Not That Kind of Girl: A Young Woman Tells You What She’s “Learned”. Lena Dunham

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СКАЧАТЬ a graying black lab, a refrigerator full of Perrier. He kept his home office neat, a chalkboard with his ideas scrawled on it the only decoration. Driving through a rainstorm one night we hydroplaned, and he grabbed my leg like a dad would. We took a hike in Malibu and shared ice cream. I stayed with him while he had walking pneumonia, heating soup and pouring him glass after glass of ginger ale and feeling his fevered forehead as he slept. He warned me of the life that was coming for me if I wasn’t careful. Success was a scary thing for a young person, he said. I was twenty-four and he was thirty-three (“Jesus’s age,” he reminded me more than a few times). There was something tender about him, broken and gentle, and I could imagine that sex with him might be similar. I wouldn’t have to pretend like I did with other guys. Maybe we would both cry. Maybe it would feel just as good as sharing a bed.

      On Valentine’s Day, I put on lace underwear and begged him to please, finally, have sex with me. The litany of excuses he presented in response was comic in its tragedy: “I want to get to know you.” “I don’t have a condom.” “I’m scared, because I just like you too much.” He took an Ambien and fell asleep, arm over my side, and as I lay there, wide awake and itchy in my lingerie set, it occurred to me: this was humiliating, unsexy, and, worst sin of all, boring. This wasn’t comfort. This was paralysis. This was distance passing for connection. I was being desexualized in slow motion, becoming a teddy bear with breasts.

      I was a working woman. I deserved kisses. I deserved to be treated like a piece of meat but also respected for my intellect. And I could afford a cab home. So I called one, and his sad dog with the Hebrew name watched me hop his fence and pace at the curbside until my taxi came.

      

      Here’s who it’s okay to share a bed with:

      Your sister if you’re a girl, your brother if you’re a boy, your mom if you’re a girl, and your dad if you’re under twelve or he’s over ninety. Your best friend. A carpenter you picked up at the key-lime-pie stand in Red Hook. A bellhop you met in the business center of a hotel in Colorado. A Spanish model, a puppy, a kitten, one of those domesticated minigoats. A heating pad. An empty bag of pita chips. The love of your life.

      Here’s who it’s not okay to share a bed with:

      Anyone who makes you feel like you’re invading their space. Anyone who tells you that they “just can’t be alone right now.” Anyone who doesn’t make you feel like sharing a bed is the coziest and most sensual activity they could possibly be undertaking (unless, of course, it is one of the aforementioned relatives; in that case, they should act lovingly but also reserved/slightly annoyed).

      Now, look over at the person beside you. Do they meet these criteria? If not, remove them or remove yourself. You’re better off alone.

      

      1. “My nickname in high school was Blow-Job Lena, but because I gave NO blow jobs! Like when you call a fat guy Skinny Joe.”

      2. “I only get BO in one armpit. Swear. Same with my mother.”

      3. “I once woke up in the middle of sex with a virtual stranger!”

      4. “Let’s meet for coffee, yeah. Well, not coffee coffee. Like a different drink, because coffee gave me a colon infection and I had to wear this paper underwear the hospital gave me.”

      5. “Not to sound like a total hippie, but I cured my HPV with acupuncture.”

      6. “He had no legs, and HE wasn’t into ME. But that’s not why we stopped being friends.”

      7. “I’ve never seen Star Wars OR The Godfather, so that would be a good excuse for us to spend a bunch of time together.”

      8. “I was a really chubby teenager, covered in a thick layer of grease. Seriously, I’ll show you a picture.”

      9. “You should come over. My dad is super funny.”

      10. “I’m the kind of person who should probably date older guys, but I can’t deal with their balls.”

      11. “I’m obsessed with the curtains in your van!”

      12. “Come to my party! We can’t talk or make noise because my neighbor is dying, but I spent a ton of money on salami.”

      13. “Get closer to my belly button. Does this look like shingles, scabies, both, or neither?”

      14. “This one time, I thought I was petting my hairless cat, and it was actually my mom’s vagina. Over the covers, of course!”

      15. “Sorry if my breath is kind of metallic. It’s my medication. Weird fact: I’m on the highest dose of this stuff on record.”

      16. “I seriously don’t care if you shoplift.”

      17. “I appreciate that you didn’t point out my huge weight loss. It’s exhausting, everyone being like ‘How did you do it? Blah-blah-blah.’ ”

      18. “My sister went back inside, so I think we’re safe. Wanna sit on the rock that doesn’t have algae? Or the algae one is fine, too.”

      

      THE COMPUTERS just show up one day. We come in from recess, and there they are, seven gray boxes on a long table in the fifth-floor hallway.

      “We got computers!” our teacher announces. “And they are going to help us learn!”

      Everyone is buzzing, but I am immediately suspicious. What is so great about our hall being full of ugly squat robots? Why is everyone cheering like idiots? What can we learn from these machines that we can’t from our teachers?

      The boys especially are transfixed, spending every free moment tap-tap-tapping on the keyboards, playing a simplistic game that involves stacking blocks in an effort to make them explode. I stay away. I have only touched one other computer, at my friend Marissa’s house, and found the experience disconcerting. There was something sinister about the green letters and numbers that flashed on the screen as the computer booted up, and I hated the way Marissa stopped answering questions or noticing me the second it was turned on.

      My distaste for computers has an almost-political fervor: they’re changing our society, I say, and for the worse. Let’s act human. Converse. Use our handwriting. I ask to be excused from typing class, where we use a program called Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing to learn which finger should touch which letter. (Pinkie on P, СКАЧАТЬ