The pollution prevented the starlight from reaching us, but the mountains still loomed above us, proud and strong, their stances reminding me of grayed veterans with old eyes. It was spring, but I had still brought a sweatshirt with me. The weather was often unpredictable.
He unbuckled his seat belt, leaning across the barrier between us to plant his lips on mine. His hands were unsure on my body, like I was a map he couldn't navigate. I responded by allowing my fingers to wander under his shirt, over his warm, smooth skin. I dug my nails into his back and he started to breathe heavily. I enjoyed the amount of control I had over the situation. I did x which resulted in y. A led to b. B evolved into c. At seventeen, I thought I knew how the world worked.
................................................................
Looking back, he had been very polite all night. He had offered me his sweatshirt. He had held open every door. He had laughed when Nicki was on the radio, and I knew every word to "Anaconda." There were the occasional comments about how he didn't believe victims of sexual assault, but I hadn't keyed in to the significance of what he had stated. It wasn't looking like I was going to sleep with him. He had talked about supporting Donald Trump, albeit jokingly, and I had replied, "Well I am never going to fuck you. I don't fuck Republicans." My friend Danielle had laughingly said, "I don't think that was even on the table."
Spending time with him at the frat party had been a matter of convenience. 1) It didn't require me to put myself further outside my comfort zone and try to converse with others, and 2) I didn't have to say much to keep the conversation alive.
.......................................
Although he and I had different ideas of what would unfold, we both wanted to make the other happy. I had asked him to play rough with me, and he stepped up to the plate. Although he was initially hesitant, I guided him along with validation and instruction. His breathing became less shaky and his hands more steady. My eyes fluttered and I shivered as he stroked my inner thigh. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and he brushed his hair away from his face offhandedly. I requested that he lightly hit my breasts and my face. He mauled my breasts and slapped them. I felt more and more sexually uninhibited.
The windows of his truck had become opaque and we had migrated from the front seat to the back, losing layers of clothing in the process. His lips were pressed against my ear, and I was caught off-guard at his question, "Can I tie you up?" Although I nearly hit my head against the door in surprise, I was known as being adventurous and I felt a certain pressure to live up to my reputation. The concept that I would not have any control was also very exciting. He explained that the idea was premeditated, and he pulled out a thin rope that was used for towing purposes. The headlights of the cars became very distracting to me, and I could not shake the fear that I would be tied to the truck's interior if someone decided to join us in the parking lot.
...............................................
He asked me if I wanted to go to bed with him, and I nodded. He took my hand and led me into his room. There was a king bed that occupied the majority of the space, hats hung stylistically on the left wall, a private bathroom off to the right. A large pile of laundry sat in the corner opposite a large piece of equipment, shrouded in shadow.
He lifted me on top of him. We started kissing immediately, clumsy, wet tongues crawling over each other, lips, teeth. He stopped, started fiddling with the lighting via remote control, explaining how he had programmed different settings for mood purposes. He kept talking, beneath me, fumbling with a remote control. God, what a nerd. I just wanted to get it over with. We started peeling off shirts and pants, and soon enough, he had his erect penis pressed against my stomach. He tried to spread my legs and force his cock inside. I stopped. "Do you have condoms?" He either was disinterested in my question or decided to ignore me. "Do you have condoms? Do you have condoms?" I repeated and repeated until he became convinced my question wasn't going away.
Disappointed, he mumbled they were in the bedside table. I wiggled under him, awkwardly reaching for the nightstand, pulling open the drawer of his Ikea bedside table. I tore open the wrapper with my teeth, ripping it open like a blister, and threw the condom on the bed. He whispered angrily to himself. He could never cum with a fucking rubber. I was silent. He pulled me on top of him, and he slid into me. I was dry as sandpaper, and he rubbed me raw. He fucked me for a few minutes, pulling me in various positions, trying me out as he would a sex slave before buying her.
