Disagreement is not the opposite of intimacy

I watched as This Guy walked up to the bartender and ordered us another round. Our little table had accumulated an impressive collection of glasses as the bar slowly emptied around us. It was getting late for a Tuesday, and when the lights came on to usher us out, I suspected we could have stayed long enough to watch the staff close up with us still inside. I’m sure we would have found some way to entertain ourselves.

I’m not quite ready to give him a proper pseudonym. I’d rather let him write his story. This Guy walked me to my car and kissed me, pulling me closer. For the first time in a while, I found myself wanting that second date. The next day, I eagerly checked my phone anytime it buzzed with the teenage excitement that’s increasingly rare in an age when feelings don’t seem to be trending. My heart leapt Pavlovianly to a text, but it wasn’t him.

Well…it finally happened. I pissed off a man with my writing. Boring Australian, my first date after ending things with someone I cared about, earned his pseudonym for two reasons. First, I was deliberately unfair to him in service of a larger narrative point. Second, he spent most of our date superficially mansplaining geopolitical issues to me. In my defense, the date lasted all of one drink, and we never spoke again. I hadn’t anticipated that three months later, he’d go looking for my writing.

I’ve had nasty things said to me before. I expect it. What threw me off wasn’t even that he called me a vile genocide apologist and a dogshit writer, Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I just don’t think that’s any way for a man to speak to a lady.

Boring’s anger wasn’t unjustified. I hadn’t portrayed him kindly, which isn’t my usual style. I apologized because I understood why he was hurt, even if I couldn’t excuse how he chose to express it. The exchange, however, left me with the uncomfortable realization that my writing could be the reason a man I actually want to see again might decide not to.

This Guy was Boring’s polar opposite. I’ve never wanted a partner who agrees with everything I say. I want someone who challenges me, who makes me reconsider an argument, who introduces me to ideas I might dismiss. As I felt This Guy’s hand on my knee, I realized how much I enjoyed being challenged by someone I was attracted to. He seemed to want that, too.

Naturally, we landed on a subject guaranteed to polarize the room: Hasan Piker. This Guy’s political journey and mine had been very different. Our willingness to understand each other was not.

We talked about October 7th, antisemitism, and the way Piker speaks about women. We discussed his remarks about sexual violence on October 7th, particularly his assertion that whether rape occurred did not change his understanding of the conflict. Piker has defended that he was arguing against using sexual violence to justify Israel’s subsequent military response in Gaza. And, okay, sure, I can understand that distinction. I still find his sentiment deeply troubling.

As a woman, I find it difficult to hear sexual violence discussed as though its significance depends on the political argument around it. But our conversation wasn’t about Piker being right or wrong. We considered why he continues to resonate with audiences, even those who take issue with his rhetoric. This Guy suggested he gives voice to frustrations others struggle to articulate.

What does it mean when someone becomes the voice of a generation’s frustrations? At what point does it become unjustifiable to overlook their words?  Understanding why an argument resonates doesn’t require accepting it. It does require listening long enough to understand what draws people to it in the first place.

Disagreement is not the opposite of intimacy. Contempt is. We must have spent an hour discussing the concept of disagreeing and what it means to want a partner who challenges our assumptions without dismissing our experiences. Neither of us seemed particularly interested in an easy answer. Somewhere between disagreement and attraction, I realized it was the perfect mix of intellectual intimacy and physical chemistry. In that little bar in Melrose, we had found both.

I told This Guy I had been writing about politics and its many forms through a character I dubbed The Carrie Bradshaw of the Middle East. He immediately declared himself a Steve. I smiled. This was his biggest green flag yet.