Unnoticed

Women, on the other hand, always have secrets…

…and those secrets are always about some other dude, and they are almost always of an outrageous/slutty/bizarre nature. I’m not unsympathetic to this. Being a woman, as far as I can tell, is like walking around Chicago at night wearing a 10-ounce Credit Suisse gold bar on a necklace. Some of the people you will meet will want to buy your bar from you at a fair price. Others will want a bargain. Still others want it for free. Last and worst, you have the people who will simply take it from you through measures ranging from misdirection to naked force. Ask yourself how long you could last under pressure like that, then you’ll have some sympathy of your own. It’s a remarkable gift to be unwanted in this world, to go about your business alone and unremarked-upon. Women, particularly women, don’t get that gift. They have only pressure to yield, mighty and unrelenting as the column of dark water above the Challenger Deep, until the moment that they lose their looks and become utterly invisible to everyone.

No surprise, then, that their secrets are almost always secrets of yielding to that pressure, from the mundane (“Yes, I did sleep with him once, even though I said we were just friends”) to the depressing (“I used to send photos of myself to dozens of “Casual Encounters” posters on Craigslist in a single night”) to the frankly bizarre (“I’d had a lot of nitrous oxide… I don’t even know if it was really consensual, all I know is that he was completely hairless from head to toe”). And then there are secrets whose purpose is simply an attempt to maintain privacy against the pressure that you are applying.

Unnoticed

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