OUR PRETTY PRIVILEGE SHORT STORIES

   When’s the last time you asked your straight male friend, “are you ok?” What he lacks in speaking about his emotions in depth, he makes up for in solution-based thinking. Sometimes when you need answers, you just have to ask a cis-het.

   Names have been changed.

...

   I was at my favorite pizza place on Mulberry Street, enjoying a slice of pepperoni with my friend Samson, his treat. Outside, it was pouring buckets, and the tourists were dawdling around in their plastic ponchos and buying overpriced tchotchkes. 

   Samson and I stood tall, side by side, gobbling down our slices. They were playing the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. He seemed calm and happy.

   “What do you rate this pizza out of ten?” I asked.

   “Hm,” he answered, polishing it off. “I’d give it a good eight and a half, nine.”

   “I’m so glad you liked it!” I said, pleased with my choice in venue. After all, born and raised New Yorkers take great pride in sharing their favorite spots with the “new” New Yorkers.

   “How was your weekend?” he asked me.

   “Oh, it was fun,” I replied, finishing up my crust. “I was with this girl and we were both having a really great time.”

   “Nice,” he said.

   “She didn’t text me back though.”

   I waited for him to reveal some primo cis-het insight on dating. After a brief pause, he nodded his head in sympathy.

   “That sucks.”

   “Yeah.”

   End of conversation.

   Then, we hit C21 and I helped him pick out some new clothes. The typical cis-het shops once or twice a year. On the escalator passing the women’s section, I felt my hands twitching, dying to check out the summer styles, but I stopped myself because my wallet was burning at the thought of yet another outfit stuffed into my already bountiful wardrobe.

   The men’s floor wasn’t busy.

   “What’s your pants size?” I asked, browsing through some 70% off rag & bone jeans.

   “Oh, yeah, like 32,” he answered.

   What? I thought to myself. So confusing. My jeans size ranges anywhere from 26 to 29 varying by brand, style, and cut.

   With my generous assistance, he left with two outstanding pairs of jeans, a pack of Calvin Klein crew neck black shirts, black socks, and the perfect lightweight navy and sky blue patterned button-up tee.

   But back in the fitting room, while waiting patiently for Samson to try on his clothes, many young boys, men our age, and older men were struggling to figure out what clothes suited them. It was just me and a sweet Russian lady who was shopping for her husband.

   “Boys,” I said to her.

   “I know,” she replied. “It’s impossible.”

   “What would they do without us?”

…

   One day, I was standing outside Perry Street, searching for Sparky the baby blue Bic in my Marc Jacobs handbag. I was wearing tortoiseshell shades, a grey knit crop top, and grey bleached jeans that showed off my curvy hips. The bright rays of sunshine made the tones of blonde and copper in my hair shine like a halo. 

   Suddenly, a fine specimen of Neanderthal male was crossing the street to approach me. He asked me for a cigarette.

   “Sure,” I said, handing him one. We smoked together in the warm sun.

   “What’s your name?” he asked.

   “Dea,” I said, shaking his hand gently. “What’s yours?”

   “I’m River.”

   We were quiet for a while.

   “What are you up to today?” I asked him.

   “Oh, I’m headed to couples therapy with my ex-girlfriend. I’m still in love with her and I want her back.”

   I tilted my head at him, baffled. “Why are you telling me this?”

   “Um, I don’t know,” he said. He shifted his weight from his left side over to the right and crossed his tan muscular arms. I glanced up at his pale blue eyes. 

   “What are you doing today?” he asked me.

   “I’m walking Downtown,” I answered, flicking the cigarette butt into the street.

   “Hey, Same! Want to walk by the Hudson?”

   “Sure,” I answered.

   We began the long walk Downtown through the village. Underneath the pretty green trees, there were patches of shade from the leaves. The small spots of sunlight danced across our skin while we strolled.

   “I’m so hungry,” I told him.

   “Hey, look, ice cream. You want one?”

   “Long as you’re buying,” I chirped.

   After he paid, we left the ice cream shop, each holding a chocolate cone. Next door, there was a coffee shop with outdoor tables, where my friend and her mom were sitting outside.

   “Hey!” I said to the girl, licking my ice cream. 

   The mom frowned at me. Her cold stare sent a shiver up the back of my spine. River and I excused ourselves and kept walking.

   Between the two of us, the vibe was Spongebob and Patrick on their way to Jellyfish fields. Finally, after maybe twenty minutes of casual conversation, he started talking about his feelings.

   “It’s different now that I’m in my thirties,” he said, looking ahead, and then back at me. “But when you’re a 19 to 22 year old dude in New York, you’ve got nothing.”

   “I don’t understand,” I said. “What do you mean by that?”

   “Well, you guys have your youth and your beauty. All the women are dating older dudes who can afford to take them to nice restaurants. But us young guys are broke and just trying to make something for ourselves, to prove ourselves,” he explained.

  “Maybe, but you don’t have nothing. You have jobs. And student loans.”

   River laughed.

…

   In the end, all it actually takes for a cis-het to open up about his feelings is a friendly smile, a simple set of questions, and a quick bite. I have a designated cis-het for everything: one to vent to, one to solve my problems, one to flirt with, and miscellaneous ones to hang out with in my free time. 

   The cis-het is not the enemy. In truth, they’re much like us.

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