Thahabu

I didn’t like boys in high school. I hooked up with them, not because I thought they were cute, but because they fit the ideal type my friends and other girls fawned over. I’d pretend to agree whenever they talked about the appeal of the boys they liked. It was the conventionally attractive guys, with wide chiseled jaw and abs. And if they were non-black or light-skinned, that was like finding the the holy grail of men. I felt strange and indifferent while they had these conversations, because I didn’t feel the same way. I didn’t care about abs or how “exotic” a guy looked, yet I had still never seen a guy that made my heart do backflips. I didn’t have the words to describe this feeling back then, and as result people started to label me and ask, “Thahabu are you confused or just gay? Because I never see you with a boy.” It didn’t help that I preferred to wear jeans more than dresses and I was never clever when it came to drama. I was the girl willing to yell if someone was bullying me, never whispering or starting rumors like I was expected to. I often wondered, Was I missing something? Why didn’t the sight of a guy’s abs make me hot and stumble over my words like it did my friends? I started believing what was projected onto me and, toward the end of high school, I identified as someone who liked girls.

It wasn’t until I went to a festival in the summer of 2013 that I discovered what my perfect guy looks like. I looked up and saw a tall man with wild hair, high defined cheekbones, a strong chin, and a smile that could light the whole world with world peace. In that moment, I knew what I liked and what I wanted. I wasn’t what others had labeled me. I had simply never seen a man I wanted until that moment—at the ripe age of 17 at Afropunk. Newly able to identify what I did and didn’t like, I looked back on my previous interactions with men and thought, Oh, that totally wasn’t my type, that was the exact opposite. I also realized that every time I talked to a guy when I was younger, I’d been subconsciously trying to impress my friends even if I never told them about the guy. I’m over trying to meet those expectations, but now I face a whole new stigma because I’ve still never been in a relationship.

My understanding of my sexuality hasn’t stopped others from trying to deny my femininity. Now that i know my tastes and what I want, I’m completely comfortable pursuing friends with benefits with people I’m attracted to. I haven’t met that special someone, and I have no desire to. It’s not that I’m against romantic relationships, I just don’t search for or stress over them. And, boy, do my friends and family give me slack for this. My family asks where’s my boyfriend at, and my friends are always like, “Girl, you’re just a player.” While I know my dear friends are joking, I’ve noticed that the terms they throw at me—player and fuckboy—usually apply to men. In fairness to them, this may be because some of my trysts with girls have ended in them developing feelings for me. My low self-esteem means that this invariably comes as a surprise to me, and I’ve had to explain that the feeling isn’t mutual while they cry and/or scream at me. I honestly never thought I’d be a “heartbreaker”; I always pictured people constantly breaking up with me. Regardless, I don’t think I should be viewed as someone who plays with people’s emotions or as someone who uses women. If I had broken men’s hearts people would probably be praising me like, “Yaaaas, girl! Boys ain’t shit. Fuck ’em.” But because some of my situationships end in romantic casualties I’m suddenly cold and heartless—and less of woman.

Lately I’ve been internalizing these opinions. I shamed myself for not being able to appreciate romantic relationships, as if I’m gross for enjoying casual sex. I wouldn’t call these criticisms of me slut shaming. People seem to be OK with me having casual sex, the problem is they also expect me to harbor this fantasy of finding the perfect one, and to at least have relationships under my belt at 19 going on 20, which I do not. They also don’t like that boys and girls have called me yelling, trying to convince me that we belong together. That destroys their image of me as a typical girl archetype, cowering in sadness after a breakup or having been deceived. Somehow, I’m some hypersexual emotional traitor.

Last summer, I was talking with my friend Madison about her relationship woes. The conversation switched to my sexual escapades and she casually commented with a laugh, “Oh, Thahabu you just don’t like anybody.” Her lighthearted tone was comforting and validating, confirming that my preference for friends with benefits is just as normal and healthy as someone who pines for a romantic relationship.

I don’t think I lead people on. I’m very in tune with my emotions and I don’t go back in forth with them. If I like someone I’ll tell them: I don’t give them hints or show them with my actions until that’s said. When I think back on the people who developed feelings for me then treated me like the Loch Ness Monster for not reciprocating I still get confused, because I honestly don’t give them much to like. People tend to talk to me—they tell me their life stories and secrets, and I don’t mind listening or offering comfort. But I’m not open in that same respect, I don’t tell them too much about myself. So what is it about me that makes them expect me to love them? I shout, “You don’t even know me! If I’m a player, if I lead you on, then how did I finesse you into liking me?” I haven’t provided them with anything besides a pretty face and free therapy, and that leads me back to thinking that they like the idea of me, which I hate with a burning passion of five million fires.

My low self-esteem makes me think I don’t have the right to “dump” someone. So just like Cardi B on the song “Sauce Boys,” I start making up excuses for why they shouldn’t like me, or doing things to turn them off so they’ll end the relationship themselves and feel somewhat in control of the situation. Just like Cardi says “Listen, I’m a hoe,” I’ll pretend like I’m talking to someone other than them—giving them a little push in the “Leave Thahabu the fuck-alone” direction. But they still don’t get it, and when I’m clear about how I feel I still turn out to be the bad guy. I guess that’s how I end up in the player category.

I’m trying not care anymore: I know what my intentions are and that I would never hurt someone on purpose. And if me not dreaming about a relationship makes me strange that’s fine, too. I know what I want and I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t use people for sex like Cardi says in the song, but I do understand her annoyance with the men she’s singing about. Especially those whose intention is to play a girl because they get a rise out of it. Take for example, this one guy I used to talk to. When we met he was doing this really heavy, almost predatory flirting with me; I could tell he just wanted to fool around. But then, over the weeks, he’d text me in this really romantic, pretentious, poetic voice when I already knew he was just trying to get in my pants! The last time he texted me some fake-deep crap I really wanted to text back like, “Are you just trying to hit or nah? Are you gonna keep sending me poems or just be real? Cuz I see through all the bullshit.”

Maybe being raised by a raised single dad who taught me all about the games men play gave me a sixth sense, and maybe that’s why I’m not hellbent on rushing into a relationship. Like Cardi B says, “I don’t be stressing them / I swear I just flex on them.” ♦