Last Tuesday (20) something very remarkable happened in my life. A mature, white man of medium height accepted me. He crossed the hall of a bar, with staggering steps, tapped my shoulder, took me out of the warm and affectionate environment I was in —surrounded by the best that São Paulo nightlife can offer in terms of libidinous poets and perverse lesbians, all telling me how elegant I was that night—and revealed to me, quietly, so that no one else would witness such embarrassment: “I like you!”
I replied, “Of course, I like you too.” He insisted, covering the side of his face so that not even his lips could be read: “You don’t understand, I really like what… [pausa dramática] you write.” “Yes, I loved your last book too.” “No, Tati, I’m serious, you know [cara de nojo], you talk about yourself, you write for television, you make podcasts, you like money, you expose squabbles with people who are kind of “peloamordedeus” on social media, this is another world for me, you know? So people talk bad. I just wanted to say that I defend you because I read you and I like you.”
Cum! So it was all settled. At the time I could see Xuxa’s ship arriving, Dengue dancing, Praga blowing soap bubbles. The bare wire that I am today amalgamated with the bare wire that I was in childhood and me exploding in the sky because A MAN LIKES ME.
At that moment I regretted having only a salad for dinner. If I had eaten enough to shit a medal, I would never have missed this chance. The mature white man of average height who crosses the hall of a bar to SAVE this depressing figure called “woman writer who soiled her aura by talking about herself, writing for television, doing podcasts and enjoying money” deserved that the damsel in danger could make him a coat of arms right there, embroidering the nickname KING OF THE FUCKING ALL on a piece cut from the sagging of his labia majora.
He, a real writer, who always ranks in the top ten plus something of something, had finally seen me and now my anus would receive the Playcenter neon stamp. Please, girl, four supports on the floor, so I can plaster you the phosphorescent stamp that entitles you to a ride on the ghost train of the accepted. The real writers. Crediário zombies, always stumbling around corners, in order to lovelessly respect a good progressive vagina, in small rooms that need to be simple, in computers that need to be greased.
But life is so complex that I listened to that litany of the great savior, wanting to be in a feminist audience laughingly contemplating her monologue, wanting to film it to include in a documentary called: “Ready. Come in. I like you. Signed : men”. And that was the chronicle. Ready. I sealed The end. But life, as I said before, is complex. And I ended the night very fond of that guy and his pile of drunken phrases, thrown at me out of condescension, out of arrogance, because he also likes money (but maybe it’s platonic love), because smarter than handsome gentlemen know that to arouse a hysterical nothing better than an “I know what they say about you”, but also for, “let’s have faith in the man”, a good dose of protection and kindness. I left social media and went back to my book that same night.
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