Hhmmm. That nagging thought.

I stood in the bathroom, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, I mindlessly unbuttoned my jeans, pushed them down my hips, let them slide down my legs and I kicked them away. Not breaking eye contact with myself in the mirror, I unbuttoned my shirt, and left it open for a moment, taking a good look . I have nice boobs. Yeah. Maybe I’ll start wearing more open collar shirts and show a little. … Nah. Well, maybe. I dunno. I really hate this bra. I took my shirt off, one sleeve, then the other, and let it float to the floor. Still locking eyes with myself, I reached behind my back with both hands and unhooked my bra, and let it slide down my arms . It landed in the sink. What is the big deal with boobs? I looked at my naked reflection and reached up and piled my blonde hair on top of my head. Not bad. … not a 25 year old girl anymore, but not bad, either. … actually, not bad at all. I still look damn good. … I’d sleep with me. Totally. Out loud, I quoted the line from Silence of the Lambs, where the man is naked in front of the mirror, with his penis tucked away between his thighs. ” … I’d f*uck me so hard.” Of course I said it in his voice. What a great movie.

No matter what I do, or how I look, men are still hard-wired to roam. I shook my head as I looked at myself. Why bother? Why try? Why put out any effort at all if they are just going to cheat, anyway? Why bother at all?

Because we don’t want to be alone. That’s why.

I stepped in the shower, still completely deflated from the conversation with John and Glen. I was actually broken hearted. I was hurting. It was as if, in the middle of a captivating magic show, someone stood up and dryly exposed how the tricks were done, ruining it for everyone. I wondered if I would have been better off having never heard the “truth” of this “Red Pill” idea. Glen said most women can’t handle hearing it because they can’t accept it. But listen, I’m VERY “male – minded” in many ways. I think prenuptial agreements are not only fair, but necessary. Why should the woman get half of what he earned? It’s his money. Why can a woman go crazy and beat up a man and cause bodily harm and he has to just take it? I don’t endorse wife beating by any means, but if she hits him, well, expect to get hit back. Right? You can’t go around hitting people because you’re a woman, so why can you hit your man and cry when he hits you back? And yes, I do absolutely celebrate the gender differences; I want to be in the kitchen making meatloaf . I want to give him his pipe and slippers, so to speak, and I want to be at his beck and call in the bedroom, because that’s how I express my love and commitment. He provides, he shares his resources (as Glen put it) and I reciprocate by giving him “what men want.” ...but that was with the idea that I would be the only one. That I would enough and be his only sexual partner and he would only want me.

Apparently not. I thought wrong. The Red Pill of truth was stuck in my throat and I was starting to choke on it. I wondered if I had always known about this bitter pill, and just hadn’t held it under my tongue long enough for the candy coating to dissolve. Well, that coating is off and I taste it now. And I can’t spit it out because it’s already down. The bitter, gritty, terrible Red Pill is stuck in my throat, infecting me with “truth”. Truth? Truth or Male Excuses for Pig Behavior? I already felt the change in me. I was already darker. Everything is different now, and I re-evaluated every male relationship I’d ever had. Every failure. Every shattered heart. Every. Single. One.

I squeezed shower gel into my hand and rubbed it over my chest … collar bones … shoulders. My head was tilted and I exhaled through my nose, my mouth shut. I rubbed my soapy hands over my breasts and felt their weight. Their volume. Their fullness. I heard their voices. His voice. “Oh my God, Shannon. Your breasts are so amazing … ”

Compared to whose? And not amazing enough to keep you out of her bed.

I rinsed off and leaned my forehead against the shower wall and let the hot water flow down my back. I remembered sitting with my mom one afternoon, having girl talk. I was still a virgin, not yet 23. “Mom, why DO men cheat?” Mom sat in her chair, legs crossed, stirring her coffee slowly. With her eyes still on her cup as she stirred, she said, “Because they can.” I felt her old wounds in her tone of voice and that moment stuck. I hurt for my mother.  I remembered sitting on my friend’s couch years later, as she laid her head in my lap, sobbing, me smoothing her hair gently as she wept over her boyfriend who had just left her for someone else. Again. “Why, Shannon?? Why am I not enough? Why won’t he stay?” I remember feeling guilty that I had never been cheated on, that my boyfriend loved me and was faithful. I took a deep breath and turned off the water.  … and I remembered only a few months later, me curled up on my hardwood bedroom floor, my body racked with heaving sobs, as I lay on a pile of his clothes, inhaling his scent … missing him … grieving his sudden and wordless departure. “What did I do wrong? Please tell me! What did I do? I’m so sorry!” I wept, calling to him into his clothes as though he could hear me, begging forgiveness for an unknown transgression. It was as though he had died. It felt like he had died and I thought I had killed him. And that was what I did for weeks, every single day, until I had shed pounds from my body and layers from my self worth, thinking I had done something wrong to push him away. No, it turns out, he met someone else and “evolutionary behavior” was simply running it’s course.

I wrapped a towel around my body as I stepped out of the shower and wiped the fog from the mirror, looking at myself once again. I was going to John’s house and I could not wait to get there and melt into him. I was feeling deeply insecure. … but I couldn’t shake it.

Was it really not their fault? Was it for a man, like it is for a woman, when we see a baby and we get that visceral pull to scoop it up and cradle the baby? I see a baby and I feel that invisible rope, tugging at my heart, and I long to hold and nurture and rock that baby in my arms. Is that what it is for a man, when they see a beautiful woman? They feel that internal, primal tug for sex? Is that why they can burn through so many partners and not even feel it? Maybe that’s why the TV shows feature the men with 12 “baby mamas” and the streets are clogged with women who are “whores” because they have “daddy issues” … because their daddies left them, too. Is it all cyclical and hopeless? I wondered if there are real scientific honest-to-god evolutionary facts behind this Red Pill Theory.

Is this Red Pill a supplemental vitamin, offering Enlightenment to those who are willing , or is it a low dose of cyanide, killing only the weakest?

You can’t kill me, Red Pill. I won the last round. Didn’t I? Was it a victory? I didn’t know and I still don’t.

To be continued…