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The majority of subscribers to this blog are men, so I write under a heavy cloud because I’m not actually talking about them. I’m talking about the types of men that women subscribers are talking about. So, you lovely gentlemen can relax.

I’ve been reading a lot of reflections and conversations around subscribers’ blogs and I realise that many women are on the same page. Instead of being mean spirited or competitive with each other over who can get the best boys, women who have certain relationship issues in common need to participate in more conversations with each other.

You know how you get, when you’re in a relationship and he’s your boyfriend and he’s your prized possession and you have that smug expression on your face? “Poor single women. They’re so sad and they have no sex lives.” They’re camels. I read that last comment somewhere on WordPress. How rude, as if sex were a “must do.” Asexuality is an orientation, too. And so is choice.

What I’m seeing on blogs is the backside of the promised reality. At the reverse of smug, self satisfied expressions, I see that women have been feeding and caring for some lunkheads. Our continued attention to certain personality types has encouraged these men to feel that choosing to be in a relationship with us is the best thing they could ever do to validate us as women. It is within their power to recognise us as desirable creatures. Our infinite patience with their indifference, emotional incontinence and wishy washiness has turned those types of men into rotten little beans.

I still can’t understand dating as a concept. Let me blame it on how I was raised. I’ve always related to men as people and not as a potential someone or other.

My ideal partner would be a culinary artist who is obsessed with making ceramic pots and works as a carpenter in his free time. Or, a surgeon who’s looking into patients’ insides all day and has lectures at mid week and asks me to read his papers before publishing them. Busy with his hands or mind, having real responsibilities. Zero time to muck about. Too tired to wreak havoc in my life.

When I landed on my planet, expatriate women didn’t even have conversations with men. They just had intercourse with any man that looked at them sideways. The expectation was, “I like you and I’m easy, so let’s have sex.” It was a bacchanal. Two expatriates (man and woman) are right now sitting about eight feet away from me. They are talking loudly about “sleeping with people” and awarding points. They must be miserable if they have to talk at that volume in a Starbucks with small children nearby. No decorum. Nothing has changed.

I was scolded by expatriate male colleagues who told me I’m confusing the two things: Sex and love. I’m not confused. You are living with your girlfriend so why are you asking to visit my apartment?

Those free and easy women are now having issues with the men they spoiled. These men are educated, articulate, wealthy and up to ten years older. They’ve never grown up because relationships were never something to work at. A girlfriend was a sex partner with whom he shared a home and a joint bank account. A wife was a long term sex partner, now platonic friend, cook and sock washer that he owed something for her waity perseverance. That something? The Ring.

These words are going to be hard to read, but a ring is not a prize. It’s an accessory. I want women to stop acting like the Ring is the best thing that is ever going to happen to us. We must stop giving control over our circumstances to the promise of the Ring.

I received my first Ring when I was twenty two. I immediately assessed its weight in carats. Didn’t like. I promptly handed it back but took it back again half a second later when I realized that I was going to hurt his feelings. It was a ring after all. Behind my refusal was a very insensitive statement he’d made before we became exclusive. He had hinted that he was planning to live in Europe and therefore the high point would be sleeping with European women. He apologised for that gaffe near proposal time, but I knew it was damage control. When he got on the plane, I handed the ring to my sister. She lost it at a party or gave it to a friend or something.

Then, a month later he said I should not feel stresses or strains or have personal problems because imagine I’m engaged and he’s calling from Europa every morning before my daily workout to say hello and blah… Whatever.

The next day, I moved into the university’s dormitory. A friend gave me her room because she was living with her boyfriend. Three months later, I had proposals from better prospects. They were variously, incredibly good looking; fit; delicious; kinky and adventurous; considerate; sensitive; emotionally connected; wealthy; educated; well travelled; aristocrats.

I turned them all down.