“I’ve learned not to assume anything,” I say, trying to recover. “What you look like to me doesn’t matter.”
“So I don’t look male to you?” he presses.
I see the hint of a smile on his lips, and I know he’s trying to tease me, but it’s more complicated than he realizes.
“What does male and female look like?” I ask. “For someone tolookfemale, does she have to wear a dress and have long hair like the icon on bathroom doors?”
He shrugs. “That’s a good place to start, isn’t it?”
“So should I assume someone who wears pants, has short hair, and has non-existent breasts is male then?” I ask, and his expression falters.
“I know this may seem nitpicky,” I go on, “but you run into problems when you identify gender based solely on extremes of masculinity and femininity.”
He nods slowly. “It’s the hair that’s throwing you then,” he says as he runs a hand through the longer locks on top of his head to push them back from where they’ve fallen into his eyes.
He’s still teasing, and I decide to let him have this one.
“A little bit,” I say.
I’m dying to run my fingers through his hair. Getting myself off beforeI came did nothing to help the situation between my legs, and I’m ashamed at how weak I am for lusting after him right now.
Ash considers the idea a second more, then shrugs. “Yeah, I consider myself very male,” he says with a grin. His eye crinkles the tiniest bit so I’m not sure if it’s a wink or not, and now I’m wondering if he’s alluding to the dick pic he sent me.
I almost ask him but talk myself out of it. He doesn’t seem the least bit self-conscious about sending it, and I’m not bold enough to bring it up just yet. Maybe when I know him better.
“Alright, so we’ll stick to the results of the study as they relate to male participants,” I say, trying to regain control of the conversation. “The part that’s important to you, then, is the emotional effects of trash talk.”
He frowns. “Emotional effects?”
“Everyone experiences emotions,” I say quickly before he can deny he has them. “But how and when we express them can vary. I specifically looked at anger and shame because they’re often related.”
He looks at me as if this is news to him, which it probably is. The shame-rage connection is well-documented in social science, but I wouldn’t expect someone outside the discipline to know this.
“Experiencing shame can often lead to anger and vice versa,” I explain, “and that’s exactly what my study found. Participants experienced both of these emotions when subjected to trash talk, but the interesting thing is that the order in which they experienced them varied by gender. Women got angry, then experienced shame.”
“They felt ashamed for feeling angry?” Ash asks, and the question is clarifying rather than doubtful.
“Exactly,” I say. “Anger often isn’t an acceptable emotion for women to display, so they’re conditioned to feel bad for expressing it.”
He nods. “Women do tend to take more shit for expressing anger than men,” he says knowingly.
I stare at him as his observation throws me for a second.
He shrugs. “I have two sisters. The sins of the patriarchy are acommon topic of conversation at holiday gatherings.”
I blink, then smile. “And what do they think of your hockey career?”
He smiles back, and I’m transfixed by his dimples.
“You mean my job where I play a sport that epitomizes the inherent violence of athletics and encourages problems to be solved through physical altercations?” he says, clearly quoting someone. He cocks his head. “They’re so proud.”
While I agree with the description in principle, I feel bad his sisters view his career that way. Ash has achieved a level of success many people only dream of, and his family doesn’t appreciate it.
“I’m sorry,” I say seriously.
He waves a hand. “It’s fine. They are actually proud of me, but I think they tell their friends I play professional tennis or something.”
We’ve gotten way off track, and the more depth this man shows me, the worse my crush on him gets. I need to refocus.
