Please Teach Me Gently How to Breath
You just screamed.
One hand is still pressed to your chest with enough pressure to keep you laying down, placed right at the base of your neck. Close enough to make the threat of strangulation seem real and imminent. The other hand is wrenching off your favorite purple boyshort panties with “Princess” spelled out in rhinestones.
Surely, you think, this friend of a friend must just be confused so you try again.
“No! Stop!” You use words now instead of just desperate keening noises. “It hurts,” you say, referring to the way his fingers had begun tearing into you. You’re a virgin - you always expected it to hurt during your first sexual encounter, but you also always expected to be a willing participant. One last demand, your throat clogging with fear. “It hurts! STOP!”
His fingers still. Your breathing resumes.
“I can make it feel good,” he says with a self-satisfied grin. He squats down, using one hand to balance on the ground as he buries his unfamiliar face between your legs as they dangle. His tongue causes vomit to race up your throat, but you quickly swallow it back down because your survival instincts notice an opportunity. His other hand has slid down to your stomach and somehow you know this is your best tactical moment to make a move.
You slam your thighs against his head, and while he is still in shock you shove him to the ground. As you leap off the table and race to the door, pride courses through your veins. You feel tough, strong, clever, in complete control of your life.
But your party shoes and the raspberry Smirnoff he gave you make your race more of teetering jog and you will not feel tough, strong, clever or in complete control of your life again for several slow-moving and painful years.
One hand grabs your shoulder, the other your hair and yanks. You’re spun around and he shoves you back and down. Your party shoes slip off as you plummet and your head slams against the doorknob. As you feel the blood already begin pooling into a bruise, you almost want to laugh at how symbolic the injury will be to how close you were to escape. But the mere thought of laughing dissolves as you accept that now both your intentions are clear.
You wanted to leave. He didn’t let you. Another laugh bubbles up in you though this one seems more like a sob. Well, you think, at least we got that all cleared up.
One hand clenches tight around your throat while the other angles your hips and legs upwards. When he enters, it’s a searing pain that blows flames throughout your veins but you quickly go numb. You are barely aware of anything except your still fighting limbs. You think you might have drawn blood when you slapped him the third time.
And then it’s over.
He stands up. You slump down.
“That was good,” he mutters as he zips his pants, readjusts his belt.
It is then you have the first of a reoccurring fantasy. Of you, standing above him. Of him, kneeling before you. A nine millimeter in your hand. And after you pull the trigger and his brain splatters the wall behind him, you rub your chin like an arrogant action hero and deliver your witty one-liner. “That was good,” you smirk over his corpse.
But right now, you are that slumped corpse and he quickly pushes you to the side to open the door. And walks out - right back into the party.
For a moment, you stay there, your mind moving in slow motion as it tries to figure out the first step to take after such an event. And as though you always knew the answer, it suddenly snaps to the fore of your thoughts in a voice that sounds like a million nonchalant women.
“Oh, we always stand up.”
And so you do.
You find your shoes and slip them on. You rest one hand on the doorway as you survey the room for the last time. You take your first step into your new life.
The party is still going on, the bass that smothered your screams is still shaking the walls. None of the people dancing under the flashing lights notice you as you jet towards the coat pile and begin the desperate search for your puffy black coat. To them, you are nothing but a dry heaving Technicolor whirl and you wonder how many will comment on how it was such an awesome party.
Coat found, you zip it and step outside into the frigid downtown air. You rifle through your contacts - searching not only for someone with a car but someone who will know how to handle you. A narrow list but you dial his name.
“Hello!” He sounds jubilant, a little tipsy. Perhaps expecting one of your infamous, humorous and good-natured drunk dials.
“Can you come pick me up? I think.” You pause, because the next words are powerful. “I’ve just been raped.”
He sobers up, demands your location and quickly hangs up to race to his car. You stand on the abandoned street corner. And wait. Part of you jokes that maybe you’ll be mugged to add to the travesty of the night - why not get all the great experiences out of the way? Part of you thinks the joke is in poor taste and keeps trying to work up a healthy sob session.
But you were always bad at crying, far more prone to temper tantrums when younger. Even at your Nana’s funeral, you just kept gulping down air and staring at a flower bouquet while the rest of the cousins huddled together and wept. So you just stand silently on the street corner, the only part of you moving is your eyes as they sweep around the block, looking for your would-be mugger.
A car flies around the corner and jerks to a stop, one wheel on the curb. He jumps out. He’s drunk and you don’t even want to imagine how fast he drove to get to you in such short time.
“Oh, god,” he gasps, kneeling down in front of you.
