“Ain’t my fault it’s not my destiny to be some child laborer in a sweatshop. I’m still going to enjoy the work they do, the fruits of their labor. It would be worse if I didn’t buy the clothes they made, then their suffering truly would have been for nothing.” A palpable silence fell over the group that had been carousing at the bar with Carson. They all stared at him blankly, almost as if trying to process that he had really just said this. And yet, these were, frequently, the types of scandalous statements that Carson would make. Not to “get a rise out of people,” per se, but because he genuinely felt whatever he said, and made no attempt to filter it for “polite company.”

Naturally, any company trying to call themselves “polite” is hardly that. They merely pretend to be for the sake of avoiding societal ostracism. Even though, to someone with a modicum of intelligence, it should be fairly obvious that societal ostracism is a sign of doing something right. Except that, for Carson, that wasn’t the reason behind his outlandish declarations. He wasn’t willfully trying to be off-putting; he just was. His mom, Arlene, was probably the only one who could tolerate him for hours on end. Because, while it might be said, “He had a face only a mother could love,” it’s also true that there’s such a thing as “a personality only a mother could love.” And Carson was a whole lot of personality. To put it mildly.

As a means to try to “explain” that personality, Arlene would often tell people that Carson was simply “an acquired taste.” That it just took time to “learn to love” him. Emphasis on that term, learn to love. As though to “love” Carson was to be conditioned, brainwashed. That was how his girlfriend, Lina, was starting to feel. Because it finally came to a point, after two years of being together, where she had reached her threshold for acquiring any more of his particular “taste” (interpret that sexually as well, if you want). She was so done with being embarrassed by him at pretty much all hours of the day. And even when they weren’t in public together. For most of the things he said were so affronting, so disgusting that Lina could hardly bear it behind closed doors either. In fact, that’s when it was worse—because there was no one else around to bear witness to what he said and therefore join her in explaining to him why it was so fucked up.

If she alone tried to talk to Carson about it, enlighten him on why the things he said and thought were egregious, he would then proceed to get on some soapbox about how “you can’t say anything anymore.” That “old” chestnut said by most white men by now. Carson being no exception to the rule. Just another entitled asshole who couldn’t understand why “everyone” was so “up in arms” all the time now. Or at least that’s how Lina had come to view him, losing any remaining shred of patience she once had for his so-called antics. A euphemistic word designed to downplay his misdeeds. His foul sentiments, touted so carelessly for others to hear, to be exposed to. It was enough to make Lina feign illness these past few days, unable to come up with some other “less offensive” reason for why she couldn’t be around him.

She knew, of course, that such feelings were a sign that she ought to break up with him. That what once felt so “charming” about him—his brashness, his confidence—had curdled into something unpalatable. So why, then, was Lina struggling to end it? As she soaked in a bubble bath and thought about him, his actual physical appearance, it got her aroused in a way she couldn’t control. Although her vag was already technically wet, the image of Carson without a shirt on got her all the wetter “down there” as she started to move her hand toward where life begins. Continuing to fantasize about his perfectly toned and tan body on top of hers, the vision was ruined by imagining the last thing she could remember him saying to her. A crass remark he lobbed at her after she had gone through the hassle of calling him up on the phone to pull the “I can’t go out (*cough cough*), I’m sick” tactic.

“Yeah, bitch, you’re sick…in the head! Take a fuckin’ ibuprofen and act like someone under thirty. You are under thirty, aren’t you? Or were you lying to me? ‘Cause now that I think about it, your hole was feelin’ kinda loose last time we fucked.”

The response left her speechless for at least five seconds, leaving yet another window of opportunity for Carson to continue insulting her. “Like, what’s wrong with you? Are you pregnant or something? I know I’ve got some strong swimmers. I never told you this before, but I actually have a few bastard kids scattered around, don’t know what really happened to them or the hoes that birthed ‘em. They’re not my problem, and neither is whatever you’re carrying if it happens you are carrying somethin’—my demon seed or whatever you wanna call it. Anywho, hope you get better soon ‘cause the longer I don’t fuck, er, see you, the easier it is for me to forget about you.”

She could barely get a faint “uh, okay” in before he hung up the phone on her. Lina knew she shouldn’t be “stunned” by anything that Carson said or did anymore, but that particular mini rant was what had finally sent her over the edge. This being made all the more apparent by her inability to get aroused by him any longer. No matter how attractive he was, his internal ugliness had made it impossible for Lina to ever again consider allowing him inside her hallowed body.

Sexually dissatisfied, she decided to drain the bath and call it a wrap on her attempt at “relaxation.” Because all that the “tub time” had done was stress her out even more, forcing her to realize that Carson really was no good to her in any way if he couldn’t even deliver on “stimulating” her anymore. She never expected him to do so mentally, but, at the very least, had counted on him for that physically. This, in truth, is what had not only hooked her, but kept her on that hook for so long. Far too long, really.

Throwing on her white terrycloth robe—something Sabrina Carpenter would have approved of—Lina walked to her bedroom where she could stare at herself in her full-length mirror. Appraising her face, the shape of her physique, she thought to herself, Of course I should break up with Carson. There are a million guys who would line up to be with me. And then, talking of Carpenter, she remembered what she had said on: “Slim Pickins”: “A boy who’s jacked and kind/Can’t find his ass to save my life.”

It was true. Even if Lina did attract some long line of male suitors, they would never have the right combination of what she (and most every other woman) was looking for in a straight man. If he was hot, he was sure to be a total dick, like Carson. If he was “kind,” he was sure to be, well, less visually appealing than what Lina was hoping for. And what she had grown accustomed to, body-wise, was Carson. He had set the benchmark too high for Lina to go any lower now. “A boy who’s jacked,” as Carpenter called it, was presently non-negotiable for her. But at what cost?

The following night, when she conceded to seeing Carson again after her self-imposed break from him, she was reminded of the answer to that question yet again. This as he grabbed her stomach in front of everyone at the bar so as to cruelly suggest she had gained weight, “light-heartedly joking,” “You sure you’re not pregnant?”

She might have been angrier at him about the humiliating comment if it weren’t the case that, in fact, part of the reason for her break from him was to get an abortion. And, in so doing, take time to “reflect” on why the hell she was with this person. That reflection leading her back only to the unwanted answer of her own vanity in matters of so-called romantic relationships. A realization she never wanted to verbalize aloud to anyone. Meanwhile, Carson would continue to do all the grunt work on saying things that shouldn’t be said anyway.