Articles

WRITE ME, I'M BEGGING YOU!
THE HOYA
SEX ON THE HILLTOP
MARCH 28, 2003

There's no way I can pen a witty, humorous and/or searing commentary on sociological phenomena among Generation Y’s male-female relations this week. There are protesters in Red Square, CNN's ratings have skyrocketed, and the Academy Awards shunned their red carpet. Given the state of the world, there are much more serious matters to consider.

Like the fact that no one has written any angry letters to the editor about my articles in weeks. Even ex-boyfriends whom I publicly embarrass in print won’t respond to my goading. Does anyone read this column? Isn’t anyone pissed off?? What must I do to get a reaction?!? Pose naked in Playboy?

Oh wait, no … the sex columnist from University of Kansas already did that. Perhaps my bitterness stems from that competitive, jealous spirit students in the School of Foreign Service know so well. My fellow college dating columnists across the nation are becoming famous, getting interviews with USA Today and the New York Times while I toil in relative anonymity, consoling myself with the dubious notoriety of graffiti in a Darnall elevator which supposedly includes my name. Or so I’ve heard. Hey, fame’s gotta start somewhere.

Still, Boston College’s sex columnist got flown to New York to evaluate ABC’s “Bachelorette,” while New York University and Tufts’ sex columnists were written up in Cosmo. Maxim quoted Berkley’s columnist and the Yale dating columnist secured a book contract.

As for me, well … I got to see How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days for free.  Although I had to sit in the aisle.

But that’s not all. I know it’s rude to brag, but you won’t believe all the great things I get just because I’m Georgetown’s one and only dating columnist.

Complete List of Free Stuff I’ve Gotten From This Gig:

-    How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days board game … instructions: for death by PR boredom, smother yourself with game.
-    The Guide to Picking Up Girls book and matching cardboard coaster … always useful in case of lesbian emergency.
-    A bright pink baseball mitt … this wasn’t actually given to me; I just saw it on the newsroom table and figured no one else would want a piece of magenta sports equipment.
-    A date with Tom Wigg (including a box of candy and a stuffed bear) … I bet the other sex columnists haven’t gotten complaisant 18-year-olds as a bonus!

Yes indeed, the perks just keep rolling in!

And don’t even get me started on the fan mail.  Wow. I can’t stop the flow … three to five emails every single week!  Please, ya’ll, you have to restrain yourselves; I can’t possibly deal with volume like that. Any more and I may have to hire a personal assistant.  You think the Hoya would pay for that?

The whole thing is eerily reminiscent of my high school radio show. As a DJ, occasionally they would offer me promo CDs featuring horrifically bad bands no one had ever heard of. I soon realized that no one would ever hear about these bands, mainly because they were horrifically bad. I then used the disks to fashion a large mobile, which is now hanging in my basement at home. So it’s not like I wasn’t used to getting loads of freebies.

And I was really popular! After all, with the highly coveted slot of 6-8 a.m. Saturday mornings, people kept their dials tuned. On good days, my listener base peaked at two: my grandmother and the station manager. The station manager slept through most of it.

Although my grandma did start a grassroots campaign, plugging my show to all of her “Tennis-Lady Friends,” my brush with morning-radio fame did not result in any fan mail — or graffiti, for that matter. As it was, I retired from the public sphere, only to reemerge two years later as the slightly more prominent school newspaper opinions columnist.

That stint led to one particularly memorable letter to the editor: my dad’s strongly worded reaction to my pro co-ed sleepover column. Suffice to say, he was not in favor of such events. The Chicago Tribune wrote a story about the editorial scuffle, accompanied by a great photo of my father and me attempting to strangle each other. My notoriety spiked then and there; it’s been downhill ever since.

Actually, I’m not really concerned with fame per se. I don’t need my fifteen minutes immediately — I’m sure I’ll be involved in some political scandal later in life. What I’d really like right now is some FEEDBACK. Yes, feedback — that’s when you, the reader, tell me, the writer, what you think. Specifically about the topics addressed in my canon of columns, but I suppose you could share good Gtown gossip or discuss J. Lo’s views on marriage — really, anything but the war on Iraq. I do not want to hear what you have to say about that.

