So, here's the part where I probably lose you.
Here's the part where my "raging feminist" membership card gets revoked and shredded.
James was opening up. He was telling me about all these "taboo" things, and for a second, I had that spark, right?
I thought, Okay, maybe there's a basement. Maybe there's some hidden grit here.
But then... he tried to actually do it. Not just talk about it. He tried to act it out over the phone, and God, it was like watching a toddler put on a suit of armor.
He lacks "it." You know what "it" is. That heavy, masculine energy that makes you feel like the air in the room just got thicker. James doesn't have that. Even when he was saying the most "taboo" things imaginable, he was still saying them with that steady, sweet, golden-retriever-voice.
"I want you to take control," he whispered, and I could practically hear him smiling through the phone. It wasn't a dark, dangerous invitation. It was a request for a hug with extra steps.
And this is where the guilt gets real, real messy.
I've spent years shouting about how traditional gender roles are a cage. I don't want a "provider." I don't want a "protector." I want an equal. I want a guy who knows where the dishwasher pods go and doesn't think therapy is a sign of weakness. James is all those things! He's the literal dream!
But when it comes to the heat? My lizard brain is a total hypocrite.
I realized I wanted the thing I'm supposed to hate. I wanted someone with edges. I wanted a man who didn't ask for permission to be a man. I wanted that "masculinity" that I usually associate with red flags and toxic exes. I want hard sex and a harder love.
It's a special kind of hell, being a feminist who is bored by "the perfect guy."
"I love how safe you make me feel," I texted him, and my eyes nearly rolled out of my head as I typed it.
"Safe" is the ultimate insult when you're looking for fire. Safe is what you want in a car seat or a bank account. It's not what you want when your veins are supposed to be burning.
And James? James is the safest place on earth. He's a padded room. He's a warm bowl of oatmeal. He's a guy who, even when he's talking about being "taboo," sounds like he's reading a recipe for waffles.
I sat there, looking at his texts, and I felt like a fraud. I'm out here praying to God to make me a "good girl" for him, while my subconscious is out back trying to find a guy who doesn't apologize.
Is it a red flag that I want a "traditional" spark? Does it make me a bad person that I find his lack of... let's call it grit... totally unsexy?
I went to the kitchen to get some water. My dad was sitting at the table, looking at the bills again, his face set in that hard, stubborn line of a man who is drowning but refuses to ask for help. It's toxic, sure. It's "traditional" in the worst way.
But as I looked at my dad, and then looked at my phone glowing with another "I love you so much, goddess" text from James, I realized I was trapped between two worlds. One that was too hard, and one that was so soft I was starting to sink.
I went back to Maya's page. I looked at a photo of her in a leather jacket, standing next to a guy who looked like he'd never used a "aesthetic" hashtag in his life. They looked...good.
I closed the app. I felt like a traitor to my own politics.
James: Are you still there, babe? I'm still thinking about what we talked about. I'm so glad I can be my real self with you.
Me: I'm here, Jamie. I'm just thinking too.
Yeah. Thinking about how I'm probably going to hell for wishing my "perfect" boyfriend was just a little bit more of a problem.