Cupcake's Theory of Disposable Men; or, why Cupcake likes having one of those little look-out peepholes in her front door

Among Cupcake’s circle of acquaintances is a Renowned Psychic. For the sake of discretion, Cupcake withholds this person's name. Her friend enjoys celebrity, but also finds it ennervating.

Recently, this Renowned Psychic (whose social conversation is usually not dripping with predictions) said to Cupcake, “You know, someone is coming for you.”

Cupcake stared at her in horror.

“No, no, Cupcake—“ said the Renowned Psychic. “Not the IRS or Homeland Security. This will be a good thing.”

Mollified, Cupcake considered the possibilies.

”Could it be UPS?” she asked. (Cupcake is both a cautious optimist and an Ebay shopper.)

“No, it's a man. A romantic partner. You’ll be in a relationship in the next few months.”

Cupcake’s heart sank.

“But—but--how can we stop it?” she spluttered. But the Renowned Psychic had smiled a mysterious smile and floated away like Glinda the Good.

Cupcake’s been carrying this prediction around like a hair shirt she refuses to put on. She rejects it outright. It ain’t possible. She don’t want it. Take that cup away from Cupcake, for she doesn’t wish to drink its poison.

See, Cupcake prefers to work in the model that reflects her Theory of Disposable Men.

It’s a brilliant scheme. It came to her in the bathtub, that venue of discovery lauded by Archimedes and Napoleon alike.

Here's how she came upon it:

Cupcake was shaving her legs. But she kept nicking herself.

She looked at her razor. She realized that, although she had plenty more razors in the cupboard, she’d been using the same one for weeks. And it was dull.

Cupcake started to throw the razor away. But she felt a pang of loss. She and the razor had taken so very many baths together; they’d shared months of intimacy. She felt attached to the razor, even though it kept wounding her.

Cupcake loved this razor. Even though her legs were hacked and bleeding and she had more razors in reserve, she hated to see the little fellow go.

Suddenly, an understanding of the futile brutality of codependence dawned in Cupcake’s mind.

And with a whoop of recognition, Cupcake yelled, “Eureka!” She leapt from the tub, tossed the has-been razor into the garbage, and grabbed a shiny new one off the shelf.

As she continued shaving, she marveled at the smooth, close swipes, the easy path through stubble, and the lack of new blood. By the time she emerged from the bathtub, Cupcake had devised the Theory of Disposable Men.

Which is this:

Men, thought Cupcake, are like razors. They work best if you don’t keep them around for too long.

Oh, they’re useful. But after a few uses, they should be tossed. And why not? There’s plenty more where that one came from.

When a girl keeps one around too long, she reflected, it becomes dull. And then bad things happen, and a girl can get hurt.

This realization opened a whole new world for Cupcake.

She moved forward through a rather happy decade in this frame of mind.

But then, despite her satisfaction with a dispassionate status quo, a bad thing happened anyway.

One sleepless night, Cupcake drove to a nearby the 24-hour Walgreens. The razors were kept in a locked plastic case. (Cupcake lives in the Ghetto, so many stores take precautions with easy-to-lift items.) Having been informed by an unapologetic staff person that the previous shift’s manager had accidentally gone home with the keys, Cupcake resigned herself to not buying new razors that night.

But wheeling her cart through the aisles, she discovered a lone package of razors left on a display of flip-flops. So she put it in her cart and bought it. Having many purchases, she didn’t notice the suspicious expense of those razors when the cashier rang everything up. She just paid and went home.

When she went to open the razors, however, Cupcake learned that it was not razors (plural) but razor (singular). The package held an expensive, nice NON-disposable razor, along with several replacement blades. This gave her momentary pause. But she figured, heck, she could still throw it away if she wanted.

The first pass that high-quality razor made over her shin, though, made Cupcake aware that there was a reason this was a NON-disposable razor. It was GOOD. It was better than the disposable ones. It was WORTH KEEPING.

So I’ll cut to the chase.

Having spent a decade or so going through razors, men, and condoms with a callousness that would do the Bush administration proud, Cupcake had grown attached to her dispassion. She wasn’t in love with it (and that was entirely the point)-—but it was a steady gig.

And then one dark unfortunate night, Cupcake met a man who, like the superior razor, was a cut about what she was used to. Someone WORTH KEEPING.

In both of these cases, Cupcake still is puzzling it out.

Cupcake lost the NON-disposable razor. She was sort of relieved, because the replacement cartridges were expensive. And she lost the NON-disposable man, too.

In neither case is she entirely sure what happened.

But the thing is this.

The Renowned Psychic says that Love is coming for Cupcake, and this does not make her happy. She would rather have heard it was the Grim Reaper. (Or at least the IRS or Homeland Security.) She repeats to herself, almost hourly, her own belief that the Renowned Psychic is wrong. Because she’s pretty sure that unless it IS the UPS man, when he rings the bell, she won’t let him in.

It’s safer that way.