You could call me a flirt. Or you could say that, due to both nature (how much of the urge to people-please is hardwired?) and nurture (from birth, girls are taught in a million and one ways to people-please), I’d like for you to like me, never mind what I think about you. Maybe there isn't a difference between flirting and wanting to be liked. But I feel acutely the disconnect between the person I am online or onstage — someone serene and steadfast in her conviction that every girl and woman should be the master of her fate and ought not to suffer fools, least of all fuckbois in bars — and the person I am in the bar, seeking said fuckbois' tacit approval. Go away, but please like me. Do you like me? Please leave me alone, if that’s okay with you, of course.

Yes, we do still live in a world in which rejection is often met with hostility and even aggression, and it’s not always safe for a woman to tell a street harasser or would-be suitor exactly what she’s thinking. But safety and the need to please can be separated. When I read articles of the "I did this thing for this many days and here’s what happened next" variety, I think that the hardest thing for me would be to give up smiling. Smiling is the lubricant I apply to my social interactions, my means of assuring those around me — men included and especially — that yes, I am happy to be here, yes, what you are saying is interesting, and while no, I don’t want to have sex with you, it’s not because of you. I just have to rejoin my cock-blocking friends or, so sorry, I have a boyfriend, but in a perfect world I would totally follow my heart’s desire and go with you back to your apartment in Murray Hill, I promise.

And that mental script — I may not be super into this, but don’t worry about that, I want to make sure you are — can spill over into sex. It’s part of why at times, some women fake orgasms instead of saying "Hey, that wasn’t totally working for me, let’s try this instead." It’s why, for example, I get anxious instead of enjoying myself when I'm getting head and an orgasm isn't imminent. It's why instead of thinking, this feels awesome, I'm thinking man, is this guy/girl giving me head okay, should I put on a podcast for them to listen to while they’re down there so they don’t get bored?

This isn’t strictly about the male gaze; I’ve felt this when hooking up with women, too. It’s about an external focus — a preoccupation with how the other perceives me that trumps my attention to how I'm feeling. Meghan Trainor’s new song "No" (which is a banger, so sue me) celebrates "no," but like mine, her "no" is delivered sexily. "All my ladies, listen up," she sings. "If that boy ain’t giving up, lick your lips and swing your hips, girl all you gotta say is no." Yes, girl, be exactly as sexy as you want to be for you and your sexy self. But I wonder why I can’t skip the lip-licking and hip-swinging and skip straight to the rejection, or the "not like that," "I changed my mind," or "step away from me."

Worrying about being unsexy — or worse, unlikeable — when expressing anything other than enthusiastic consent is exhausting. I’m practicing my "no." So are you a software update? Because not right now.