about my writing. Share a weird playlist. Talk about the way I spiral over random things. But somewhere along the line, it always turns. The compliments always shift. The questions get too personal. At some point, they always want to know about my body count, about my thoughts on sex. About the things that turn me off and on.

Now, when I talk to a new guy, I’m not wondering if it’ll get weird. I’m wondering when it’ll get weird. The countdown starts the moment he says, “You’re different.”

While I’m trying to build a connection, they’re busy building a script in their head. A scene where I exist only for their pleasure. And somewhere in the middle of that, they lose me. Because I realized I was the only one looking for something real.

I’ve gotten so tired of men. So tired of dating. So tired of relationships. A lot of the men I’ve shut down recently, when they tried to talk about sex, have called me asexual. Which makes the whole thing more hilarious because I’m not.

But they wouldn’t know that. We never got to the stage where I’d naturally share something as private as my sexual preferences with you. Where I’ll randomly tell you my thoughts on sex because you don’t have sense and you think with your dick. You don’t get that part of me. You don’t get to see that part of me.

You ruined it before we even got close. And now I find you disgusting.

Like hell, I enjoy sex. Everyone enjoys sex. But I refuse to let it be the lens through which you view me. Just because I like sex doesn’t mean I want to be treated like a sex object. I am not a walking fantasy. I refuse to be your walking fantasy. I am a human being. With a damn newsletter.

And the audacity! The audacity of it all. Because where in all this did I give you the impression that I want to sleep with you? Are you seeing your stupid big-ass head?

It’s wild, honestly.

I used to have male friends who respected me, who saw me, listened to me, and never once made me feel like I owed them my body just for being their friend. Lately, I’ve lost count of how many men I’ve had to cut off because somewhere along the line, they decided it was okay to sexualize me. To casually say things like, “Come over, let’s chill... and wear something light,” like I’m too stupid to catch the real meaning behind it.

It’s always the ones you wouldn’t even consider kissing, thinking they have a chance in bed. If you don’t geddifok.

Maybe the problem is me. Maybe I’m refusing to adapt to this version of the dating world where being sexualized is the new norm. Where nothing else matters except sex.

But I refuse to accept that this is what we’ve become. I refuse to believe that I can’t have a normal conversation with a man without it turning into something sexual.

I know one day, I’ll meet someone who has sense. I will like mad! But until then? Keep your stupid compliments and your dick-driven curiosity. I do not want to sleep with you!

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Sigh! Can y’all tell I was mad while writing this?