My Little Tricks

When God — or whoever was manning the evolutionary control panel that day — was finishing humanity, he must’ve gotten distracted. Maybe he spilled his latte. Maybe he started scrolling. But something glitched along the curve. And now we’ve got the Trojan War, jealousy, cheating, and the full deluxe set of human stupidity.

It could’ve been solved at the prototype stage: make only the males pretty, like peacocks. Done. Women identical, men flashing tails, and we calmly choose by feather length. But no. We got seductive heels, faces set to “smile for the photo, eyes for the kill,” and breasts that basically come with their own trailer.

I do have one important trait. Nothing about kindness or humility or any of that Pinterest nonsense. Mine is called female cunning. And it’s not from the devil — it’s ancient. From the time when men ran around yelling “MINE!” and we were there with a comb and an inner voice whispering, “Sure. Run. You’ll propose eventually.”

See, evolution’s unfair. Men got muscles, testosterone, and speaking time. We got survival tools — intuition, timing, and a hint of trickery. Poor things, men — they only got two tricks at best.

First: learn how to use punctuation. Because “idk bro” and “u up?” will never beat a message that breathes like real writing — something with a heartbeat, like Hemingway’s “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” We don’t fall for the quote itself. We fall for the pause — that illusion of depth, of someone who’s actually felt something. We’re wrong, of course. But we fall anyway.

Second: keep your word. “I’ll call tomorrow” is not a metaphor — it’s a call. “I love you” is not an emoji — it’s a verb. Men think it’s all about abs or the car lease. Nope. The real flex is not disappearing when the pregnancy test shows two lines. Not ghosting when someone cries. Just being there. That’s what makes us believe.

When a man wants sex, he says:

— “I want sex.”

When a woman wants sex, she says:

— “I’ve been dying to see this new modern art exhibit. You have such good taste — come with me?”

And later, if things go right, she slips off her dress and says:

— “Oh, I didn’t even realize it got dark…”

A director like Scorsese would stand up and shout, “I believe it!” Because that’s the magic — pretending you don’t want anything, just so everything happens.

Another scene. He says:

— “I’m Alex. Store manager. Dream of building a house, planting a tree, getting a dog.”

And I say:

— “I’m Ula. I make spaghetti with a sauce laced with my bad habits and give divine back massages.”

(Which is mostly fiction — my fridge holds oat milk and sriracha, and I usually only touch my back when I’m taking off my bra.)

That’s not lying — that’s diplomacy. Preventive peacekeeping. You don’t tell him his hairline is retreating or that he drives like a grandpa on his way to Costco. So he can believe you’re the kind of woman who dreams of baking pies on Sundays and growing basil on the windowsill.

I laugh at his jokes — even the ones where he insists sushi “isn’t really Japanese.” Why? Because I already know how it ends: dinner, wine, me with a salad, him with the hope of a kiss — maybe even a drawer in my bathroom. And I just sip my wine, look at him with my “real eyes” (fine, with contacts), and say:

— “You’re so smart.”

If he doesn’t realize it’s a trap, that means the trap worked.

Fishnets make me feel either like a goddess or a bag of oranges. A low-cut dress is stunning but comes with its own workout plan: one wrong move and you’re either temptation or tragedy, marinated in a fragrance called “Wild Orchid Having a Crisis.”

He thinks, “She did this for me.” And I think, “No, for the 15% Sephora discount when you buy two highlighters.” But he’s already hooked. Thinks I’m fragile because I mention an ex who “had trouble expressing feelings.” I’m just checking if the new one’s emotional vocabulary goes beyond “shit, fine, bro.”

Cunning is the art of omission. Not lying — editing. We just make reality look better, like a staged home on Zillow. “No, I’m not hungry.” (Five minutes later I’ll eat your fries and still eye your dessert.) “I’m not jealous.” (Already checking her Instagram, her playlist, her zodiac sign.) “Do whatever you want.” (Go ahead. You’ll learn what a new couch costs and how it feels to sleep on it alone.)

We’re not black widows. We’re showrunners. The series isn’t on Netflix — it’s live, in your apartment. And the heroine never rushes. She waits till the plot writes the villain into the finale.

Men say, “She’s manipulative.” And I do my surprised face #7:

— “Me? Oh come on. I just wanted dinner. With you. But if that’s uncomfortable…”

He’s already leaning in. Already hugging. Already whispering I’m “not like other girls.” Of course not. I’m iWoman 17 Pro Max — with a new charm system, built-in intuition, and the app “Read His Bullshit by Eye Movement.”

Not because I’m manipulative or some secret agent of feminism. But because I’m Ula. Period. I need warmth, laughter, sex, late-night talk — and sometimes, a bit of ink and a broken place that still remembers how to heal.

Because cunning isn’t how I keep him. It’s how I find out if he’s worth playing for.