June
It's been a while, I guess. I try to immerse myself in the strong Sensor culture my friends inhabit, and I get too caught up thinking about it and forget to write things down. Forget that I need to.
I'm going to be a writer someday. It's the only thing I've ever always yearned to do, the only thing I've ever truly felt strongly about, as though it belonged to me. As though words were in some way entwined with my synapses. The written word is automatic. I never really noticed until now how everyday I breathe and exude and coexist with and think and hear words words words, how I've lived and exalted in the different lives of a hundred or more narratives. Unlike my art, my writing never ceases to hold meaning for me. I can look at a journal entry from 2009 and feel pride, instead of the vague nothingness I feel when looking at a drawing or painting I made from the same timeframe. It's odd, really.
My year-long art course ended a month ago, and with it any sense of structured socializing in my life. I had my 19th birthday in June. A group of my friends and I went out clubbing to celebrate, and ended up separated, two of us surrounded by a large group of mangy, horny, misogynistic guys, our friends nowhere to be seen. Never in my life have I been so glad to see the back of one guy. Never before had I danced until 6 in the morning, nor been so highly commended for my "dancing". It was a bizarre, hilarious and horrendous night. I got hit on by and danced with so many guys, I lost count. One particularly obnoxious piece of shit came up and grabbed me from behind, grasped me about the waist and lifted me off the ground. It hurt. His hands closing so suddenly around my flesh, his long, hairy arms hardening to muscle as I struggled to prise his fingers off me, that nauseating feeling of powerlessness, was one that made me cry later with the memory. I couldn't call out above the pulsing music, couldn't scream "Get off!" couldn't register what was happening until it was.
When later, sobbing I told my mother, she said that I "should have kneed him in the balls", and why didn't I? She didn't understand. That hurt, too. To have experienced something traumatic and attempt to seek comfort for that fact, only to be rebuked and blamed for it by one's own parent. I hate victim blaming. It makes attackers into faceless shadows of the night, bestial, inhuman, absolved of blame, and holds victims as responsible, "stupid", "asking for it". It makes me sick and I wish people would realize the sheer ignorance of what they're doing, before they blame a person for the senseless violence enacted on them by someone else.
Anyway, that was mine and my friend's joint birthday. Delightful.
Since then, sex has been encroaching on my life, leering at me from every corner. A guy I met and made out with at a houseparty back in early June wants to see me, but I've made excuses to avoid him. At the party he first came across as cold and aloof. I thought he was the opposite of interested in me when we were first introduced; he showed zero emotion or enthusiasm whatsoever. He was knocking back cheap whisky and sitting in a plastic garden chair when I actually spoke to him. We sat on an upturned trolley together at the back of the tiny, concrete garden, amidst the hubbub of music, conversation and light. "Come 'ere for a bit," were his gruff words, before he leaned in and kissed me. Whether it was rough or sensual, I can't remember, but we ended up heading off to a nearby park after he asked if I wanted to go "somewhere more private". I remember being offended, and telling him so, when he suggested we go in a bush.
"What do you take me for?" I asked him. So we lay on the patchy grass, before a stone wall. The weight of him on top of me was immense. He was a boxer. Big slopes of muscle for arms, an athletic physique, broad shoulders. Brown hair, freckles and blue eyes, he looked vaguely Irish. The most attractive thing about him had been his silence. All the other boys talked, laughed, made conversation, but he never said anything, just strode along with his quaint boxer's stride.
Lying on my back in the park in my dress, his hands all over me, I sighed and thought of the disconnect. I couldn't get anything sexual out of the situation, I rarely could. All these panting, horny boys with their wolfish smiles and roaming hands always so eager to touch touch touch, it was so foreign to me. I couldn't understand what they got so aroused about, and so quickly! It seemed ridiculous somehow, like some kind of twisted Chicken Little. Some guy convinced it's the fucking second coming all because they kissed a girl, it didn't make sense. I thought I might be gay. I thought he might pull my hair out, the way he kept pushing my head against the wall. I thought it was a shame, how no-one was ever really interested in talking, or listening. It was the only thing of another person's I ever seemed to get consistently turned on by- their ideas.
