I consider myself a feminist. And that’s why people are shocked that the sexiest thing you can say to me is, “Don’t you dare put me on hold again!”
The question always follows: How I can consider myself a capable, intelligent woman if I can’t get off unless I’m treated like a customer service representative?
I have a wonderful boyfriend, Chester, who tries to be a supportive lover. I love him, but I can tell his heart isn’t in it when he says my favorite dirty talk: “Are you incompetent, or are you TRYING to piss me off?”
Recently, I was close to climax, when he suddenly said he wasn’t comfortable demanding I tell him why he has to press “one” for English. He said it was too demeaning and he just couldn’t treat me like that. I went to bed crying because he didn’t want to make me cry.
I want things to work with Chester, but I can’t help but compare him to Jarek, my ex. I’d whimper as Jarek monitored my bathroom time, getting upset with me when he felt he’d waited too long. When I’d make Jarek dinner, he had no problem saying, “Please put me on with your supervisor.” I’d get so hot I’d let him take me right there on the table. The most passionate memories I have are of Jarek shoving me against the wall, whispering, “Where’s my tax refund? Why can’t I get anyone on the line who has any idea what they’re talking about?!” And I’d respond, “Sir, I already told you, we only repair refrigerators here!”
I can hear you now, wondering what I was expecting from a man who was willing to treat me like a dirty cubicle-girl. To which I say, I believe that a man can be a good person in the streets and a customer in the sheets.
How do predilections like mine develop? It’s just something that’s a part of me, like how some women like tall men, or some like tall men dressed like centaurs. But if I’m being honest, I remember being a little girl, listening to my dad yell at the phone about how he was never told there would be a cable installation fee… even though the contract he’d signed was right in front of him. I thought it was amazing that he could dream up his own reality and force it on someone who wasn’t allowed to contradict him. That’s when I learned how a real man behaves.
I do sometimes worry that it’s taking me more and more extreme versions of the scenario to get me to the same heights of arousal. I stay up all night on Monster.com, looking at job listings that pay under $30,000 per year. I sit in my secondhand office chair with a headset and a corded phone, spinning around until I’m so tangled up I can barely move, quaking with ecstasy as the wires wrap around my neck.
It’s wrong, but I can’t resist the sick thrill. I just need to find a partner willing to shout “Ma’am” at me condescendingly.