Eventually, he paused, took his dick out. He walked over to the bathroom. Turned on the light. Asked if I wanted lube. "Yeah." Yelled over, asked if I was on my period. "I shouldn't be." Ashamed, ashamed. Me, ashamed because of the blood that comes with fucking a dry cunt without a care in the world. Me, ashamed, while he was fucking me crudely, waiting for the opening of the chafed skin, and expecting me to like it. I curled into the fetal position, and wouldn't look at his face. I wanted it to be over. I wasn't in the mood anymore.
"What? Don't tell me you're done." And so, nerves and blood and eyes and legs saying no, counting on the pain to punish me, I massaged lube all over the head of his shaft. He again pulled my body onto him, telling me how tight I felt, like I should be proud.
He lifted me on top of him. We started kissing immediately, clumsy, wet tongues crawling over each other, lips, teeth. He stopped, started fiddling with the lighting via remote control, explaining how he had programmed different settings for mood purposes. He kept talking, beneath me, fumbling with a remote control. God, what a nerd. I just wanted to get it over with. We started peeling off shirts and pants, and soon enough, he had his erect penis pressed against my stomach. He tried to spread my legs and force his cock inside. I stopped. "Do you have condoms?" He either was disinterested in my question or decided to ignore me. "Do you have condoms? Do you have condoms?" I repeated and repeated until he became convinced my question wasn't going away.
Disappointed, he mumbled they were in the bedside table. I wiggled under him, awkwardly reaching for the nightstand, pulling open the drawer of his Ikea bedside table. I tore open the wrapper with my teeth, ripping it open like a blister, and threw the condom on the bed. He whispered angrily to himself. He could never cum with a fucking rubber. I was silent. He pulled me on top of him, and he slid into me. I was dry as sandpaper, and he rubbed me raw. He fucked me for a few minutes, pulling me in various positions, trying me out as he would a sex slave before buying her.
Eventually, he paused, took his dick out. He walked over to the bathroom. Turned on the light. Asked if I wanted lube. "Yeah." Yelled over, asked if I was on my period. "I shouldn't be." Ashamed, ashamed. Me, ashamed because of the blood that comes with fucking a dry cunt without a care in the world. Me, ashamed, while he was fucking me crudely, waiting for the opening of the chafed skin, and expecting me to like it. I curled into the fetal position, and wouldn't look at his face. I wanted it to be over. I wasn't in the mood anymore.
"What? Don't tell me you're done." And so, nerves and blood and eyes and legs saying no, counting on the pain to punish me, I massaged lube all over the head of his shaft. He again pulled my body onto him, telling me how tight I felt, like I should be proud.
............................................
Eventually, he untied me as I was unable to contain my anxiety. My core shook and my fists clenched. Disengaging my muscles was not seen as an option. I was hyper-aware of my nakedness and vulnerability, goosebumps raised on my legs and arms due to the chill. I appreciated that he did not want to push me past my comfort zone once he picked up on my body language. However, I kept apologizing because I thought that I had deeply disappointed him. At the time, I had little self esteem. I wanted to have a purpose, even if it was only making people forget for a little while. He kissed me gently on the forehead, wrapped his arms around me, and kept assuring me that it was okay.
Another question. "Have you ever role-played a rape fantasy?" I assured him I hadn't, but I had always been fascinated by porn with similar themes. I asked if we could try it.
.................................................
After it was over, he started talking again. He always needed to be talking. He continued telling me his tragic life story. His family had old money. He had become a drug addict and an alcoholic, one of the many treatment centers in the state of honey had called him home.
He believed in writing letters, talked about it like it was a lost art, like he was older than his years and his baby fat. He liked to write while he was in the bath, smoking Cuban cigars, writing on thick, rich paper, sealing the envelopes with wax.
He had taken a class in high school, which led him to fill a pocketbook full of quotes. He failed the assignment. Only wanted to fill up space with grandiose words, words that swam with hope, words with tongues, words with skin. I never had the heart to tell him words only matter when people read them.
He prided himself on "being weird." Earlier in the evening, we had needed to make an emergency run to Smith's for bread. He had an olive oil collection which needed empty stomachs and hands and appreciation.