I’m sure President DeGoia would though! He also wants to know that you appreciate condoms and would like to see them displayed prominently on every door throughout this campus. Maybe you should write him to advocate a One Student, One Door, One Condom policy. Or you could send him a condom care package!

But I digress.

Perhaps you wonder what sort of feedback you should send. Well, the mail I currently get is a mix of the random, the bizarre, and encouraging comments from my mother. To give you an idea, the following are all actual, unedited quotes:

Fan #1: “I like reading your columns in the Hoya. I think they are funny.”

If only all my fan mail were that eloquent.

Fan #2: “A person I know sent me some of your recent columns. I must say I was shocked — just completely shocked.”

I directed the writer to UC Santa Barbara’s sex column, “The Wednesday Hump,” whose recent headlines include: “Use Water-Based Lubrication to Ease the Bump, Grind and Slide” and “Guys Go Nuts When Ladies Go Balls Out.” Hmm …

Fan #3: “Dude, ur stuff is hilarious. Keep rolling with it jules. Peas are from down under and carrots are good too.”

I don’t understand the last sentence, but I’ll just assume the writer was doing drugs.

Fan #4: “I have been displeased with your articles for quite sometime now and I can't help but feel angry and displeased.”

The writer went on to detail said displeasure for another two pages, which was great fun. My mother was convinced he just wanted to date me, which reminded me of the lie that all adults tell young girls when little boys are mean — “Don’t worry dear, he just likes you. That’s his way of showing it.” Um, mom?  He just called me ugly and stupid.  He does not like me.

In addition to that, I do occasionally receive date requests … although I guess that’s not a big deal given that Kansas’ columnist claims she’s regularly solicited for sex while BC’s columnist had to get an unlisted dorm and phone number.

I’m thinking more along the lines of constructive criticism, intriguing thoughts, or humorous stories about your sex life. That was a joke. I really don’t want to hear about your sex life. Well, unless the story is really good, in which case ... definitely send it.

Posted by Julia Allison at 08:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

TAKE A HINT OR TAKE A HIKE
THE HOYA
SEX ON THE HILLTOP
MARCH 21, 2003

The other evening, a former … hmm … what to call him — flame? Hook-up? Object of flirtation? Anyway, one of my formers made the mistake of mentioning to a girl friend of mine that he thought himself the impetus for my recent column on Booty Calls. “Oh, yeah,” he bragged, “I ‘booty called’ Julia the other night, and then lo and behold, she writes an article about it the next Friday.”

You’re so vainnnnnn! You probably think this column’s about you! You’re soooo vain — I bet you think this column’s about you, don’t you, don’t youuuuu?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. The suitor in question was mistaken — he did not in fact “booty call” me. I know this because I don’t respond to such communication. Furthermore, I have a very clear memory of this evening, and it consisted of him calling me at 3 am, me realizing we were both walking on O Street and him offering to give me a ride home.

Riiight. He definitely wanted to give me a ride — but it wasn’t in his car.

This is where the male-female communication process broke down. I heard: “Let me give you a lift home.” He meant: “Let me lure you back to my abode with the promise of a ride that I’ll conveniently be too tired to give you once we’re in the warmth of my room, thereby stranding you even further from your home in the bitter cold, and forcing you to sleep at my house so I can hopefully get some action by default.”

What a great booty call to brag about!

Although I made it clear that I was not interested in hooking up with him, the entire evening was spent trying to fend off his obnoxiously insistent advances. In the dance of assumption, he was leading me where I didn’t want to go, stepping on my toes, ignorant of my distress, my desire to sit down.

Sooner or later, I began to think I was the crazy one. My negations seemed to have much the same effect as waving a red flag in front of a bull: the more I protested, the harder he would try. There was no doubt I felt uncomfortable, but I’d been in this situation before — I was used to having to say “no” again and again … and again.

