by: Our Staff
As people of discerning tastes we, the writers of In Our Words, have very high standards for our partners. Sometimes too high, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes confusing, but hey, at least we have some standards. To aid you in your pursuit of us sexually, here are a few of our criteria for partners. If you pass muster, please feel free to take a number and get in line.
No Insane Clown Posse fans. Never. I will not budge on this, no matter how many homely girls from Central Illinois send me online messages asking me if they can be the one exception to my not being down with the clown. I legitimately do not trust the taste or reasoning skills of anyone who listens to ICP, therefore I could never approve of them wanting to sleep with me. It’s almost like the biggest insult I can get when a Juggalo/Juggalette wants to get with me. Also, as a cousin standard, no dubstep fans. That probably means you’re too young for me anyway. And probably no current fans of anime, just to be on the safe side.
No fictional characters, they never work out. It’s also hard to be romantic with anyone who thinks actively eradicating my identity is fun and wholesome. No one who uses any of the following phrases: “You’re too angry about this issue,” “Don’t take things so seriously,” and my all time favorite disqualifier, “I wouldn’t actually rape anyone so rape jokes are ok.” No one who has every said, “Well, I am centrist and they ARE fair and balanced.” That’s usually a good litmus test for dangerous folks. And honestly, let’s be real here, anyone who defends George Lucas’ eradication of film history. I mean, yes, I am an open-minded and nerdy trans* girl, but come on. There is only so many petulant revisions a gal can take before powering up her own Death Star and going all Alderaan on someone.
I cannot handle clingy. I am, famously, something of a rascal. To that end, I love (certain) people, dearly and truly; my friends are the greatest group of people beyond the Tripp clan in existence. However, even if you are the greatest love of my life, The One, the person I want to spend the rest of my time on earth with, I still do not want to spend every waking moment with you. I definitely would like to spend quite a lot of time with you, and for fuck’s sake, unless you want to turn me into a quivering wreck of self-loathing and anguish, send me a “hey there” text every now and again so I know you’re alive and you still view me in a favorable light, but I have to have my space. Mostly, admittedly, to stare into space and watch BBC panel shows, which you might not think are terribly important, but they’re my zen. After all, I’ve got to keep up this mysterious air about me somehow.
No Republican Congressmen. As a fan of the older generation, I am often plagued by the thought that the man I am making out with tonight may spend tomorrow legislating in favor of discrimination, inequality and anti-reproductive rights. In a perfect world, there would already be an app with facial recognition that would then reveal their voting records. Since there’s not, I try to spend as much time as possible studying pictures of Congressmen and pairing them with voting records, in order to go full Lysistrata on the guys. And sure, I may have missed an opportunity to spend the night with Mitch McConnell, but at least I know I’m not fanning the flames of self-hatred which turns into hatred of other people. So, GOP, be warned, if you want a piece of this, you better fix your politics.
I’m a bit of a size queen, but in the other direction. Let’s keep things average or smaller, okay boys? I’m also weirded out dating/hooking up with anyone who knows people I know. This is gonna be a problem one day ‘cause I don’t live in that big of a city, but thus far it has worked out really well, except for that one time I went on a date with an awesome guy who turned out to be good friends with all my best friends, and then we dated quite successfully after that. So I guess it’s okay if you’re Quaker; otherwise you’d better purge any mutual Facebook friends. I require that male-identified folks be at least 27, even though I’m only 24. Female-identified folks may be any age that isn’t creepy. I have way fewer standards for ladies, although I also have a very specific type that is my dream lady. Naturally blonde, did theater through high school and hopefully into college, overachiever, likes to wear bright solids in that casual preppy way that was how everyone on TV dressed in 2003. I pick these girls out of crowded public transit and develop huge crushes on them for the 10 minutes or so we’re sharing a train car. Sometimes I make friends with such a lady and have a secret crush on her for years. I have never dated or hooked up with her.
I like asking questions. A lot of questions. It’s how I weed out my prey. Everyone always says I’m “so cute” and “so sweet.” But when it comes down to finding a potential partner, I’m vicious. Just picture Pikachu in battle, thunderbolt and all. When I meet a guy for a first time, the scenario quickly turns into an interview. This is typically what I ask: “Do you listen to Cat Power? Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre? What are your thoughts on eye patches? Have you ever committed arson? If I wrote a story and made you the villain, how would you react? E-books or actual books? Have you ever seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? If so, what would you do if I died my hair orange, blue, or green? What would you do if I did it all at once?” And finally, “What would you say if I told you that I sleep with a switchblade under my pillow?” Failure to answer these questions correctly automatically disqualifies you from any chance of a possible date and a Facebook friendship.
I’m a pretty easy going gal, but I do have my limits. First off, no conservatives — unless they’re really hot. A spirited discussion might lead to a great hookup, but my queer radical self has just barely enough self-respect to allow anything more. Secondly, no rice queens. I don’t put up with girls or boys who want a China doll accessory to give them their hipster cred (I’m looking at you, Zuckerberg). There’s nothing wrong with fitting the stereotype by being a quiet, polite girl who lives to serve your partner, but if you expect that from me, you’ve got another thing coming. Third, no brosephs or brosephines. I admit that I find the concept of downing brewskis while watching basketball in Wrigleyville pretty fun, but I don’t know if I’d could take dating a les/bro because the inevitable high-five post coitus would get old pretty quick. Other than that, I am up for all other ridiculously good looking individuals who have great tastes in music.
People who know me would probably joke that I have absolutely no standards. (This is because like The Beach Boys, I am known to, well, not be at home on a Saturday night.) However, just because you are an empowered individual who likes putting your mouth on other people’s mouths (sometimes all at once) doesn’t mean you don’t know when to say no and whom to say no to. Because I’m neurotic as fuck, I have a lot of criteria about what I do or do not like, but I have few non-negotiables.
Here are some of those. First, while jerks might be good for giving me just una noche (and maybe another couple noches if the genital coupling’s real good), they need not apply for partner status; I need to see that you are nice to waiters, taxi drivers, your friends, your mom and, equally important, to me. Also, you gotta read every once in awhile. I’m not asking you to be Gore Vidal, but you need to read something. Read the paper. Read the TV Guide channel. Read the subtitles on foreign films. Read a fucking cereal box for all I care. Because if I have to listen to one more person tell me that they don’t have time to read a book but do have time to watch every episode of every cast of the Real Housewives, I’ll go to Kelsey Grammer’s house and personally make him pay. Lastly, be forward and up front with me; tell me what you want and what you like. Ask me out, proposition me for Scrabble, but just say what you feel. I hate people who beat around the bush. I like my boys, girls and gender non-conformists to have cojones.
I have a strange set of loose paradoxes for anyone who wants to date me. One should be snugleable but at some point in the night disengage before I get too sweaty. Furthermore, one should love that I am a smelly mess, but not encourage it. Finally it must be understood that I am self deprecating and make nearly all jokes at my own expense, but I have a pretty healthy self-esteem. Yeah, after being asked out I have laughed really unattractively and punctuated it with a contorted faced “Really?!”, but know I believe in myself– trust me. Either take it as a compliment that I hold you in high esteem– handsome, charming, amazing and able to cook with– or as one of those lovable quirks of mine. Also dating me means you must enjoy guacamole, cookies, musty thrift store coats, angsty lady poetry, whiskey based cocktails made in jars, autumnal strolls, fancy words, rowdy friends and black as space coffee. I am made of these things.