An Open Letter to the Nice Guy I Used to Sleep With

(Note: This article is based on my experience as a straight cis woman with a straight cis man, as well as observations on straight cis men in general. Because of this my descriptions often fit within this binary, but readers please note: all genders, non-genders and sexual identities are affected by the persistent tug of the Nice Guys’ misogyny-padded vortex.)

We all know them — they’re the ones who treat our femininity as a beacon in a world shadowed by male privilege. The ones who smile encouragingly when we talk openly about tampons and period cramps as if their teeth contained the antidote to all our bodily afflictions. The ones who attend the most workshops, the ones who take highest offense to accounts of office sexism, the ones who would never, ever think of us as objects.

They’re the ride or die nice guys, and in the bedroom they’re a fucking nightmare.

Not at the actual bedroom activities, per say. Their utter infatuation with the female-presenting body (research shows that 9 out of 10 Feminist Dudes are ready to transcend into docile womanhood to “get closer to the female spirit”) can be an asset between the sheets, and there’s certainly something to be said for their eagerness to please.

This is also not to say that their hunger for female empowerment can’t be helpful at times. Dudes calling out other dudes on their oppressive comments/actions/lifestyles is integral to dismantling patriarchal systems, and it’s nice to be able to take a backseat in The Crusade every once in awhile.

But throw them onto a bed and watch that all go barreling right out the window.

This, my dear, was what happened with you.

We met our sophomore year in college. You were a friend at first, and we had plenty of conversations about consent well before we hooked up. Sure, you might have been a little too well-versed in Virginia Woolf and Rebecca Walker, but you were cute and your intentions were good, so I went for it. We had sex a few times over the course of several weeks, went on a few dates; everything was good until one night when you reached out, stroked my face and delivered that classic line of pure, unadulterated bullshit:

“I just, like, can’t keep objectifying you this way.”

Before I could scramble back into the underwear you had just pulled off, you started on your explanation. In the same sighing, speculative voice you used during the face-touching, you told me that you couldn’t let yourself treat me as a sex object. That was the language you used — “let yourself.” Like you really, really wanted to, but luckily for me, you had enough self-control to hold your manhood at bay. You told me that I meant more than that; that, in fact, you deciding not to have sex with me was an indicator of how much you cared. Because I just wasn’t “that kind of girl.” Implying that, apparently, some types of girls are easier to objectify than others.

And for a while I bought into it. I mean, it made sense. You recognized that there were inherent power dynamics in play in our relationship — that was already a step further than most other guys I’d slept with. I believed that you were acting on behalf of my own well-being. I felt like I deserved it. And so I kissed you on the cheek, let you read me a poem you wrote about the quiet terror of your existence, and we both fell asleep to a 3-hour long recording of whale sounds autotuned to sound like a Bon Iver record.  

My hell-fucking-no moment didn’t come until later that week, when it hit me like a sack of your double-bound volumes of Foucault. I remember my realization quite clearly, as I had stopped midway through walking across the quad to deliver some few choice swear words and was promptly hit in the side of the head by a wayward Frisbee thrown by one of your Nice Guy comrades.

Now don’t get me wrong — everyone everywhere has every right to stop a sexual act at any time, no questions asked. And if you ever did think that I wasn’t whole-hearted in my consent or that it was given under questionable terms then yes, you absolutely should have asked to talk about it. But you made it pretty clear that you didn’t feel this was the case.

At first I thought it was just you, but after talking to a couple of friends it seemed like the Nice Guy was not just a lone wolf, but an entire breed.

“He told me he didn’t want to have sex because we would be playing into societal-driven female oppression,” one friend said.

“I kept trying to tell him I was down and he would just look at me sadly and whisper, ‘I know you are,’” another told me.

“There we are, in bed, I ask him if he has a condom and he goes, ‘I do, but I don’t think you know what you’re really asking.’ What the fuck is that? Is his dick like, the space worm from The Empire Strikes Back?” A third asked.

As ridiculous as all this is, it represents a type of thinking that’s really messed up. Because here’s the thing: consensual sex is not about objectification. It doesn’t have to be about love or emotional connection or whatever, but it is absolutely does not involve making non-males a commodity, or product of consumption, or anything that falls on that spectrum.

Consensual sex is, by definition, when two parties agree to a physical relationship, and where that agreement is repeatedly, verbally, affirmed. It is given freely, about specific sexual acts, in active and present terms. This was the case with us — we were enjoying each other’s bodies physically and verbally, and there was no question that I was anything but on board.

