What Does Love Need?

I’ve been having some hard conversations with my primary partner last week. The wounds are still raw, with emotion still oozing out painfully with every breath.

The last time I saw him was in February 2020 in New York. We took the subway, went to bars, partied in a huge warehouse with hundreds of strangers, and in general acted like the virus that was currently exploding across China wasn’t going to affect us. I remember us seeing a man in a full hazmat suit sitting on the subway and we laughed to ourselves, thinking man, this guy is being a bit paranoid isn’t he?

I remember the moment I got into the cab that would take me to the Penn Station. I kissed him and hugged him and told him I would see him soon. We had our wedding to look forward to in May, a honeymoon in Japan in July, and countless other plans. It was going to be a month at most until I saw him again, just how it’s always been. But February 2020 was fifteen months ago, and I haven’t seen him once, outside of zoom, the occasional selfie, and the plethora of childhood photos that his parents sent me as a funny Christmas present.

Despite running a magazine about sex and culture, and despite being someone who constantly talks and thinks about sex, I realized recently that it had been months since we had sent each other big compliments or risqué texts, months since we had tried to have a digital movie night or a fun zoom dinner. It was horrifying for me, and I was so disappointed in him and in myself. How did we get to the point where we weren’t caring for each other in such basic ways?

It’s easy, we were spending our time just trying to survive. The pandemic made it almost impossible for anyone to think of anything else besides where to get pasta or toilet paper. We became occupied with the immediate in front of our faces, in the present moment of every day as we saw death tolls rising, and in the intimate details of our apartments; the only thing that was keeping us safe from a world that felt very dangerous and very real.

Recently, we’ve started a process of conscious uncoupling, even though that’s a term that both of us loathe. It is trying to figure out how to break up with someone you still love tenderly, who didn’t cheat on you, who didn’t start snoring or stop cleaning up after themselves. It’s made me ask a lot of questions about what relationships need to survive. Because ours survived for so long without sex or even physical proximity. Hell, I would’ve given a lot just to be on the same continent as him. It’s forced me to rely on conversation as the sole means of emotional connection, and in so many ways we are realizing that we needed more than that.

It’s in the end of relationships that you often think about defeat; about failures to launch and about the embarrassment and shame and anger of feeling; everyone else is getting it right, so why didn’t you? We are going through that though, with all the tears and resentment that go with that. Why can’t we make it a little longer? Push a little harder, wait for a little bit more? But I think sometimes when we push love, love pushes back. It’s understanding that you’re not entitled to someone’s love and attention, and that learning to appreciate it daily will go a long way in supporting them when they can’t always give it to you. Love is sometimes not demanding more from someone, but being satisfied when you get less.

The Problems with Simping

“It’s time to retire the very concept of simping and undo the shame that has come to be associated with crushes. ”

When I was around 16, I had my first crush - well, my first real crush. It was all fuzzy feelings and rose-colored glasses. It was like she stole all the light I needed to make my world shine, and I was so happy to let her keep it. I was young(er) and dumb(er) and wholly unprepared to deal with all of these new feelings. 

I didn’t know how to process them or act on them - so I didn’t. We were friends, and that was fine. It was good. It made me happy. We went everywhere together and did everything we could together too. We were friends, and for me, that was enough. All I needed was whatever she was willing to give, and if friendship was it, that was more than okay with me. 

It wasn’t, however, enough for my friends. It confused them that I wasn’t trying to “go for her” or ask her out or ask more of her and our relationship together. All of a sudden, I was a “simp.”

I have been called many things in my life, and of all the teasing names, I think simp is the most harmful. Not in the way that it’s mean, but in the way it encourages us to understand women and relationships. But before I get into all the reasons I have been called a simp, let’s talk about what it means. 

Google says the word originated in the early 20th century as a shortened way of referring to a “simpleton.” Since then, its meaning has mutated into the subtly patriarchal one we know today. Nowadays, simping vaguely describes “liking a girl too much,” though each friend group has their unique usage, this is what they are generally mean. 

How we use simp encourages us to feel entitled to female attention and attraction. The implication contained within our use of the word is that we are somehow lesser (simple or stupid) for not demanding more of the objects of our affection. It might not be intended necessarily, but it is implied. 

