I had needs…
I was wearing tights but that didn’t stop you from putting your fingers in my vagina. I didn’t stop you either. I told you that we weren’t going home together that night, but you insisted, and I was wet, and I hadn’t had a penis inside me in over six months — a record that hadn’t been contested since a few dry months right after college when I was too anxious about my future to go out. So I finished my bourbon, and ignored your shit-eating grin and grabbed my coat. I might have even liked you in that moment. But that was ill-informed and short-lived, because I should have realized that this was a slippery road from the moment that you insisted.
We fucked. It felt fine. I didn’t come, but I had a metaphoric hole that was temporarily filled… and I was drunk. We talked for a long time afterwards, and I made excuses for why I actually ignored all of my better judgment and brought you home with me: “I usually don’t do this, I just haven’t had sex in ages.” I spilled my secrets, secrets that didn’t even belong to me. I told you about A and why it didn’t worked. You laughed, but I love A, more than you’d know.
We fell asleep. We woke up. I got my period that morning. You tried to fuck me anyway. I have no problem with period sex, but some things I am more comfortable with when I have known the person longer than two drunken nights. Plus, it was like “Carrie” down there. I pushed you off, having to use more force than I should have had to. I should have known then, but there are no “shoulds,” so let’s just say this was a bit of unpleasant foreshadowing. You subtly chastised me and berated me a little, saying you didn’t think I’d be right for you because you saw me do cocaine at a party. You also made sure you told me that my apartment was a mess, which I already fucking knew because I have eyes and I live here.
I smiled, I gasped, I let you leave with a kiss and said we would talk.
We talked every day for a week.
Because you called me every day for a week.
You said you were, “old school.” Your favorite line: “I’m so old. I’m so old-fashioned. I don’t like texting, I call.” You were only 35.
And phone calls are nice. Constant phone calls are controlling.
You told me about all the rules and regulations that would be in place, ”if we were to be in a relationship.”
You got angry when people recognized me on the scene when we were together, telling me that I was “too popular.”
This led to you chastising me for having fun with a mutual friend.
This led to you telling me when to leave parties.
This led to you putting your penis in me when I didn’t want you to.
Some people don’t understand that you can want a penis in you one moment and then the next moment, you can change your mind. You can ask that penis to leave, and if it does, it’s no harm, no foul. But, most of the time, that penis stays. It talks you into it. It convinces you that you’ve already gone too far. It comes up with excuses. It sends signals to the mouth, and tells the mouth to kiss you, to let the moment happen so it can be over.
You did it to me when I was half asleep.
You took pictures of me sleeping and refused to erase them.
You posted jokes about me that I didn’t like, not because they were mean, but because they were not funny.
You suffocated me within a span of 4 weeks.
And you made me feel bad for you, which was the most impressive trick of all.
Everyone said, “No, don’t do this.”
I joked about how much I hated you, but I wanted to fuck.
But, I was starting to hate myself.
And that is when I realized I had to stop.
And that is when I got angry.
And this is why I don’t want you to get away without some reckoning, thinking you can do this to other girls.
You are not charming, you are not macho, you are not a “real man” just because you keep saying you are.
You are a coward when you do these things.
You are a tyrant.
You are an abuser; in the same way that you said your father abused you.
People say that men think with their dicks. But women think with their vaginas, too.
Mine was hungry. Mine was stupid. But, it’ll ok.