I Spent My Life Auditioning for a Relationship…and Suddenly I Can’t Do It Anymore

Aren’t we all tired of this old script?

I can’t do it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve got the script. Look, I’m holding it right now.

I used to love it. I used to think it was so clever. So dramatic, but all in the right ways. For most of my life, I couldn’t wait to be cast. I spent every day auditioning so that I’d be ready the moment there was any opportunity.

But something happened over the years. Something I didn’t expect.

I grew weary from it all.

And one day, that script that had once seemed so exciting, suddenly appeared dreadfully dull.

Do you know how exhausting it is to be constantly auditioning? No, you don’t. Let’s be fair. You have to deal with it from time to time, but nothing like we do.

We’re expected to live our entire lives as if we’re on a stage waiting for a good review, or in a pageant hoping to be crowned.

You get to watch the whole show, and then submit your judgment. You get to cast us in your movies. You get to choose which one of us gets the crown and bouquet of roses.

You have no idea how bone-deep exhausting it all is. Taking a peek at ourselves in any reflective surface we come upon to make sure our noses aren’t too shiny. Spending an hour wrapping individual strands of our hair around a hot piece of metal that’s supposed to give us those lazy waves you so love because it looks like we just woke up that way. Counting every calorie even when we pretend not to so we can make sure we never get too curvy.

And that’s just for the auditions. We can be alone in our goddamn houses and feel self-conscious that we aren’t “put together” enough. It always made me feel so nervous. What if someone finds out that I don’t make such efforts when no one is looking?

I’d never get another call-back. And I sure as hell would never get cast again.

But the older I got, the more I hated it all. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to live this way.

I don’t want to have to put on makeup every day just so I’ll be pretty enough. I absolutely refuse to wake up at 4:00 am to curl my hair like I once did for so, so long. And I am so tired of the constant, obsessive attention to everything I eat. I don’t have the strength to keep torturing myself this way.

I don’t want to audition anymore. And yes, that means exactly what you think it means.

I no longer want the part.

Yes, I remember what it’s like to be cast. And no, that doesn’t make me want to change my mind.

It’s true, everyone seemed to love me more. People act as if playing that part is like winning the lottery. When it happens, they’ll gush and exclaim and celebrate. It’s like you suddenly matter more than you used to.

But not with you. That’s the strangest part about it. You were so enthusiastic during the auditions. You seemed so certain I was the right person for the part.

Yet once you cast me, that certainty, that passion disappeared. Suddenly, you lost that enthusiasm. You seemed impatient with me. You expected my performance to become increasingly precise, focused, and fluid, while you crept so far to the edge of the stage, I had almost nothing to work with. You demanded more and more emotional depth from me, but you gave me none.

It was exhausting.

Woman. The first time you called me that, my skin crawled. “Get in the car, woman; we’re gonna be late,” you said, jokingly, giving my ass a swat as I walked by.

I know I was supposed to like it, but I hated it. I know I was supposed to light up and make a teasing response about “my man.” But I couldn’t.

A slideshow of my parents’ marriage suddenly flickered through my mind. A million memories of my father calling my mother “woman,” of swatting or pinching her butt, of her rehearsed laugh.

I remember how much it bothered me, even back then. It was all so rote. They were following every stage direction, hitting their marks perfectly with each scene.

I felt numb. Empty.

The same way I felt when you found my gender less amusing. Like when you complained that I was so goddamn emotional. Or illogical. Or “batshit crazy.”

Being a woman was another performance I came to realize I had been auditioning for all along. And the better I got at it, the more you wanted to bed me.

And the more you lost respect for me.

I know you won’t like this next part. You always hated it when I talked about sex — unless it was about how much I wanted it. No, wanted you.

But I’d be remiss not to include this. It is, after all, one of the primary reasons why I’m retiring.

I hate it so much. Not sex, itself, but this ridiculous script.

I cannot have one more argument with you about whether or not you will wear a condom. I cannot keep doing all the things your favorite porn actresses do in order to help you keep it up. I cannot keep whispering dirty things like, “Put that throbbing cock in my cunt and fuck me” or “Spray your cum all over me like the dirty whore I am,” just because that part of the script gets you off.