Now I was a young feminist, and while the term made me bristle, I went along with it. I got playfully frustrated and mildly annoyed, but deep down, I could tell there was something wrong with its use. I didn’t say anything because it was just a joke at the time, but now I can fully recognize its problematic nature. 

My friends, while well-intentioned, were not immune to the patriarchal overtone.

When they said I was a simp for being just friends with this girl, even though I wanted to be in a relationship, they implied that I was entitled to more. That didn’t sit right with me. Partly because I knew she didn’t owe me romance or some deep love, but also because it felt wrong. I wouldn’t want anyone to expect the same of me. 

This is the fundamental problem with “simping” today. We are all too often reducing the people we have a crush on to tools that should perform their function.

How can we possibly aim  It removes the real human love and joy that comes with falling hard and fast for someone without knowing their feelings. Suddenly consent and love fall out of sync with one another, and we impose upon each other in this small colloquial way a need for unrequited love to be shunned and consent to be devalued. 

Before all of this light roasting and banter, I was not hyperaware of the possibility of unrequited feelings or of the shame that comes with having a crush like this. I was just blissfully into her from a distance. This implantation of expectation and reciprocation tainted all these once pure feelings. 

Soon, I couldn’t stop seeing this messaging. Sure, it was all fun and games from my friends, but I couldn’t comfortably watch Netflix or even listen to music without feeling the weight of the patriarchal imposition. There was a cloud of shame that surrounded my thoughts and my actions towards this girl. 

That shame over time transitioned into resentment. And it was at that moment that I understood incel culture. All my thoughts came to a screeching halt because I realized only white boys on Reddit should thinking like this. (sorry to anyone fitting the description) 

That was something I wasn’t prepared for. With this unexpected feeling of anger that washed over me, I began to harbor this irrational frustration....for nothing.  

There was something crudely perverse about how I saw her now. I couldn’t live with that - I didn’t want to. I realized then that my problem wasn’t the act of “simping.” It wasn’t caring for her “too much” or being too good a friend. It was thinking that there is such a thing as “too much.” The fault lay with my conversion of infatuation (or whatever fledgling form of romantic love that comes with crushing) from this pure light feeling into something inundated with responsibility and transaction. 

I was lucky enough to recognize all these subtle, harmful messages, but what about those kids my age who aren’t? These are feelings that live in their subconscious and dictate how they view and treat the women (and any other object of their affection) in their lives. We shouldn’t be imbuing anyone with ownership over another’s heart, mind, or body. 

It’s time to retire the very concept of simping and undo the shame that has come to be associated with crushes. 

---

Hayley is an emerging writer and journalist who works hard to create work that is fiercely feminist, anti racist and anti oppression on a whole. You can check out more of her work and content on her instagram @hayley.headley

Late Bloomer

She had been called many names. In high school they called her prude. She didn’t want it to follow her to college. In drunken rounds of Never Have I Ever, with a crowd of new freshmen acquaintances that maybe could be friends, she often lied when the questions turned to sex.

Never have I ever had sex in public! The brunette with bangs laughed as she proclaimed her perceived innocence. She too would laugh along with the others, hoping her own face wouldn’t show the truth, hoping the conversation would skirt the next question that would often come up; when was your first time?

She couldn’t come up with a story that quickly. The vodka cranberry she was drinking in the red plastic cup was going to her head. She was scared she would blurt out the truth. Her turn was next. She chose to change the topic.

Never have I ever done heroin. They could take that as they like.

Tease. Her roommate called her one evening after she turned down the advances of the boy whose dorm was two doors over.

She felt too ashamed to tell them at eighteen she had never been kissed. She was a late bloomer as people liked to call it. And the way he leaned in towards her at that party made her breath catch in her throat, because she couldn’t let that be her first time. She was too in her head, too sober. What if she was bad, and he knew?

Sometimes she would make up stories if the conversation turned to first kisses. She always had a backup to tell. Her first kiss was when she was thirteen at a summer camp. Or fourteen with her friend’s brother. Usually she would steal a story from others if the groups didn’t intersect. Her problem was keeping her stories straight.

