Dear Liberal White Guy,
You never cease to amaze me. You know, when I first met you in the back of the Ticker, backwards hat and polo fully screaming Republican, I really thought you were going to be just another bigot. But no—within minutes, you made it very clear you voted for Biden in the last Presidential election, and boy, was I turned on! All of the sudden, I could see past your camouflage into preppy frat culture and appreciate you for what you really are: a well-meaning white dude.
The next step to our flirtations was a test on my behalf, I’ll admit. When you asked me where I lived on campus, I hesitated for a second, and then announced it proudly—The Dub. Now, I’ve seen quite a few white men react to this information during my time at SLU. Some just furrow their brow, thinking I’ve just told them I live in our very own Northstar Café. Some show just a bit of familiarity, remembering that time they came to pick up a Plan B giftcard from our vestibule. Then, as always, there are the guys who hear this information and look at me like they realize they have made an awful, terrible mistake. In their eyes, I see what they now see in me—an angry lesbian with died armpit hair, no doubt, a car bumper filled with anarchist stickers and most likely a special torture device in my basement just for men like them. I wish I was that interesting. Alas, it’s a great way to get out of a conversation when I need it.
But this liberal white dude, my god! He couldn’t have been more agreeable to my living accommodations! You know what? He even told me he’s thought the Dub was “totally cool”. Seriously. I could practically feel myself grow sopping wet. There is truly nothing sexier than a man that believes I should have basic rights.
After discussing our families briefly—he likes his mom, another boxed checked—I was more than ready to get this guy in my bed. On our walk home, we talked about what we do on campus, and while I was discouraged to learn he was an Econ major (capitalism turns me off), his comment on climate change at the warm weather we were having in November peaked my interest. When we reached the door, I was pleased to see him open it for me. A girl can have some chivalry, can’t she?!
But here’s the best part: when we started hooking up, he explicitly told me I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. Oh baby! Consent is so sexy. I don’t want to get too dirty in the details here, but let’s just say he was quite the giver in the bedroom as well.
He left soon after the events of the night had, um, finished, and as I drifted off to sleep, I knew exactly the review I would deliver to my friends the next morning at brunch: it was a great night. Yet again, another white guy would be getting bonus points in my book for living in our lovely patriarchal and white supremacist system and thinking just a little critically about it—but not too critically of course, to where he had to sacrifice any of his masculinity or question the ethics of being involved with a fraternity, or being friends with douchebags and creeps, or voting for another white dude for president. But he had done everything so many men don’t—asked me more than one question about myself, made it clear he wasn’t afraid of feminism, and even made sure I consented to what we were doing sexually. So, I say, cheers to you liberal white guys, and cheers to the bare minimum!