“You lured me in,” he sneered.
“You looked right at me and flashed that smile. I knew I already had you.”
The day I met him felt like the first day of spring. The sun was shining and I was wearing a pair of jean shorts. I remember it distinctly, actually. Though, it was nothing truly spectacular. He smiled at me behind his sunglasses, nodded his head.
“How you doin?” But not in a Joey Tribiani type of way.
It was relaxed. And casual. But for some reason it made the bottom of my stomach tingle.
He made a point to stop by my little dorm room from that day on. My door was always swung open, glitter hearts and my name plastered across its face, letting the whole world know where I was. He would stop by and banter with me. Ask probing questions about my life, my family and my hobbies. It wasn’t long before we were lounging around each other. Hanging on one anothers arms and shoulders, laughing with our feet intertwined and our heads side-by-side.
I didn’t love him, though. I knew that. But for some reason, I kept going back. I kept the bantering. And the giggling. And the unsettling long stares. There was something about the attention he was giving me that made me feel alive. Noticed.
In highschool, I was far from desirable to anyone. I was the girl who got signs taped to her back that read “Big girls need love too.”
Literally. In 2009 people were still tacking signs onto fat people. This in itself should prove the tragic nature of this story.
Nonetheless, I did have a serious boyfriend for the latter part of my four years there. He was older than be by quite a bit, but he was sweet to me, and he liked me. We never had sex, though. He promised me that was ok. That he understood my hesitation and that I wanted to wait. That was until he slept with another woman, broke up with me for suspecting he was cheating, and then their child was born about 8 months later.
So now, here, with the intertwined feet and the graze of his fingers on the base of my hips, I was ready. I was too sheets to the wind, all caught up in hormones, pent up sexual angst and a long-time need for affection and acceptance.
I let him. I let him peel off my clothes as he kissed me on the lips. I let him wrap his hands around my back as he pulled himself inside of me. I let him feel the satisfaction of me arching my back in pain, tears streaming down my face as he forced himself deeper and deeper.
I thought this was it. I legitimately thought that all sex was like this. Just an hour of squeezing my eyes shut and hoping that I don’t bleed all over the place. It was awful. Not a night to remember. No candles. No tenderness. No love.
It was never good after that, either. It always hurt. It was always for him. I never asked for it. I never initiated it. But I never stopped it, either.
In retrospect, I should have been stronger. More adamant. Stood up for myself.
But also in retrospect, he shouldn’t have been so goddam disrespectful.
There was a weekend I fell and hit my head on a counter at a party. I spent the night in the hospital with a concussion, and I couldn’t even crawl to classes on Monday. My head had a knot the size of a baseball, and if I even lifted it for too long I was sick.
He called me that day.
“Why don’t you let me come over?,” he said.
I smiled. This may be the first time he was actually going to take care of me.
He needed a ride, of course. So I muddled enough energy to get up and go get him.
When I showed up to his room, he pushed a laundry basket at me filled to the brim with clothes that reeked of old sex.
“These need to be washed,” he said.
As he made me carry the laundry to the car, I popped the trunk, sat it in, and unlocked the doors for him to hop in the passenger seat.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” he said. And then someone swooped by in a car and he hopped in and left me there.
With a concussion and his sheets that he probably had some other girl wrapped up in.
I let it carry on like that for awhile. He would call when he needed me. I was always around.
It was negative attention. But hey, it was attention. I needed that.
I needed him.
Here we were. Over a year later. No communication. He just fell off the face of the planet.
Who knows where he had been since he dropped out.
I was better for it, though. Because I was afraid I wouldn’t have quit him if he didn’t quit me first.
I felt good about myself- FINALLY. I was in a decent place mentally. I had gotten my swag up, and all that shit. I felt like a person. I felt useful.
He called me and he said, “why don’t you let me come over?”
Something about it made me say yes. I thought I would stand up to him. Let him beg for it and smirk as I threw him out the door.
Imagine my surprise when he showed up and asked to take a walk. So unlike him. I was caught off guard. I let go of my intentions, and agreed to the stroll.
It was late at night when we arrived at the park. It was warm with a slight breeze- just like him. He seemed so different.
We stared at the water awhile and he kissed me on my lips. He rested on hand gently on my neck and gently pulled my lip into his mouth.
As I was lost in his kiss, he pulled me off of the concrete table top where I has been sitting and flipped me around. It was much more hastey than the kiss, and my shorts were around my ankles before I knew it.
It was everything I remembered. It was painful- I cried. He didn’t pull back even through my wimpers.
I felt just like an object again.
As my cheek rubbed against the cold cement, I saw a sliver of light on my forearm sprawled over my head.
I turned my head back. He was texting. Or videoing. Or who knows what fucking else.
One hand on his phone. One gripping my hip.
I tried to stand up. I reached for my shorts.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said.
He took his hand from my hip and wrapped his fingers under the base of my throat and pulled my ear to his mouth.
“I was your first. And if I want, I’ll be your last. I can have you any time I want.”