As he straddled me, fully clothed, I let out a whimper. "You're gonna think I'm a slut," I said with concern half feigned, half genuine. I wanted to hear a standard guy's opinion on what a "slut" generally "was", the way as a kid you want to know what happens in a horror movie, despite the fact you know it'll scare you half to death to see it.
"If you were a slut, you'd have had sex with me already!" He said, candidly as his limited range of emotion would allow. I listened and mentally filed his opinion, knowing that the margins of the word really extended much further than that.
This boy was a rough one. I felt the needle pricks of his teeth against my lips as he kissed me aggressively, rolled my eyes as his hands sought my breasts and squeezed.
"Here we go again," were my thoughts, as I remembered the countless others and their lurid wants. I wasn't scared of him, just mildly bemused. I'd always fancied the idea of meeting a gruff but kindhearted working lad, and having a tender, albeit traditional relationship with him. He'd be a six foot garage mechanic or scaffolder, with a strong build and big gentle hands. He'd go to absurd lengths just to see me, travelling miles on the train or getting up extra early to catch the bus, and when he eventually caught sight of me, he'd follow me down the street with a motley crew of friends in tow, dressed in denim dungarees and singing C'mon, Eileen, toolooray-ay...
Well, I fancied the "gruff but warm" part of it, anyway. This boy was sadly lacking in that department. He was like some kind of sex machine; rough, cold, not affectionate, not verbally affirming. When I watched Shame, Fassbender's protagonist reminded me eerily of him. All carnal impulse and no warmth. It was weird. I'd never encountered anything like it. He was at least considerate enough to ask if I was comfortable with him touching me, saying he wouldn't pressure me to do anything I didn't want to.
"I wouldn't be a dick who pressures people," he said. "We don't have to go all the way."
The night was silent, and heady coloured streetlights painted the park a deep orange. "But just let me touch you."
I let him, for the life experience, and back at the house we climbed on the roof and he lay on me again and kissed me and bit me, and squeezed my breast. I felt his hand slip between my legs, rest on my tights above my underpants for a moment, then begin to rub, quickly and clumsily, the area surrounding my vagina. Instead of feeling violated, I felt more like laughing in his face. His efforts to get me aroused were so misguided, it was comical. I put my hand on his and lifted it away. He wanted me to suck his fingers, so I did, thinking "This is hilarious, he's clearly mentally substituting it for his dick", so slipped a few of my fingers into his mouth, just to see his reaction. From what I observed, he found it a massive turn-on. I felt like an amused, curious kid playing with a doll, probing tentatively at the erection in his jeans as he fondled my breasts. As early morning pulled in and the gulls screamed overhead, his kisses grew slow and tender. He lifted my hand to his lips and softly kissed each knuckle. It was with this tenderness that he kissed me goodbye when we parted in the hall- the second time I've ever kissed anybody whilst sober. I was proud of myself for not getting emotionally attached in any way. I felt calm and empowered and just about indestructible.
Now he wants to see me, and I can't be bothered. He has all the marks of a Red Flag, and I know he only wants sex. I don't know how to break it to him that at this point, I don't want sex. Not with him, or anyone. I don't feel I'm ready. So what relationship could we possibly have, if our desires are completely mismatched? Unless he intends to pressurize/coerce/manipulate me into having sex with him, which is just not on. I won't have that. And the possibility is that if I meet him, that's exactly what he'll try to do- but in person, there wouldn't be anything I'd be able to do about it. I've had the experience of 140 plus pounds of man bearing down on top of me, and it is not one I would like to have repeated involuntarily. And that guy was at least sweet, seemed warm and affectionate, and stopped when I told him to.
I don't want a fuckbuddy just yet, I'm not ready. I want a soulmate.