By the way, I hate it when you use the word “pussy.” I don’t know why, but I don’t like that word. And I hate that you didn’t ask me what I want you to call my body parts. I hate even more that you chose that word simply because you think it’s the dirtiest one you can get away with. (We all know which one you’d actually prefer.)

I hate that I can’t say anything if I’m uncomfortable. I hate how angry you get when I need you to slow down or shift your position. I’m so sick of enduring pain and discomfort to keep from upsetting you. Isn’t sex supposed to be pleasurable?

Too often, for me, it’s not. I don’t always even get to enjoy an orgasm. I can come every time when I’m enjoying my own company, but it’s a lot harder when you are involved. And why should that be? I know exactly what needs to be done. I could tell you. But how many times have you stalked off in a rage when I made a few requests? How many times did you slam the door so hard that pictures fell off the wall?

We both know you wouldn’t even watch this movie if you weren’t getting off every time.

I hate the way you look at my vulva, like a salivating wolf about to devour its kill. I hate the way you stare at me from between my thighs when you’re going down on me, with that arrogant twinkle in your eyes. I know what you’re thinking: No one has ever pleasured me so well before. I know you are thinking this because that’s exactly what you say to me after my orgasm: “I’m guessing no one else ever made you squirm like that.”

I don’t want to have to fake one more smile, one more “No, you’re the only one.”

I’m sorry, but I’m sick of it! How is this even fun for you?

How could you possibly believe this is fun for me?

Yes, I know you are talking to your ex-girlfriend on the phone on the third Friday of every month when you “need some alone time.” I know I’m supposed to pretend that you’re reading or trimming your toenails.

Yes, I know you have exchanged emails with several women you met on Facebook. Friends of friends of friends who scrolled through your photos while drunk one Wednesday night and left you little notes like, “Wow, stud!” and “Aren’t you a cutie?” I know you are flirting and seeing how far things go without actually meeting her in real life…just in case.

And yes, I know that more than half the accounts you follow on Instagram are OnlyFans women and that you leave them dozens of comments every day, right there in public, with your account that shows your real name and a profile picture that features you and me beaming on our last vacation together. “I’d love to see a video of your wardrobe malfunctions,” you tease. And, “Baby, I think I’m in love.” And, “Damn, still waiting for you to invite me over.”

I know you get so hard when you scroll through their photos and then you seek me out in the bedroom where you can work out all that tension, imaging their bodies in place of mine.

Should we buy a house together? We talk about it all the time. Wouldn’t it be fun? Except for the pesky part where we argue constantly because you prefer the modern industrial look while I’m more comfortable with farmhouse chic.

Should we have children? We talk about that all the time, too. You want to spank them and I don’t. You only want boys and I don’t have a preference. You want me to stay at home with them, but I don’t want to lose my career.

God, I can hardly bear it anymore. Isn’t it all so boring? Haven’t we told this story so many times?

I know you’ll think badly of me for saying this, but the thought of family dinners, soccer practice, and piano recitals makes me want to disappear. Which is an odd thing to say because I think if I kept pursuing this role, I would disappear.

I can imagine our Christmas cards, all of us in color-coordinated sweaters.

I used to want it so badly.

It seems like a nightmare now.

I’m throwing this script away. I’m done with auditions. I have absolutely no interest in this production anymore.

I wish you felt that way, too. Doesn’t it seem so overdone? Isn’t it the most unoriginal thing you’ve ever experienced? Haven’t you found it overwhelmingly empty and dissatisfying?

Don’t you want more? A better part? A more nuanced character? Another nuanced character to work with?

Don’t you want different storylines? New possibilities? Something we’ve never seen before?

I know I do. Which means it’s time for me to call it quits. Wash off this makeup. Throw away these costumes.

I think I’m ready for something a little more spontaneous. Improv? Ad lib?

Something…unscripted.

© Yael Wolfe 2023

Yael Wolfe is a writer, artist, and photographer. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you love her writing, leave her a tip over at Ko-fi.

Read Andrew Gaertner’s perspectives on changing the script here.

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