So you're a girl, or a boy, and the world keeps throwing guys at you, and some of them are like this and some of them are like that, and every time you're thinking: Is he the one? The one I would actually change things around for? Or is the one to romp around with? The entire universe works on the twinned principles of compression and inflation, repression and abandon, structure and chaos, endings and beginnings. It's not about making the choice between vampire guy and werewolf guy, it's about the fact that these are the only two ways we know how to deal with men, because we were born at a particularly effed-up time where our mothers' feminist ideals are flexing and bending to the breaking point and we're not seeing our mothers walk the walk. Because their dogma was invented by them, as received wisdom, in the decades surrounding our birth, we watched it fall apart around them. Our hearts broke together, ours and our mothers, when we found out how the world really worked.
The original vanguard said, "Stop locking us up at night. Let us go out into the world and see what we must see, and do what we must do. We can and will protect ourselves, but we'll never know for sure until you stop treating us like girls and start understanding that we are women, which is the same thing as being a person." They were werewolf days and howling nights, women shapeshifting before each other's eyes, exploring what they could be with and for men and what they could be with and for each other. For the first time since like agrarian times, women assumed shared control of the cultural narrative: Carole King writes "He Hit Me (It Felt Like A Kiss)" in the Brill Building in 1962, and nobody actually gets it. The days and nights of the counterculture are chronicled by men who write like women and women who write like men. Bodies are redefined and rewritten, what they mean and to whom they belong, new ways and laws are created, men and women bleed into each other, exchanging secrets and telling stories and realizing that 90% of boy-girl bullshit is just an illusion handed down from the people before.
Fast-forward to the '90s, and you've got "may I touch your left breast" at Dartmouth; "sexual harassment" being applied to literally every circumstance possible; diluting and obscuring its own once-valid complaint; girls of my generation saying, "Fucking lock me up. This world is scary, sex is scary and my safety is an illusion, pornography is violence, sex is evil, I get it now, I repent, I'm sorry for questioning the patriarchy, please give me my bra back." Our culture was invaded by forces from beyond the pale, by diseases so powerful they seemed magical, and we worshipped at their shrine in a way: by becoming ever more obsessed with blood, with sex, with death, with taint, equating blood and sex and death into a single objective correlative for the fact that sex is scary, always, and somehow we forgot that for just long enough to fall in love with the idea of being scared of sex itself. Gay sex, which is like scary with a little scary on top anyway, intersected with this stuff in a remarkably unlucky way; our vampires went bisexual as a result. Vampire nights and the rotting carpet of a culture in decline, obsessed with its own decay and dancing to goth music in the last big vampire fad, calling every day Halloween and calling for the death of sex itself in reaction to the sterility and the fear and the desperate need for somebody, anybody, to explain what the fuck was going on.