I feel like my virginity isn't mine to lose, but patriarchy's to take.
I'm going to be a writer someday. It's the only thing I've ever always yearned to do, the only thing I've ever truly felt strongly about, as though it belonged to me. As though words were in some way entwined with my synapses. The written word is automatic. I never really noticed until now how everyday I breathe and exude and coexist with and think and hear words words words, how I've lived and exalted in the different lives of a hundred or more narratives. Unlike my art, my writing never ceases to hold meaning for me. I can look at a journal entry from 2009 and feel pride, instead of the vague nothingness I feel when looking at a drawing or painting I made from the same timeframe. It's odd, really.
My year-long art course ended a month ago, and with it any sense of structured socializing in my life. I had my 19th birthday in June. A group of my friends and I went out clubbing to celebrate, and ended up separated, two of us surrounded by a large group of mangy, horny, misogynistic guys, our friends nowhere to be seen. Never in my life have I been so glad to see the back of one guy. Never before had I danced until 6 in the morning, nor been so highly commended for my "dancing". It was a bizarre, hilarious and horrendous night. I got hit on by and danced with so many guys, I lost count. One particularly obnoxious piece of shit came up and grabbed me from behind, grasped me about the waist and lifted me off the ground. It hurt. His hands closing so suddenly around my flesh, his long, hairy arms hardening to muscle as I struggled to prise his fingers off me, that nauseating feeling of powerlessness, was one that made me cry later with the memory. I couldn't call out above the pulsing music, couldn't scream "Get off!" couldn't register what was happening until it was.
When later, sobbing I told my mother, she said that I "should have kneed him in the balls", and why didn't I? She didn't understand. That hurt, too. To have experienced something traumatic and attempt to seek comfort for that fact, only to be rebuked and blamed for it by one's own parent. I hate victim blaming. It makes attackers into faceless shadows of the night, bestial, inhuman, absolved of blame, and holds victims as responsible, "stupid", "asking for it". It makes me sick and I wish people would realize the sheer ignorance of what they're doing, before they blame a person for the senseless violence enacted on them by someone else.
Anyway, that was mine and my friend's joint birthday. Delightful.
Since then, sex has been encroaching on my life, leering at me from every corner. A guy I met and made out with at a houseparty back in early June wants to see me, but I've made excuses to avoid him. At the party he first came across as cold and aloof. I thought he was the opposite of interested in me when we were first introduced; he showed zero emotion or enthusiasm whatsoever. He was knocking back cheap whisky and sitting in a plastic garden chair when I actually spoke to him. We sat on an upturned trolley together at the back of the tiny, concrete garden, amidst the hubbub of music, conversation and light. "Come 'ere for a bit," were his gruff words, before he leaned in and kissed me. Whether it was rough or sensual, I can't remember, but we ended up heading off to a nearby park after he asked if I wanted to go "somewhere more private". I remember being offended, and telling him so, when he suggested we go in a bush.
"What do you take me for?" I asked him. So we lay on the patchy grass, before a stone wall. The weight of him on top of me was immense. He was a boxer. Big slopes of muscle for arms, an athletic physique, broad shoulders. Brown hair, freckles and blue eyes, he looked vaguely Irish. The most attractive thing about him had been his silence. All the other boys talked, laughed, made conversation, but he never said anything, just strode along with his quaint boxer's stride.
Lying on my back in the park in my dress, his hands all over me, I sighed and thought of the disconnect. I couldn't get anything sexual out of the situation, I rarely could. All these panting, horny boys with their wolfish smiles and roaming hands always so eager to touch touch touch, it was so foreign to me. I couldn't understand what they got so aroused about, and so quickly! It seemed ridiculous somehow, like some kind of twisted Chicken Little. Some guy convinced it's the fucking second coming all because they kissed a girl, it didn't make sense. I thought I might be gay. I thought he might pull my hair out, the way he kept pushing my head against the wall. I thought it was a shame, how no-one was ever really interested in talking, or listening. It was the only thing of another person's I ever seemed to get consistently turned on by- their ideas.
