First of all, let me just say this is not what I voted for.
In 2024, many young American men like myself were primarily concerned with our economy, immigration, geopolitical conflict and not voting for a Black lady — that’s not a race thing, by the way, because I would not have voted for a white lady who didn’t seem like she was going to take off her top, either. I wasn’t raised to see color.
But eight months into a second Trump presidency, with the National Guard taking over American cities, tariffs playing havoc with international trade, abortion bans in 41 states, a roadkill-eating anti-vaxxer setting public health policy and masked I.C.E. agents grabbing people off the streets without due process, I can’t believe I’m still not getting laid.
Listen, I have given up a lot here. Not only did I not think I was going to pay this much for eggs, I thought once we brought this country back to the 1950s, I’d never have to touch an egg, much less cook one for myself. And yet none of the guys from my online forum have experienced increased interest from females or spontaneous jawline improvement. Anecdotally, Sharon, an 8-8.5 who lives in my building, continues to hustle out of the laundry room when I come in carrying a basket full of Trump merch she could be washing if she wasn’t so shallow.
As for the immigration issue, I never wanted little kids snatched and deported. That’s monstrous. During the campaign, they made it sound like I.C.E. would only be deporting rapists, drug dealers and the hot, tattooed Latino bad boys who can dance cumbia and are always throwing off my game. But since January, I.C.E. has deported nearly 200,000 people. Roughly half the people in custody have no criminal records. And yet I still hear cumbia coming from Sharon’s apartment sometimes.
Like 70 percent of male voters, I wasn’t happy either when Roe v. Wade was overturned. I believe in a woman’s right to choose. Just not her right not to choose me. And now that life-saving abortion care is a coin toss and ending an unwanted pregnancy or even miscarrying could get them arrested, it seems like they’re even pickier and more hung up on politics. Instead of looking past the surface to get to know you as a man, they all want a Ken doll who’s 6 feet tall or rich or funny or kind or didn’t vote against their bodily sovereignty.
Trump being an oligarch fanboy isn’t helping, either. Not that I don’t admire a bunch of dudes with the collective personality of an unsalted Pringle pulling models and lady coworkers, but it isn’t exactly trickling down. And I don’t mean the money because nobody has believed that since Reagan. Yeah, I’m still sitting on a pile of unforgiven student loans that doesn’t get any smaller no matter how many times I form a pyramid with my fingertips and create a Money Mindset. I believed in our higher ideals, our natural male role of protecting women — from threats like trans women in bathrooms, no-fault divorce and voting rights — enough to vote against my financial interests.
Simultaneously selling out Ukraine and Gaza to leave their respective people in varying humanitarian crises, though, that wracks me with guilt that can only be assuaged by the love of a good woman who’s not manipulating me to get at the money I’ll have once the aforementioned Money Mindset pays off. Or a top-of-the-line Real Doll. I’m talking about the 2027 model Elon cries on.
Is it me, or did it seem like we were turning a corner on this whole men-having-to-be-likeable thing? We have a relatably repugnant president who surrounds himself with women whose cosmetic aesthetics could be described as “inflatable” and a cadre of consent-flexible men with similar politics and charges. Andrew Tate is the new Adam Smith and yet women don’t seem to be adjusting their new reality with any enthusiasm.
In fact, I’m watching Sharon through my blinds right now, and she’s walking out with another woman carrying pink and blue signs that read, “Protect Trans Kids.” She’s oblivious. Like the male loneliness epidemic isn’t even happening.
But his signed birthday card to Epstein is the last straw. I’ll be honest, I even put aside my deeply held convictions about the sexual exploitation of minors (the definition of which I adjust to depending on what state I’m in, though there really should be an app unless we’re going to lower it nationally to avoid confusion). I voted for this president despite his well-documented bro-ing out with Jeffrey Epstein because I believed he could deliver the dominion over women we’ve been promised since ancient times on scrolls and tablets, and most recently in podcast form. And I never even got to go to Epstein’s island.
That’s why we need to publish the list, for those of us who aren’t on it, like me. Those of us who sacrificed to become single-issue voters who mostly prefer not to state out loud what that single issue is, at least in mixed company. Because that would be crude, and we’re good guys.
Jennifer Fumiko Cahill (she/her) is the managing editor at the Journal. Reach her at (707) 442-1400 ext. 106, or jennifer@northcoastjournal.com. Follow her on Bluesky @jfumikocahill.bsky.social.
This article appears in Double the Drama.
a lot of words to cleverly disguise the fact that you’re saying “i’m a dumbass”