She hated tampons. She only had one success story when she nearly fainted onto the bathroom tile. Removing it hurt much more than she anticipated. It had to be ripped out of her, as if it didn’t want to leave. She didn’t try again.

She became an expert at excuses when the time came. Pool parties were skipped for homework. Sometimes she had a migraine. Sometimes she would absent-mindedly forget to wear her bathing suit. I’m so stupid, she would tell those who would listen.

She had her first kiss at long last, late into her nineteenth year, drunkenly in the middle of a dance floor with a twenty-four year old serviceman on leave. The night ended with him lying down in a bed begging her to come over, while she retched into the toilet with the door closed. She continued to tell others her first kiss was at a summer camp.

She scheduled a doctor’s appointment for the pill in her twenty-second year. Her friends told her gynecologists gave it out like candy. The first doctor refused a prescription, scaring her with stories of fatal blood clots. She left the appointment and cried in her car.

The next doctor took her excuses of not needing a pelvic exam.

I already got one at the last doctor but she wouldn’t let me go on the pill. But I’m not using it for sex. I’m a virgin. I just want a more regular cycle.

The doctor wrote her a prescription without hesitation. The pill made her anxiety spike but she didn’t have to fake migraines anymore.

She continued to avoid tampons, feeling intense shame as she handed a pack of pads to the cashier at Target. Often times she would buy unnecessary purchases just so they had something else to scan.

---

She met him in the summer on a dating app. She liked that he spent time outdoors and he liked dogs. She wondered if her standards were too low. He suggested they meet up at a rooftop bar in Greenpoint. It was packed with other twenty-somethings, all who could most likely have sex, she thought.

He was a tad overweight and shorter than he seemed in his photos. But his confidence made up for it. He ordered for her, handing over a vodka soda. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she preferred a glass of wine. She drank it anyway, even though the vodka tasted cheap.

He spoke only of himself. I know Matt Lauer, he bragged. Back when it was something to brag about. She counted how many times he asked her questions; only once, when he asked if she wanted to go to his place.

My roommates are gone, we’ll have it to ourselves. And it’s not far from here.

Okay.

She didn’t really want to, but she was twenty-four. She needed experience.

He led the way to the Bedford Avenue L train.

I thought you said you lived not far from the bar.

Yeah, only three subway stops away.

They rode deeper into Brooklyn. She wished it was walkable. She started getting nervous, and wondered if she was about to get assaulted. She pushed down her fears. They entered his apartment. It was covered in half-drunk water glasses and a fine layer of dust over the Ikea furniture.

Nice apartment, she lied.

He led the way to the couch where they began to make out. His body on top of hers in a strangely comforting way although she felt it difficult to breathe. He struggled to unclasp her bra beneath her tank top. She continued to lie there, kissing him back, with her bra unclasped but her top still on. She wondered what the point of it was.

Can we take it to the bedroom? She asked.

Yeah, okay.

He led her down the hallway into a small room. His bed was undone with its brown sheets still scrunched up from where he got up that morning. She felt uncomfortable with her chest chafing against her tank top. She thought longingly of her bra lying on the couch.

He took off his white t-shirt and she followed as he stared at her breasts. She always felt insecure about them. They were too far apart, too pointy. Only one other person saw her breasts in college. Back then she had baby hairs that surrounded her nipples. She always wondered if that’s why he broke up with her the next day. She shaved them from then on.

Come here, he whispered.

She followed, sitting next to him on his dirty bed. He pulled her hips close and pushed her down onto the bed as he followed a line from her navel to her neck with his lips. His grunts made her uncomfortable, but she pretended to like it as his lips met hers. His mouth tasted like vodka. She wondered if hers did too.

She straddled him in her jean skirt. His hand inched towards her lace underwear that she only wore for special occasions. She often preferred the kind that covered her whole ass. But the lace made her feel confident. Like someone who could have sex.

They continued to kiss, her mimicking how the women do it in movies, as he pecked her neck in a way that reminded her of a bird. She tried to open her mouth into an O but the movement felt foreign.

She felt a small thrill as he slid his stumpy fingers close to the lace. He struggled with getting around the fabric; she felt his fingers fumbling against her skin. She pretended to like it.

