My Best Friend Is Ditching Girls’ Night to Play with Her Pussy

Ah, the cats of New York. A city too sophisticated for the feral—at least on the island.

For anyone who cares to know, I got a goddaughter last night. She’s perfect. She’s healthy. She’s also a cat, so she’s already a bit of a cunt, and I wouldn’t change a hair on her pretty little head.

My Talented Friend, in all her wisdom, went to the ASPCA and found herself a companion far more worthy than anything you’ll find on Hinge (Mamdani aside). She named her Ella, after Ella Fitzgerald, and last night I watched as she ate plants, climbed the headboard, and sat perfectly perched atop a stack of Didion, Babitz, Plath, and Bergman.

Of all the things to acquire in this city, the best is hotly disputed. Some say a hedge fund. Others, a trust fund. Personally, my heart is split between a rent-stabilized apartment and a cat. Because once you have a house in New York—and a creature to make it a home—there’s not much else left to conquer.

A brief word about my goddaughter. You may have seen the viral game where you ask your cat a question, write possible answers on slips of paper, crumple them into balls, and toss them on the floor to see which one she chooses. In theory, this allows the cat to “choose” her personality. In practice, it allows you to assign her a personality chosen at random. By the end of the exercise, we learned that Ella is a cis-fem masc lesbian with Hillary Clinton–era Democratic politics and a practicing Muslim.

Amusing as it was to watch my friend’s studio apartment turn into a multifaith Democratic cultural hub, what interested me more was the broader trend: young women in New York choosing feline companionship over catching feelings for yet another disappointing—possibly frightening—man.

When I went out as a single woman in this city, I remember conducting the same risk-reward analysis on the men in the room. As with the cat, I asked questions. Are you kind? Are you sane? Who are you here with? What happens if I say no to your drink, date, or dare?

And like the cat, they chose their answers: right, wrong, or very wrong.

But where a cat’s answers could only make us laugh, a man’s answers carried a different weight.

Explaining to my millennial coworkers that many of my friends are discovering lesbianism via the fear of modern men is a daunting task. The disbelief you must overcome to accept just how bad it’s gotten is a higher hurdle than expected—and tragically lower than you’d hope. Even if your first instinct is recoil, the memory of a night you tried to forget brings you back to resigned understanding. Because yes, Brenda, it is that bad.

And so, via lesbianism or the ASPCA, my friends are finding comfort in the pussies of New York—feral and otherwise.

There’s something satisfying about framing this as a consequence for men who’ve long felt entitled to women’s bodies and attention. Especially when the affection of cats—and, often, lesbians—is largely based on earned trust: an invitation accepted, not an interaction forced. A reversal many women would prefer from men, and rarely receive.

What interests me most is the permanence of the choice. Cats live a long time. Any man hoping to visit a woman with a feline companion in the near future should bring good vibes—or risk getting scratched. By the cat or otherwise. Either way, one companion is being asked to evolve, and my money’s not on the cats.

So as I spend my nights with my cis-fem, masc, Hillary Clinton–appreciating, Muslim goddaughter, I look into her beady little eyes and tell her, Don’t change for the men. And don’t let her, either.

At the end of the day, at least I still see this friend more often than the one who ditched girls’ night to play with her rabbit. But I suppose every girl needs her companion.