I was first exposed to Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl via its exquisite film adaptation. Fans of Gone Girl are familiar with its infamous Cool Girl monologue. Spoken from the protagonist’s perspective, it details her encounter with the desirable but misogynistic stereotype of the Cool Girl. The Cool Girl being an effortlessly attractive, geeky, and doting woman that men crave for their egotistic satisfaction.
It’s been stuck in my head since I heard it the first time. I’ve been mentally adapting the book and movie versions to match my life experiences. Here it is: the Asian trans girl’s Cool Girl monologue for you.
Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being that cool, Asian trans girl means I’m a hot, erudite, sweet girl who is onboard with anime, kinky sex, gaming, housework. I must eat rice and cheeseburgers as if they have no calories while being the last vestige of thin femininity in a world that was ‘ruined’ by feminism. Because above all, I must be attractive. Attractive and subservient. I’d never let my years add dress sizes because it’s what he wants.
This Cool Girl has no mood settings beyond cheerful and yearning. When he fails to behave appropriately or can’t handle basic housework, it falls to me to forgive him and finish what he started. I’m interested in every long speech he delivers about his latest anime or big-titty gacha game obsession. The only opinions I have are his shadow: a two-dimensional form that clings helplessly to his definitive account. Never mind that my daily personhood consists of five interests in a trenchcoat. All of that becomes tolerably small to accommodate his superior hobbies.
Does it matter that I’m ethnically Chinese and have no interest in K-Pop or someone else’s Japanophilia? Of course not. I’m Asian. The Eastern and pale kind (subtext: the ‘best’ kind). My people are the last bastion of traditional femininity after western women were destroyed by [select all that apply]: feminism; DEI; social media; Taylor Swift; suffragettes; college. Being reduced to a dated media stereotype is second in significance only to becoming some weirdo’s arm candy. Being transgender makes it better. I’m the heterosexual man’s ideal trans woman: conventionally attractive and ‘passing’. These qualities allow me to attract the finest people to complete me: trans fetishists and chasers.
Paradoxically, I am a demure housewife but can’t wait to jump on his dick without notice. Of course I’m a freak in the sheets once the bedroom doors close. That’s what nerdy girls are supposed to be like. Autism is just a formalized diagnosis of kinky-and-quirky, not a life-altering difference in sensory processing. I’m the Cool Girl, and I can’t wait to gobble up the un-moisturized dick of someone who shoots ropes into the ceiling to the thought of his fantasy waifu. How could he tell that my ideal sexual companion is the human avatar of halitosis?
It’s because of people like him in society that I’m hyperaware of the ways I do fit the desirable Asian trans girl casket. I am ruthlessly kinky and I love submission, but men in the dating pool want to underline those traits to the exclusion of everything else. Of course I’m into women, but not in a way that would give a man a threesome for his birthday. The heavily sapphic-leaning reality of my sexuality becomes yet another obstacle for him to overcome in his pursuit. The same, tired tropes come out when I try to make my case: you just haven’t found the right man; I bet I could change your mind ;).
I wear heels and skirts daily for me and the women in my sightline, but somehow his gaze follows me everywhere. Still, the Cool Girl straightens her long (read: thin) legs and keeps walking because she is unflappable to the misconduct of men. After all, the Cool Girl is a product, not a person. She is a valuable token to be bartered for men’s approval until she decides to sell her own sexuality. Then she’s a walking disaster publicly maligned, but secretly beloved in sordid private group chats.
The curse of the Cool Girl shadows me as it does for the rest of womankind. If I weren’t the Cool Girl, I might despise her for having the finesse and attention I want. I became the Cool Girl, so I bear a different burden instead. I only date women, but the unwanted opinions of cisgender men still follow me through the door. When I sleep with a man, I ask for my own sanity: is he with me for me, or for his idea of me? If he wants the latter, I pity him.
The real me is much more colorful, challenging, and bold. All I can do is protect her until I meet people kind enough to meet her.
