Opinion: A Man Hasn’t Played Guitar For Me Yet. Am I the Problem?
By Lily McLaughlin
I love Hozier, but you know what would make Hozier even better? If one of his songs was sung by a man who’s unable to grow facial hair, unable to hold a note, and unable to do that thing with a guitar where you purposefully squeak the strings for a soulful effect. Especially if it’s by a man I’ve met only three prior hours to this whole experience. This hasn’t happened to me yet, which is genuinely surprising, and I intend to find out why. More specifically, I refuse to acknowledge I am the root cause of this issue.
The most pressing reason is that men are intimidated by me. Let’s face it, having to confront a 5’4”, 18-year-old-girl is a daunting experience. Moreover, when you mix that in with awfully long eye contact and pitches that are astronomically off makes the ordeal even worse. God, it’s just I long to be serenaded. It doesn’t even have to be a Thorton major (but I won’t settle for a Game Development guy). I’d settle for a high school choir burnout to sit me down and strum “All I Want” by Kodaline, maybe a Beatles song if I’m lucky.
Or perhaps men won’t play their guitar because they already assume I’m a lesbian. I’m not, for the record. Why can’t a girl just have her wolf cut, wear her Horse Leather Platform Doc Martens, and have a Fleabag tattoo in peace? Do I have a pride flag in my dorm? Yes. Does it imply anything? Absolutely not! Bring that guitar, make yourself at home, and sing a Taylor Swift cover!
Maybe men just don’t want me. Wow, sorry. That sounds way too absurd to me. Onto the next possibility!
It’s possible men are afraid that they’ll sit down with their guitar, get ready to play it, then realize I’m crying. I’m sorry to stop them during their rendition of “Kyoto” by Phoebe Bridgers but I just need a moment! I’ll tell him I’m fine, but then the tears will turn into complete sobs. He’ll try to comfort me and I’ll unpack to him that my dad left me when I was really young, and all I’ve ever wanted was a father figure. He knows “Kyoto” was obviously my father’s favorite song, so why else would I be dry heaving like this? He’ll tell me he can’t give me that, but he still wants me in his life as a friend. He’ll slide away his guitar and keep patting me on the back, letting me go with no song. Or something like that could be a possibility, I’m not sure.
Through this self-reflective experience, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am probably not the problem. Scratch that, I’m definitely not the problem. Men would be lucky to be with me, through my questionable sexuality and all. All I have left to say is this: I’m here, you’re here, let’s make some music and get in that Twin XL bed! Too forward? Please just sing a song and leave.
