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They Slept With the Monster Inside of My Head
Survival, sexuality, and the myth of the low-maintenance ‘girl’
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It would take me years to realize I’d invited a monster into my head that would then, as monsters do, accompany me into every bed for the coming decade. Well, it wasn’t so much an invitation as it was a cobbling together.
A wild attempt at self-authorship, or maybe self-ownership, that lacked a crucial component — self — while surrounded by movers and shakers who kept me in tow playing a part I’d brutally perform. But, as I like to say, “Let go or be dragged.”
Now, I see that dragging as a forced, but necessary, reconciliation of me before and me after. I’d be cast as a fuck up in my own life until my final undoing, a bridal awakening that emitted an instantaneous single shriek of not just resistance, but outright rejection. A guttural piercing scream — no words, just the totality of severance conveyed.
The night when I was called to the casting couch, I’d followed two guys away from a party at my place for a cigarette.
I’d met them that night — shrug — “cool enough.” Friends of friends, maybe.
I was drunk, an exceeding rarity. My type doesn’t like full stomachs, loss of control, or risking content spewing in any context.
But we do…