Still, as he finally drove me home the next morning, I couldn’t help but think, “Is this normal? Does every girl have to deal with this sort of continual and unrelenting pressure when she’s alone with a guy?”

Although I’m assertive, an “independent woman” as Tom Wigg would say, I’d rather not have to scream ‘no,’ slug my date in the head, and storm off into the night. Why should my only options be silent consensus or obstinate resistance? As dense as many men are, a skill they should look into developing is the ability to read body language and subtle cues like “No.”

It seems so obvious, so simple. And yet, what frustrated me most was that this occurrence was by no means unique. It struck me that if an outspoken person such as myself wasn’t able to get my point across, other women must be equally hindered. Indeed, many of the girls I spoke with concurred, having faced similar situations.

“Men think they only have to listen to ‘no’ when it’s about sex,” one of my friends explained angrily, “And since the vast majority of my hook ups don’t involve sex, the guys think it’s a free for all — but it isn’t! If I say that I don’t want to take off my shirt, that doesn’t mean ‘Please, wait five minutes before you attempt to remove my shirt again.’ That means ‘I don’t want to take off my freaking shirt, you idiot.’”

With the assurance that I wasn’t the only girl who had endured a pushy suitor, I called the young man in question to set the record straight. The conversation went roughly like this:

Him: If you felt that strongly about it why didn’t you say anything at the time?
Me: Um, I did.
Him: Yeah, but every girl says ‘I won’t do this,’ or ‘I never do this.’ Girls never admit wanting to do anything.
Me: Did it ever occur to you that we really don’t want to do anything?

He was dumbfounded; apparently this was a total shock to him. His reaction was both fascinating and depressing, if only because it illuminated the gaping discrepancy between a male and female perception of the same situation. “Look, I understand your point of view,” he explained, “but the way things are set up, it’s the guy’s job to be forward, to introduce himself, to get her number, to ask her out, and then to be aggressive in a sexual situation.”

“There are lots of girls who don’t do anything, because they expect you to make the moves. If the guy doesn’t push, then nothing’s gonna happen,” he concluded resolutely, confident he had justified his actions.

I just sat there in disbelief. In one sense, he was correct. I always expect the guy to make the first move; it’s just the way things are done. Could it be possible that the conduct I advocate — that is to say, chivalry and gentlemanly assertiveness — was the same behavior that made me feel as if I had been walked all over? Did my approval of such traditionally gendered manners unwittingly create the very situations I most deplored?

And just as I was about to conclude that perhaps the answer was yes, that male behavior in this regard was exasperatingly consistent, I was left bewildered by the opposite problem. In one of life’s little ironies, the next guy I dated put absolutely no sexual pressure whatsoever upon me. As it was quite a shift, I entertained doubts about my attractiveness. But ultimately, was I relieved? Yes. Did I think he was a gentleman? Yes. Did I wonder if he was gay? Yes.

In the end, neither excess nor temperance scored. So what lesson can men take from these two experiences?

I’ll give you a clue. Think Aristotle: find the mean between two extremes. Be confident, but be considerate. Take the lead, but take a hint. A confident guy with a respectful attitude can never go wrong. Or a simpler analogy (for any basketball players who might be reading): Think Goldilocks. You gotta make sure her porridge is just right.

Really, this isn’t hard. Women want strong men who are willing to take control, but who are also perceptive enough to slow or stop when they exceed our comfort zone. Pushing past that point will only get you deleted from her cell phone and blacklisted on various bathroom stalls; staying aloof and not professing your intentions will earn you a permanent spot on the “Just Friends” list, or in extreme cases, an invite to be her shopping partner and meet her fabulous gay friend Frances. Ultimately, the benefits to a happy medium of “assertive restraint” are many — heck, you might actually get some action.

Just remember, a little bit of self-assertive honey catches more good-looking girl flies than a whole lot of cocky, presumptuous vinegar.

Posted by Julia Allison at 08:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)