When his finger went up inside her she yelped so loudly she made herself jump. The sharp pain lingered.

Are you okay?

Can we stop?

She stood up before he could answer, running to the bathroom. She stung where his finger just pinched. On the toilet paper she drew up blood. While taking in slow, deep breaths, she asked herself if she just lost her virginity. She decided she kind of did.

Is everything okay? He asked when she walked back into his sweaty room. He was laying down on the bed, looking bored.

Yes. That hurt me, so I don’t want to continue.

He grunted. That’s okay. But she didn’t feel that he meant it.

He asked if she wanted to sleepover. She agreed, only because she didn’t want to take the subway alone at this time of night. She borrowed one of his many college t-shirts to sleep in. He went to Michigan. His room was hot as he refused to turn on the air conditioning.

It’s too hot, she said as he tried to spoon.

Eventually he rolled over to his side and fell asleep. She stayed wide awake.

The next morning he asked if she would like to go to breakfast.

No thank you.

She left his apartment in her jean skirt and tank top that felt like too much for a Saturday morning. She felt proud she had one sexual experience to boast about. Even though there was nothing to boast.

The boy and her never spoke again.

She didn’t know much about her body. She was a late bloomer. Her period came on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, around the time her doctor began threatening blood tests to figure out what’s wrong. She didn’t know what the clitoris was or what her vagina looked like. She knew she bled monthly, but her cycle was a mystery.

She still couldn’t use a tampon. Sometimes she would buy birthday cards to accompany her pads. She had a drawer full of unused ones. Deep down she believed the inability to use tampons meant she wasn’t a real woman.

Her friends suggested that maybe she had endometriosis.

Yeah, maybe. Except her periods were fine.

Are you sure you have a vagina?

I’m pretty sure, yeah.

Well I read a story about a girl who didn’t have one. She had to get surgery.

She shrugged. This conversation isn’t helping, she thought.

Her pain didn’t seem like chronic pain. It only happened when something tried to penetrate her, and would always be partnered with fast breathing. Sometimes she felt like she was going to faint. She knew the symptoms of fainting. She was used to it.

Sometimes she would skip a period if it coincided with a family beach trip. She turned back to Tinder. She came across a profile of a guy with glasses and messy brown hair that she always found attractive. He too liked the outdoors and dogs. And he had a photo of him and his mother. She swiped right.

It was the fall. Her and Mike met at a bar in Williamsburg. He didn’t order for her, but he paid. He asked her questions. He seemed like he did love his mother, but not in a bad way. Their relationship started off slowly with a soft kiss in Domino Park. She liked how he gently held her face in his hands, and swept her hair behind her ear before going in for it. They ended their night with a quiet goodbye as he hailed her a cab.

The next date they spent at McCarren Park. Then to the Cooper Hewitt on the Upper East Side. then they would meet up for coffee or ice cream. When he invited her to his place she happily accepted. They kissed on his bed. His sheets were gray, not brown. They didn’t need air conditioning.

We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. He said it like he meant it.

They continued to kiss, the kind of kiss that felt like it wouldn’t end. It felt easy with him.

And yet. She felt the familiar panic as things started to get heavier. He pulled away.

Are you okay?

She was surprised he noticed. What do you mean?

You’re clenching up.

Oh. Well. She wondered how much she should say. She decided to go for it.

I’ve never had sex before. Or done really…anything.

Oh.

If you want to leave that’s fine. She said this as she remembered it was his apartment.

No. It’s just a surprise. That surprises me.

Yeah. Me too.

All they did was kiss. She spent the night. The next morning she stayed for breakfast. He made eggs.

She continued to see him. The longer they dated the more they tried sex. She enjoyed the kissing, but when he got too close she would freeze. She had rules. No fingers. No surprises.

She shocked herself with how little she knew about her own body. The boy taught her the terms of her own vagina. She struggled with saying the word vagina, preferring to call it the short “V”.

Friends tried to help.

Maybe try anal? My friend and her boyfriend have anal all the time.

Yeah, maybe. But she didn’t have much desire to.

Eventually, he got tired of the rules. He got tired of not having sex. They both got tired of the arguments. Once out of frustration he changed into his clothes to leave.

