I think of myself of abhorring it. I’m not a very dramatic person. Notwithstanding the drama of my story, or the complexity of my dissolute life, the truth is, there’s very little drama in it. For the most part, I lead a humdrum existence. The “husband and father” part of my tagline definitely covers the vast majority of the time in my life, and thankfully, those two roles feature little to no drama, at least at the current moment.
But the “slut” role? That seems, inevitably, to feature at least a modicum of drama for me. Maybe I crave drama on some level, I don’t know. I mean, I suppose I must, right? If it keeps happening?
In the last two weeks, a number of women with whom I interact have accused me of all sorts of sins. Most of which aren’t, to be fair, “sins.” They tend, instead, to be violations of the “I don’t like what you did or said” sort. The women accusing me of these sins have ranged from fellow bloggers to platonic friends to distant buddies to prospective sex partners to actual sex partners. That’s five categories right there of women who’ve accused me of some or other transgression.
I think, honestly, objectively, I haven’t really done anything all that awful in any of these interactions. (Well, I did, in one of them, and I wrote about it, and took it down, because the writing itself was the sin. But that was just one, and while it was a doozy, in all the rest? I think I’ve behaved just fine.)
What’s funny is that I think that, for the most part, the women with whom I’ve had kerfuffles probably would agree with me. They’d say that, in retrospect, I did nothing so egregious, that they over-reacted, or some such.
So what the fuck is going on here?