Now, if your discomfort had stemmed from a place of legitimate concern about my own emotional well-being I would have been more than happy to talk through it. But what I first took as concern just turned out to be a product of an extremely problematic mindset, one that’s messed up on at least three different levels.

First off (and perhaps most disturbing) is the indication that to you, all sex involves objectification. Your brain was likely too clouded by heroic visions of saving me from the toxic depths of my own sexual oppression to really process this concept, so let me spell it out for you:

When you say that you don’t want to engage in a physical relationship because you “don’t want to objectify” your partner, you’re saying that, when it comes to sex, you see only two outcomes. One, have sex and automatically objectify them, or two, don’t have sex at all. Meaning that you equate sex to objectification, no matter the situation. Meaning that, to you, they’re one and the same. Meaning that the only way to avoid objectification is to avoid sex altogether. Meaning that every time you choose to have sex you are knowingly and willingly objectifying your partner.

That alone is pretty terrifying.

But you managed to twist it even more when you added in the whole “you’re just not that kind of girl” narrative. So let me ask you, are there women out there that are easier for you to commodify? Are these the types of women that you can “let yourself” take advantage of? What does that even mean?

In short, it means that you, Mr. Feminist Ally, are anything but. Because the “that type of girl” construct is inherently dehumanizing; it sets up a finite binary and attributes arbitrary traits to each side. It’s the typified version of someone who is in touch with their sexuality, who exerts their own bodily autonomy, who is confident voicing their sexual desires — characteristics that society demeans unless they’re attached to males. The stereotype exists solely to uphold the “good” girl narrative, one that tells young women, trans and non-binary folks that they will be desired only if they are what you define as “respectable,” if they don’t speak out, if they stay in the lane that society has built for them.

So, my severely misguided, bun-toting friend, you think I’m one of the “good ones.” But what does that tell me, other than that you equate sexual desire and nonconforming femininity as qualities that deserve to be exploited?

And lastly, let’s talk about the power structure you apply when you equate consensual sex to objectification. Because it means that to you, sex isn’t about us enjoying each other’s bodies in a safe way that brings us pleasure, but rather a scenario where you’re the sole arbiter of whether or not my consent is valid. A scenario where you have the power to decide that my consent is meaningless and that I cannot possibly know what is best for myself.

Think of it as similar to saying, “Hey, I know you’re into it and all, but you don’t really know what you’re saying. But it’s all good — I have enough rationality for the both of us.”

But contrary to what you may have been taught, we non-dudes are not fragile little things whom it is your sworn duty to protect. We know what we want and we’ve been making our own decisions for a few dozen decades now. You may not be comfortable with the notion of us actually taking charge of our own sexuality, but we are, and it’s time you get on board.

So put away the cape and kindly take your twisted notions of sensitivity elsewhere.

Alas, I wish I could have told you all of this to you and your “I Stand With Planned Parenthood” t-shirt when the time was still ripe, but I was young and naïve and you had already retreated back into the cloud of loose leaf tea leaves and Atlantic article clippings that was your life.

So I’m writing this now, for you, for myself, for anyone else out there who has crossed paths with a Nice Guy and those who have yet to.

And thankfully enough, I now have the language to be able to tell you and everyone else like you what you should’ve done instead. Which was to communicate. To listen. Be aware of power structures in your sexual relationships (in a real way this time). But pair that awareness with listening to your partners’ needs and desires rather than silencing them. Because shutting down consent like this is never the answer.

So if you really want to live up to your “If You’re Not Part Of The Solution, You’re Part Of The Problem” Sanskrit poster, you’ll shut up about all the workshops you’ve attended and you’ll start giving us space to mobilize. You’ll stop positioning yourself and your maleness ahead of women and their voices and you’ll start finding ways to validate our experiences. You’ll stop using the term “feminist” and “ally” as a way to garner approval and you’ll start using your privilege to educate other dudes on the values of feminism. You’ll stop talking down to those who criticize your allyship and you’ll start embracing the intersectionality of the movement — extending your support to the organizing work of trans folks, non-binary folks, women of color and everyone else that the movement and your allyship typically excludes.

Delegitimizing our consent will not help us drive our liberation. These things will.

Now all you have to do is grow up enough to get off your high horse without hurting yourself and start doing them.

With Wrathful Wishes,

Maddie

Disclaimer: This post was written by a Feministing Community user and does not necessarily reflect the views of any Feministing columnist, editor, or executive director.

Madeline is currently spewing her thoughts on getmadandmuse.wordpress.com.

Madeline is currently spewing her thoughts on getmadandmuse.wordpress.com.

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