If you want to go, just go. She cried from her bed.

He stared at her from the doorway as if deciding his fate.

What are you doing? She asked as he crawled in beside her.

I don’t want to go.

They laid like that, him clothed, her naked, arms tangled, knowing it was over.

---

She felt she failed. She felt she was a failure. Google became her therapist.

Can’t insert tampons? She typed.

It showed a how-to of tampon insertion; Just breathe, wash your hands, insert at a forty five degree angle. But that didn’t help. She couldn’t do any of that without her hands shaking and her heart racing. She couldn’t insert anything without the sharp pain. She searched for other things.

Sex hurts me?

Endometriosis again. Nothing helpful.

She scoured the deep pages of Google. Eventually she found a definition that actually made sense. When your vagina spasmed uncontrollably when foreign objects entered, causing intense, uncontrollable pain, it was called Vaginismus. It was an unexplained anxiety, usually stemming from trauma. But she didn’t have trauma.

Was there treatment?

Yes. Therapy. Both mental and physical. She ordered a set of dilators. She used the dilators every day.

Lying down on her yoga mat, she practiced pelvic yoga exercises and listened to calming, meditative music as she would slowly enter the plastic sticks covered in lubricant inside herself, starting from the smallest, similar to a pen, until she graduated to the next size up. The largest mimicked the size of an average penis.

Are they like dildos? Her friends asked.

I guess so.

Except they hurt. Even the one barely bigger than a pen. But she willed herself. She wanted nothing more than to be normal.

The boy and her stayed in touch. She ran into him several times on the streets of Brooklyn. New York could feel so small.

She started dating again. Or tried. She kept swiping left. There was always something, and she couldn’t satisfy anyone. She felt nothing anymore.

She found a therapist who charged one hundred dollars per session. She stared at the person she was expected to spill all her secrets to. She chose her because she was younger than others. And a woman.

Are you familiar with vaginismus?

Yes. Sex hurts me.

Have you tried getting drunk?

No, I’ll try that.

Maybe this wasn’t a good therapist. And of course she tried that. She used to drink to blackout before having sex. But even when she was so drunk the room would be spinning, the pain remained. They sat in silence for a moment as she tried to think of a way out.

Were you assaulted when you were younger?

No.

Are you sure?

I guess not.

She didn’t have a past sexual trauma. That she knew for sure. But when medical professionals forced their opinions that she did, it confused her. She felt crazy. She remembered her previous gynecologist, the one who wouldn’t prescribe her the pill. She began to lose faith in the medical industry, and began to doubt the current studies on female health.

On her worst days she wondered what made her so broken. And she would feel bad for feeling this way, as other people had actual problems. But she felt her problem was still a problem.

You’re your own worst enemy. Her friends would tell her. But she felt something like ill will towards them. Because they could have sex. They knew how to insert a tampon. They got pap smears with no problem.

You’re right, I am. She would agree.

She turned twenty-five. She believed she would never be normal. She found a midwife who said she could help. The empty stirrups made her want to vomit. The midwife directed her to her office. She shared her computer screen, pages and pages of sex toys.

I want you to buy a vibrator.

A vibrator?

A lot of my patients with vaginismus have had success with one. It may make sex easier and more enjoyable.

Okay.

You and I will work together to get you ready for a pap smear. Your condition is extremely normal, and curable.

She left the office feeling more hopeful than she had before. Later that night she spent forty dollars on Amazon. It was hot pink and shaped like a flower.

---

A few months later she ran into the boy on the corner near the deli they once got sandwiches from. They hugged. He looked good.

I was going to get a coffee. Want to join me?

Yes.

She followed him. He ordered two iced coffees. He paid.

It had been months since she’d last seen him, but it felt like no time had passed. Still, she felt nervous.

What’s wrong? He asked. He could always tell.

I’m better. I wanted to tell you that. I think I can do it now.

Yeah?

Yeah.

You look good.

They stared at each other. She knew sex would always be more difficult for her than others but she was willing to accept it. Willing to face it head-on to get over her trauma-less trauma. She just couldn’t use a tampon.

---

Shelby Crane (she/her) is a freelance writer and comedian based in Charleston, SC and Brooklyn, NY.