Cheryl and The Date

Cheryl had been dating Greg for about two months. On their fifth or maybe sixth date they’d gone home together. He came back to her place because it was closer. They were drunk enough to loosen their standards but not so drunk that anyone needed to feel guilt the next morning. He stayed the night. They went to a diner for breakfast in the morning. It seemed, to use one of Greg’s favorite phrases “all good.” Cheryl wasn’t sure how she felt about Greg yet. He was attractive in a confusing way. His nose was long, thin and crooked. His eyes were large, pale grey and slightly sunken in. His cheeks were callow, his hair black and thick. He wasn’t her usual type but there was at his heart an interest, a conflict that stirred something in her. If any of her friends had asked, she would have said, “I want to see where it goes.”

The sex was pleasant, like watching a romantic comedy together. All of the expected things happened, and while there was a lot of hope for a big climax it ended and you just sort of sighed.

A day or so later, over text (of course) they made plans to hit a bar in his part of town. So rather than stay in her native Brooklyn, Cheryl traveled to the lower east side of Manhattan. They met at the bar in question and walked in together, his hand on the small of her back. He kept his hand there as they ordered drinks on a semi-crowded Wednesday night. Small talk about work, small talk about bartending school, small talk about sports (they are both Yankee fans), small talk. Then after drink number two Greg leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You know the other night, that wasn’t really me.”

“Oh really?” She shot back in her Jersey accent. Her hand on her chest in mock surprise.

“Well, it was me, but that’s not how I normally am in those situations.”

“I see. And how are you, normally, in those situations.” She said looking up at him through her perfectly manicured eyelashes.

Greg looked away as he said, “Normally,” then right into her eyes, “much more dominant.”

Cheryl was flush and she knew it. The way he said the phrase stirred something in her.

“Is that so?” She replied.

“It is.”

She put down her glass and took his hand. It was time to leave.

They walked down the block and shoved their way into his building. They meandered up the floor flight walk up to his apartment. He unlocked the door and invited her in. It was exactly what you’d expect from a single guy — wooden floors and beige walls, movie posters and a TV. It wasn’t special. He closed and locked the door behind her. Her back to him, he grabbed her wrist turned her and pulled her close to kiss her hard.

The kiss was intense, but not good. Too much force, his long nose poking her cheek. The gesture didn’t communicate urgency as much as it did desperation. She tried to go with it. When their lips unlocked she dropped her bag and they took off their coats flinging them on the couch. He stood back and looked at her and said, “Take off your clothes.”

Cheryl froze. His tone was commanding, but not in a sexy way. Cheryl wasn’t turned on, but she thought she’d play along. She started to slowly unbutton her top looking at him. He urgently undid his own shirt, kicked off his shoes and undid his pants. He stood in his white brief underwear watching her undress. In that instant, the entire scene felt funny. He looked as though he was waiting for a bus, not waiting for sex. Cheryl had been naked in front of enough men, she was comfortable with her body, but this felt ridiculous. She stopped unbuttoning.

He looked at her. “What the fuck?” He rushed her and grabbed the open part of her somewhat unbuttoned tee shirt. He tore it open, buttons falling off. She reflexively put her hands on his shoulders to stop him.

“Jesus!” she blurted out. “What are you doing?”

“I told you.” He said, a tone of anger in his voice.

“Right well…”

He shoved her against the bare wall. Her shoulders hit with force.

“Greg, stop.”

He advanced and took her wrists he tried putting them against the wall. Cheryl resisted. He tried again.

“Greg, I said stop.” She said with more urgency more matter of factness.

He grabbed her shirt and tore it open.
He tried kissing her. 
She shoved against him. 
He grabbed her by the throat. 
He smacked her across the face. 
He did it again. 
Tears welled up in her eyes. 
He undid her pants. 
She shook her head.
He squeezed her neck.
She cried.
She whispered, “No.”
He turned her against he wall.
She struggled.
He yanked her jeans down
He pressed his exceedingly average dick against her pussy.
She was not turned on. She was dry.
He pushed in.
She cried out in pain.
He kept pushing.
He fucked her grunting and panting.
She grew quiet.
Her tears hit his wood floor. 
He finished on her ass.
He stepped back.
She looked over her shoulder. 
He was done with her.

She walked into the bathroom. She cleaned the blood and semen off of her. She pulled up her pants and did her best to tuck her now ruined shirt in. She came back out. Grabbed her jacket and zipped it fully. All she wanted was escape. He stood against the couch watching her put her jacket on. It felt like he was on the verge of saying something, maybe explaining himself. She didn’t care. She picked up her bag and walked to the door. His lock was weird. She grabbed at it, turning the knob didn’t work was there a button? She grew flustered feeling trapped. She heard his footsteps. She panicked. She whirled around. He came close leaning his face close to hers. His hand raised past her face. She winced. He unlocked the door. She quickly turned and left.

The walk down the stairs and out of the building felt eternal. It was early enough that she could take the train, but she opted for the expensive cab ride. She needed to feel safe and alone. Huddled in the backseat she replayed the night over and over again. Questions ran through her head. Did she invite this? Did she signal to him? Did she make a mistake going to his apartment? Did she say no? She thought she said no. Maybe she said stop?Does that matter?

This loop of questions continued for months. They never got resolved. They just faded into the background. They tore away at her and at the fabric of her ability to trust men and her own judgement of them. They embedded themselves silenced only by their repetition within her.

Years passed. She dated. She had sex again. She had good sex.

She had almost forgotten the fabric had been torn until a group of professional bros walked into her bar one night.