Good, you think, because you are much better at reassuring than being reassured. You kneel down, grab his face, and make him meet your eyes.
“I’m fine.” You pause. “I’ll be fine.”
He nods, hugs you so tight it hurts and drives you to his house. He offers you silence, which is what you were hoping for. The sounds filling the drunk drive are yours. It is less crying and more a mixture of hiccuping and going through the motions of vomiting over and over again with no success. Your chest and throat burn, it is an inability to speak.
At the house, he leads you to his comfy bed as you continue gulping and tucks you in.
“You’ll be fine,” he mirrors your words. You nod and then close your eyes.
When you wake up, your first thoughts are that it was a dream. But that wouldn’t explain your current location and besides, you rarely allow yourself such fanciful hopes. The next thought is that he didn’t succeed, he was too small, you were too fierce a fighter. This one might have some basis in reality and you want to believe it. So you creep down the stairs, tiptoe past your driver sleeping on the couch and into the bathroom. You brush toilet paper against yourself and examine it with a sigh. Blood is smeared against the paper and your hope is dashed. Watching it swirl and flush down the toilet, you wonder just how long this is going to take to get over then go out to wake up the boy on the couch.
He stares at you. “I’m going home,” you say.
He nods. He’s known you long enough to know that you can’t stand appearing vulnerable and allows you to escape the awkwardness with only a few more brief statements. “You’ll be fine. You’re stronger than this.” You know.
You nod and slip out the door, heading towards the bus stop.
What a sight you must be as you step on the bus. A girl in a short purple dress, matted hair, smeared black eyeliner. It’s safe to assume that many of the smirks are from people mentally thinking “walk of shame.” You want to sneer at them all, shout “Actually, I was raped last night by a man I trusted. How does that make you feel?” But you just flash your bus pass, take a seat, meet no one’s self-righteous eyes.
You enter your apartment silently and go to your room. Immediately music is turned on and you flop onto your elevated bed. Pop punk bands from high school play for hours - taking you back to when your biggest heartbreak was breaking up with your mohawked boyfriend. You lay there, unaware of time passing.
Not sleeping, but not thinking.
After what might be several hours, you roll off the bed and change into your favorite pajamas - plaid, baggy pants and an XXL shirt you’ve had since third grade. Shapeless.
You roll your favorite dress and bra into a tight ball. The panties were left at the scene of the crime. You trudge to the kitchen and shove the clothing into the trashcan. Being the president of a feminist organization doesn’t stop you from making this move out of shock.
And that’s what starts the tears - the idea that you just failed yourself by being afraid. Without thinking, you enter the bedroom of your studious roommate and best friend. She looks up from her homework with a smile that wavers once she notices your reddening eyes.
“I was raped last night,” you blurt out.
The smile flees and her arms open. You leap inside the hug and finally - for the first time in memory - you sob openly in front of another person. Your mouth drops and loud shrieks spew out. Snot gushes out of your nose. She pets your hair, grabs your hand and gently massages the palm and every digit.
Throughout your violent shaking, she keeps her forehead firmly pressed to yours.
“This doesn’t change you, the inner core of you,” she says. The words don’t sink into your psyche just yet, but her deep calm voice blankets you. “You’re still one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. You’re still strong. You’re still going to change the world, reach your goals. You’re still going to fall in love.”
She is saying the words you know but forgot how to form at the moment. Though your vision is overwhelmed by tears, a tentative smile darts across your lips.
And in one year and twenty-seven days, you will be flopped on a living room couch with a tipsy high school friend. Earlier in the night, he complimented your crooked teeth and when the snores of the friend sleeping across the room finally begin, he leans down and whispers, “Do you want to make out?”
You look at the earnest glow in his eyes. You can still remember what he wrote in your eighth grade yearbook. And if you start screaming, crying, punching him, you know he’ll draw back and several of your friends are littering the rooms all within hearing distance. And if it goes well, he will be back in D.C. after winter break and you can continue your personal healing without developing a savior, unrequited love complex.
He only wants one night and that’s all you need.
“Sure,” you say with your lopsided grin. You reach up, cupping his cheek with your little hand and stretching your fingers out to brush some of the brown hair falling into his face. You lean towards him and press your trembling lips to his.
Minutes later, you’re spread across the floor and you’re delighted by the pressure of his weight. The way warm flesh feels pressed against warm flesh. The give and take, the equality of it all. You let your tongue take a furtive lick of his shoulder, savoring the salt of his sweat with a muffled giggle.
And as you trail your fingers down his spine, he nips at your neck, his fingers slithering up your sensitive stomach, you arch your back and let out your first gasp.
