I found a plain blue T-shirt yesterday. Years ago, I bought it because I thought it would be cool to look like Louis C.K., at least until he was accused of sexually harassing some of his fellow comedians. Thinking about this still pisses me off. I’m not mad at the women or that he got caught; I’m mad that he did all that in the first place.
The only people I talk to at my day job are women. My only friends in town are women. So when #MeToo took off, I was surrounded by women’s stories. I’d never heard these things before. Not because I’m willfully ignorant — or maybe I am — but I didn’t start talking to girls until I was a junior in college. I guess I just assumed all this creepiness shit was the fault of a few assholes.
But Louis C.K. seemed like me — a nice guy. (Or at least I like to think of myself as a nice guy.) I put myself through CU working as a bouncer, so I know how to keep my hands to myself.
Last weekend while under the influence of a lot of different, um, substances, I danced with a stunning woman at a club. After our racy (but PG-13) floor maneuvers, she told me, “I can’t believe somebody on as many drugs as you were on could be so normal.” After a week we’re still texting — because I’m a nice guy.
Since when did nice guys become the exception and not the norm?
This isn’t a post about how women should be nicer to nice guys. By now, we should all know that all women should get to choose when they can afford to be nice.
All this catcalling, dick pic-ing, whistling, groping, unwanted sexual advances and shit like that has no place in our society.
Men, do you want to ruin this woman’s trust in you? Trust in men? Trust in society? Do you want to ruin her night? Her psyche? Her sex life? Her life? Your life and career? How many more HBO specials will Louis C.K. be getting in the future?
So how does a self-proclaimed nice guy (like me) handle getting turned down or blue-balled or lonely? I don’t whip out my junk or sling insults. I go home and beat one down. Sometimes my Fleshlight named Dara joins me. Am I embarrassed? Hell no. It’s something I’ve been doing for a long time. In my book, it’s a lot more decent to name an artificial vagina than to treat a woman like a toy.
Do I get to thump my chest in the locker room about how I’m a conqueror? Not really, but after a woman accompanies me on a date or a long night of drinking, I hope she never talks to her friends and coworkers about the gross shit I did to her, said to her or showed her.
So now I need to figure out what to wear after I throw away this plain blue T-shirt that reminds me of my fallen hero. Oh, and Fleshlight, if you want to send me a freebie in return for this free advertising, Dara is kind of getting worn out.