He put his tongue inside my upper lip, and just sort of left it there, motionless. When I responded with my tried-and-true technique of bait and retreat, followed by a nibble and suck in the corner of his lips, he’d just go slack until there was an interlude, and then return his tongue to the inside of my mouth, where it would remain parked like a displaced mouth guard. When we moved to the bed under the guise of him “tucking me in”, he asked me if I was ok. He would continue to ask me this periodically until he finished, and it didn’t occur to me until later that “Are you okay?” is a much different question than “Do you want to do this?” The first few times he asked I said, “I think so”, eventually followed by, “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t realize it right now”.
I didn’t feel ashamed following this encounter, but I was unsettled. It bothered me that I would do something that I didn’t really want, that didn’t even feel good, as if the sheer escalation and momentum of it felt like reason enough to continue. I don’t doubt that if I’d said anything resembling ‘no’, he’d have stopped. So why didn’t I? Maybe I was curious if something unexpected would happen, if he had some hidden talent* that would unlock aspects of my own repressed sexuality that I hadn’t yet managed to. Perhaps some part of me has bought into the scam that the best sex is usually had with partners that want you only on an animalistic level. Most of the cinematic love sagas produced in my generation begin with a sexual encounter between parties that have a history of either apathy or outright enmity between them, and are surprised to later find themselves loving one another.
This was a person that had provided me with immutable evidence of their disregard for my wishes and general well-being. Judging by his insistently closed eyelids and lack of attention on any body present other than his own, it clearly didn’t matter that I was me.
Maybe I’d bought into the idea that happiness and affection can only follow insecurity and discomfort(special thanks to capitalism and Western Christianity). He’d certainly caused me those in the preceding months. Despite my confidence that I had shed any expectation for emotional care or connection with him, some part of me must have believed that some good awaited me in this encounter.
The thing that bothers me most, that has burrowed its way into my skin and hatched gross little babies that infested my dysfunctional brain, is this:
Every single count against him is two against me.
Oh, he treated you badly and… you returned his ‘wyd’ text and agreed to hang out within hours’ notice? You mean, despite having told him multiple times you weren’t interested in sex or romance, you responded to the insistently flirty tone of his texts with more of the same? Sooo, he sat too close and repeatedly put his hand on your leg, and you just sat there watching god-knows-how-many YouTube videos he was excited about? Embarrassing!
The truth is, he didn’t harass, assault, or even overtly pressure me. He was just kind of a dick, bad at communicating, and had no desire for any connection that didn’t exclusively cause him affirming, tingly feelings. I knew that.
And I don’t hate myself, or reject good things that come my way out of some baseless belief that I don’t deserve them. So, again, why did I follow this underwhelming hookup into fruition?
Most likely it was a kind of personal experiment: Could I take some amount of comfort or joy from shared physical space alone? Was sex, for me personally, detachable from personal regard or mutual respect? What would it do to me, how would it affect me, letting someone that doesn’t give a shit about me use my body as a sexual outlet? Would I mutate, contorting despite myself into the trampled rose, crumbled dollar bill, muddy water, or discolored plato that my evangelical upbringing insisted these kind of encounters would transform me into?
Ultimately, I think I did it for the same reason lots of people do recreational drugs: I hoped it would be fun, and offer me an opportunity to examine my selfhood and reality in a way that I hadn’t before.
