I’d rather be alone in my bedroom than alone in his.

Femcels rise!

I often describe my sexuality as a state of permanent post-nut clarity. Like Buddha if he were 26 years old and wore tucking panties. I no longer find myself infatuated by the allure of a 7.5 inch, juicy, succulent schlong, even at 3 AM when my 7th Vodka Diet whispers sweet nothings. Simply put, cock is not one of my favorite tastes, and balls do not smell amazing.

An old copy pasta I can’t stop thinking about for some reason

I see men’s icks immediately and clear-eyed – the halal cart that lingers in his breath, the yellowish stain tucked under his armpit, how he has been talking to me for 20 minutes and still has not asked my name. The fact that his name is “Brett.” In the past, these traits were tariffs in the DL trade war. I paid them happily as the price of admission to a sexual life with men.

Now, I have bills to pay; I can’t be bothered with the mess. Why waste hours with “Straight👀TS🍑” from Grindr when my right hand works fabulously? Plus, I'm #markedsafe from chlamydia with my right hand. Straight👀TS🍑 can't even show face on the gay sex app, let alone at the community health clinic.

It’s like when you begged for McDonald's and your mom snapped back, “We got food at home.” We got sex at home, too.

I can’t tell if my newfound predicament is a disease or a superpower, though I lean toward the latter. I used to be a major horndog, but exclusively in the neurotic, wounded-inner-child way: desperately seeking male validation at the club and on the apps, prowling for a random dude to fuck so I can say I am someone who fucks.

I remember my old hookups like a Vietnam veteran recalls faint memories of active duty from his front-porch rocking chair. Each experience has a few distinguishable features, but faces and names meld together— the fake bisexual from my hometown, the stoner who made me watch an hour and a half of Pulp Fiction, the teacher who shed dandruff on my pillow, the cringe tech bro who spanked me in an NYU dorm—all filed away in a manila folder of regrettable sex.

I swear you would have thought I had a calendar on my fridge and added a gold star after every weekend I ended with a man. Yayyy Chrissy!! You are fuckable and sought-after!!! Didn’t really matter who he was, what he looked like, whether the dick was good, or if he repulsed me in the light of day. The specific man was less important than being able to check off the sex act like a Duolingo streak (but just the record, I’ve bagged some sexy ass guys, too.)

I departed those encounters wishing I could slink out of my skin and leave my tainted exterior on his bedroom floor. I hated how I smelled of him, and, trust, it was never cologne – more of an inner groin musk. When I orgasmed, I’d experience a brief peace before shuddering with utter disgust and contempt. Girl, you have got to get out of here.

For me, the walk of shame is less about judgmental onlookers and more about my visceral inner shame. On the train home, I always deleted Grindr and promised to turn over a new leaf. Meanwhile, the leaf had motion sickness from being turned over so much, just to still be the same crinkly, ran-through leaf.

I finally picked up a fresh leaf when I started estrogen. The oily elixir exorcised my testosterone demon, unshackling me from my depraved horniness. I still feel lust, but it's less overpowering. It doesn’t gnaw at me like an itch out of reach. It doesn’t force me onto the L train to fuck a man who doesn’t care if I live or die.

From this vantage point, I find male horniness fascinating. It’s like when you are at a dinner party and the host’s unneutered dog curls his back and starts humping the air, red rocket ablaze. Like, sir, we are trying to have a conversation here. And it's no shade! I love my darkroom divas and chemsex queens. In a lot of ways, I respect how forthright men are. But these days, if I enter a dark room, it's to start discourse about girls in dark rooms.

I have insider tea that he is referring to some fabulous dolls that were kii’ing in the Animal dark room.

On nights out, my first order of business is gabbing with my girls over a delectable Geek Bar. My second order of business is feeling like I’m in Euphoria on the dance floor and embodying a certain main character transsexual enchantress vibe.¹ Men are a tertiary interest, if that.

When I tell my friends about my sexual enlightenment, I’m either greeted with a chorus of applause or a pin-drop silence followed by “Oh girl, can’t relate.” I’m like the Joan of Arc for femcels, bravely drawing a line in the sand, demarcating the two types of people in the world: The nymphos and the volcels. The sinners and the chaste. The Samanthas and the Charlottes. The Faggots and the Aceggots.

I’m being reductive, but it feels that way. When I poll my girlfriends on their sexual proclivity, everyone falls on either extreme of the spectrum. My sexhead friends can’t get enough, and my eunuch divas are content to braid the cobwebs in their nether regions. It’s comforting to know that many girls carry a similar attitude; it helps me feel less broken. And, really, I don’t miss my days of careless fucking. If I were going to have sex with men I have no interest in, I should at least charge for my time.

My experience is a microcosm of a broader phenomenon: the girls are not fucking like we used to. One common explanation I see is that our generation is puritanical. We deflate the vibe with our captious wokeism and encyclopedia of social norms, ready to hammer down on any man who dares approach a woman.

That argument is as lazy as it is convenient, now that woke is out of vogue. News flash: I am a hedonistic bitch who is skeptical of cancel culture, and my roster is still dry. Actually, something is so fierce about that….

I would have sex with a guy I loved. Honestly, I would have sex with a guy I just liked as a person. But these days, the men in my DMs rarely pass the sniff test of my estrogenated post-nut clairvoyance, and not because of Men Are Trash discourse. It’s as simple as my fully formed prefrontal cortex having the discernment to reject counterfeit validation. I’d rather be alone in my bedroom than alone in his.

1. Angel captures this vibe well in her recent piece for Document Journal.