One hand is still pressed to your chest with enough pressure to keep you laying down, placed right at the base of your neck. Close enough to make the threat of strangulation seem real and imminent. The other hand is wrenching off your favorite purple boyshort panties with “Princess” spelled out in rhinestones.
Surely, you think, this friend of a friend must just be confused so you try again.
“No! Stop!” You use words now instead of just desperate keening noises. “It hurts,” you say, referring to the way his fingers had begun tearing into you. You’re a virgin - you always expected it to hurt during your first sexual encounter, but you also always expected to be a willing participant. One last demand, your throat clogging with fear. “It hurts! STOP!”
His fingers still. Your breathing resumes.
“I can make it feel good,” he says with a self-satisfied grin. He squats down, using one hand to balance on the ground as he buries his unfamiliar face between your legs as they dangle. His tongue causes vomit to race up your throat, but you quickly swallow it back down because your survival instincts notice an opportunity. His other hand has slid down to your stomach and somehow you know this is your best tactical moment to make a move.
You slam your thighs against his head, and while he is still in shock you shove him to the ground. As you leap off the table and race to the door, pride courses through your veins. You feel tough, strong, clever, in complete control of your life.
But your party shoes and the raspberry Smirnoff he gave you make your race more of teetering jog and you will not feel tough, strong, clever or in complete control of your life again for several slow-moving and painful years.
One hand grabs your shoulder, the other your hair and yanks. You’re spun around and he shoves you back and down. Your party shoes slip off as you plummet and your head slams against the doorknob. As you feel the blood already begin pooling into a bruise, you almost want to laugh at how symbolic the injury will be to how close you were to escape. But the mere thought of laughing dissolves as you accept that now both your intentions are clear.
You wanted to leave. He didn’t let you. Another laugh bubbles up in you though this one seems more like a sob. Well, you think, at least we got that all cleared up.
One hand clenches tight around your throat while the other angles your hips and legs upwards. When he enters, it’s a searing pain that blows flames throughout your veins but you quickly go numb. You are barely aware of anything except your still fighting limbs. You think you might have drawn blood when you slapped him the third time.
And then it’s over.
He stands up. You slump down.
“That was good,” he mutters as he zips his pants, readjusts his belt.
It is then you have the first of a reoccurring fantasy. Of you, standing above him. Of him, kneeling before you. A nine millimeter in your hand. And after you pull the trigger and his brain splatters the wall behind him, you rub your chin like an arrogant action hero and deliver your witty one-liner. “That was good,” you smirk over his corpse.
But right now, you are that slumped corpse and he quickly pushes you to the side to open the door. And walks out - right back into the party.
For a moment, you stay there, your mind moving in slow motion as it tries to figure out the first step to take after such an event. And as though you always knew the answer, it suddenly snaps to the fore of your thoughts in a voice that sounds like a million nonchalant women.
“Oh, we always stand up.”
And so you do.
You find your shoes and slip them on. You rest one hand on the doorway as you survey the room for the last time. You take your first step into your new life.
The party is still going on, the bass that smothered your screams is still shaking the walls. None of the people dancing under the flashing lights notice you as you jet towards the coat pile and begin the desperate search for your puffy black coat. To them, you are nothing but a dry heaving Technicolor whirl and you wonder how many will comment on how it was such an awesome party.
Coat found, you zip it and step outside into the frigid downtown air. You rifle through your contacts - searching not only for someone with a car but someone who will know how to handle you. A narrow list but you dial his name.
“Hello!” He sounds jubilant, a little tipsy. Perhaps expecting one of your infamous, humorous and good-natured drunk dials.
“Can you come pick me up? I think.” You pause, because the next words are powerful. “I’ve just been raped.”
He sobers up, demands your location and quickly hangs up to race to his car. You stand on the abandoned street corner. And wait. Part of you jokes that maybe you’ll be mugged to add to the travesty of the night - why not get all the great experiences out of the way? Part of you thinks the joke is in poor taste and keeps trying to work up a healthy sob session.
But you were always bad at crying, far more prone to temper tantrums when younger. Even at your Nana’s funeral, you just kept gulping down air and staring at a flower bouquet while the rest of the cousins huddled together and wept. So you just stand silently on the street corner, the only part of you moving is your eyes as they sweep around the block, looking for your would-be mugger.
A car flies around the corner and jerks to a stop, one wheel on the curb. He jumps out. He’s drunk and you don’t even want to imagine how fast he drove to get to you in such short time.
“Oh, god,” he gasps, kneeling down in front of you.