As he straddled me, fully clothed, I let out a whimper. "You're gonna think I'm a slut," I said with concern half feigned, half genuine. I wanted to hear a standard guy's opinion on what a "slut" generally "was", the way as a kid you want to know what happens in a horror movie, despite the fact you know it'll scare you half to death to see it.
"If you were a slut, you'd have had sex with me already!" He said, candidly as his limited range of emotion would allow. I listened and mentally filed his opinion, knowing that the margins of the word really extended much further than that.
This boy was a rough one. I felt the needle pricks of his teeth against my lips as he kissed me aggressively, rolled my eyes as his hands sought my breasts and squeezed.
"Here we go again," were my thoughts, as I remembered the countless others and their lurid wants. I wasn't scared of him, just mildly bemused. I'd always fancied the idea of meeting a gruff but kindhearted working lad, and having a tender, albeit traditional relationship with him. He'd be a six foot garage mechanic or scaffolder, with a strong build and big gentle hands. He'd go to absurd lengths just to see me, travelling miles on the train or getting up extra early to catch the bus, and when he eventually caught sight of me, he'd follow me down the street with a motley crew of friends in tow, dressed in denim dungarees and singing C'mon, Eileen, toolooray-ay...
Well, I fancied the "gruff but warm" part of it, anyway. This boy was sadly lacking in that department. He was like some kind of sex machine; rough, cold, not affectionate, not verbally affirming. When I watched Shame, Fassbender's protagonist reminded me eerily of him. All carnal impulse and no warmth. It was weird. I'd never encountered anything like it. He was at least considerate enough to ask if I was comfortable with him touching me, saying he wouldn't pressure me to do anything I didn't want to.
"I wouldn't be a dick who pressures people," he said. "We don't have to go all the way."
The night was silent, and heady coloured streetlights painted the park a deep orange. "But just let me touch you."
I let him, for the life experience, and back at the house we climbed on the roof and he lay on me again and kissed me and bit me, and squeezed my breast. I felt his hand slip between my legs, rest on my tights above my underpants for a moment, then begin to rub, quickly and clumsily, the area surrounding my vagina. Instead of feeling violated, I felt more like laughing in his face. His efforts to get me aroused were so misguided, it was comical. I put my hand on his and lifted it away. He wanted me to suck his fingers, so I did, thinking "This is hilarious, he's clearly mentally substituting it for his dick", so slipped a few of my fingers into his mouth, just to see his reaction. From what I observed, he found it a massive turn-on. I felt like an amused, curious kid playing with a doll, probing tentatively at the erection in his jeans as he fondled my breasts. As early morning pulled in and the gulls screamed overhead, his kisses grew slow and tender. He lifted my hand to his lips and softly kissed each knuckle. It was with this tenderness that he kissed me goodbye when we parted in the hall- the second time I've ever kissed anybody whilst sober. I was proud of myself for not getting emotionally attached in any way. I felt calm and empowered and just about indestructible.
Now he wants to see me, and I can't be bothered. He has all the marks of a Red Flag, and I know he only wants sex. I don't know how to break it to him that at this point, I don't want sex. Not with him, or anyone. I don't feel I'm ready. So what relationship could we possibly have, if our desires are completely mismatched? Unless he intends to pressurize/coerce/manipulate me into having sex with him, which is just not on. I won't have that. And the possibility is that if I meet him, that's exactly what he'll try to do- but in person, there wouldn't be anything I'd be able to do about it. I've had the experience of 140 plus pounds of man bearing down on top of me, and it is not one I would like to have repeated involuntarily. And that guy was at least sweet, seemed warm and affectionate, and stopped when I told him to.
I don't want a fuckbuddy just yet, I'm not ready. I want a soulmate.
I feel like my virginity isn't mine to lose, but patriarchy's to take.