Good, you think, because you are much better at reassuring than being reassured. You kneel down, grab his face, and make him meet your eyes.
“I’m fine.” You pause. “I’ll be fine.”
He nods, hugs you so tight it hurts and drives you to his house. He offers you silence, which is what you were hoping for. The sounds filling the drunk drive are yours. It is less crying and more a mixture of hiccuping and going through the motions of vomiting over and over again with no success. Your chest and throat burn, it is an inability to speak.
At the house, he leads you to his comfy bed as you continue gulping and tucks you in.
“You’ll be fine,” he mirrors your words. You nod and then close your eyes.
When you wake up, your first thoughts are that it was a dream. But that wouldn’t explain your current location and besides, you rarely allow yourself such fanciful hopes. The next thought is that he didn’t succeed, he was too small, you were too fierce a fighter. This one might have some basis in reality and you want to believe it. So you creep down the stairs, tiptoe past your driver sleeping on the couch and into the bathroom. You brush toilet paper against yourself and examine it with a sigh. Blood is smeared against the paper and your hope is dashed. Watching it swirl and flush down the toilet, you wonder just how long this is going to take to get over then go out to wake up the boy on the couch.
He stares at you. “I’m going home,” you say.
He nods. He’s known you long enough to know that you can’t stand appearing vulnerable and allows you to escape the awkwardness with only a few more brief statements. “You’ll be fine. You’re stronger than this.” You know.
You nod and slip out the door, heading towards the bus stop.
What a sight you must be as you step on the bus. A girl in a short purple dress, matted hair, smeared black eyeliner. It’s safe to assume that many of the smirks are from people mentally thinking “walk of shame.” You want to sneer at them all, shout “Actually, I was raped last night by a man I trusted. How does that make you feel?” But you just flash your bus pass, take a seat, meet no one’s self-righteous eyes.
You enter your apartment silently and go to your room. Immediately music is turned on and you flop onto your elevated bed. Pop punk bands from high school play for hours - taking you back to when your biggest heartbreak was breaking up with your mohawked boyfriend. You lay there, unaware of time passing.
Not sleeping, but not thinking.
After what might be several hours, you roll off the bed and change into your favorite pajamas - plaid, baggy pants and an XXL shirt you’ve had since third grade. Shapeless.
You roll your favorite dress and bra into a tight ball. The panties were left at the scene of the crime. You trudge to the kitchen and shove the clothing into the trashcan. Being the president of a feminist organization doesn’t stop you from making this move out of shock.
And that’s what starts the tears - the idea that you just failed yourself by being afraid. Without thinking, you enter the bedroom of your studious roommate and best friend. She looks up from her homework with a smile that wavers once she notices your reddening eyes.
“I was raped last night,” you blurt out.
The smile flees and her arms open. You leap inside the hug and finally - for the first time in memory - you sob openly in front of another person. Your mouth drops and loud shrieks spew out. Snot gushes out of your nose. She pets your hair, grabs your hand and gently massages the palm and every digit.
Throughout your violent shaking, she keeps her forehead firmly pressed to yours.
“This doesn’t change you, the inner core of you,” she says. The words don’t sink into your psyche just yet, but her deep calm voice blankets you. “You’re still one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. You’re still strong. You’re still going to change the world, reach your goals. You’re still going to fall in love.”
She is saying the words you know but forgot how to form at the moment. Though your vision is overwhelmed by tears, a tentative smile darts across your lips.
And in one year and twenty-seven days, you will be flopped on a living room couch with a tipsy high school friend. Earlier in the night, he complimented your crooked teeth and when the snores of the friend sleeping across the room finally begin, he leans down and whispers, “Do you want to make out?”
You look at the earnest glow in his eyes. You can still remember what he wrote in your eighth grade yearbook. And if you start screaming, crying, punching him, you know he’ll draw back and several of your friends are littering the rooms all within hearing distance. And if it goes well, he will be back in D.C. after winter break and you can continue your personal healing without developing a savior, unrequited love complex.
He only wants one night and that’s all you need.
“Sure,” you say with your lopsided grin. You reach up, cupping his cheek with your little hand and stretching your fingers out to brush some of the brown hair falling into his face. You lean towards him and press your trembling lips to his.
Minutes later, you’re spread across the floor and you’re delighted by the pressure of his weight. The way warm flesh feels pressed against warm flesh. The give and take, the equality of it all. You let your tongue take a furtive lick of his shoulder, savoring the salt of his sweat with a muffled giggle.
And as you trail your fingers down his spine, he nips at your neck, his fingers slithering up your sensitive stomach, you arch your back and let out your first gasp.