He liked S&M. This girl from home was flying next week to see him. She liked him, but they had an arrangement. She would do his laundry, and he would tie her up and fuck her. She even brought her own toys. What a girl. They had made a sex tape over the summer. And he was furious because she had ruined the film. She couldn't handle the pain of him whipping her. She couldn't just smile and wave for the camera. Had ruined it.
His best friend from elementary school had molested his cousin. They had lived together at one point, and he wrote him regularly. He treated him like he was his brother. You can't turn away family. The alleged molestation had mangled his friend's relationship with his extended family. No shit, I thought to myself. He had been falsely accused. It was either his side or her side, a he said she said fabrication. The girl was too young to know what she was talking about.
We should be fuck buddies. We shook on it. Because I didn't know what else to say.
He read me Rumi. It was to be kept between us because his frat brothers would tease him. I read him one of my poems. I can't remember why. I read him another. He said I wrote about bruises a lot, and he wanted to know what it meant, but I couldn't answer the question myself.
There was his grandparents' love because he was the last red head. He was the youngest of his brothers. He was going to be a doctor. He grew up in West Virginia. The south calls to you. The south will always be home.
Again, S&M. I gave him a list of hard limits. He told me most of the girls he had been with had been raped, too. I told him I hadn't been raped. Twisting my hands behind my back reminded me of my old man.
He asked me if I had ever done anal. If I was interested in anal. Nah. I would only try small steps toward it if I had been with someone a number of times.
I had already had to stop him once. While he was fucking me doggy-style, he had tried to shove himself into my ass nonchalantly. I had sat up, then my hands had tried to direct him back to my bleeding cunt, silent as death.
And then he turned himself on, talking about he liked to call girls degrading names. It got tiring telling a girl how tight she was. He grabbed my tits, mauling them in his hands like putty. I moaned. But the encouragement was all he needed. He dug his hands into me like he was used to fucking dead girls. I cried out, telling him that it was too hard. That he needed to be more gentle, that I was already sore. His ears stopped working. He started rubbing between my legs, as if he had one setting. Cold, crude, as gently as a lion breaks the neck of a zebra. I shoved his hand away. He asked if he could? No. No, I had it wrong. He wanted to fuck me again. I didn't answer.
I motioned for him to lie on his back. My hands on his balls, my mouth on his dick. And this is what he interpreted as foreplay, and I interpreted as "he needs to cum, so he won't try to stick himself into me anymore." I wanted to draw him away from his thoughts of forcing himself into my cunt. I overestimated my ability at giving head. And then I didn't recognize him anymore.
He gripped my hair with both hands. I was afraid he was going to pull all of my hair out, he was pulling so hard. I thought he was going to make me bald. Dragged my head up and down his shaft. He held me down so long, without air. I threw up on him. I licked it off of his balls, off of the base of his cock. I don't even think he noticed. His eyes were hard, cold, decided, like the rest of his body. Then he ripped me off of him. I was mortified. He lifted me up on top of him with two handfuls of hair. He tried to push me on top of his dick.
"At least put on a condom at least put on a condom at least put on a condom at least put on a condom." I couldn't say no anymore. I could only beg for different accommodations. He stopped.
"I've told you my life story, and you don't trust me when I tell you that I don't have STD's?"
"Well, I've only met you today. Please just wait until we have sex a few more times."
"I guess that's true. Well, one day I'm going to fuck you without a condom. If you ever want to see my sex tape, I'm fucking you without a condom."
He pushed my head down, and I knew better than to hesitate. I licked up and down his cock. I sucked the head. I took him as deep as I could. He smacked my head to the side and slipped on the latex.
I asked for lube.
"Nah, I'm out. You're wetter this time anyways."
Then he decided to be gracious. He pushed my head onto his dick again. Ah, lube, in the form of my drool. How hospitable.
Then he got hold of my hair as hard as he had before, twisting his hands, stars in my eyes. He dragged me up and onto his cock. He looked at the pain in my face. He saw the pain, the fear, the absence of arousal, and it made him more aggressive. It turned that bastard on, seeing my eyes water and my forehead a labyrinth of creases. I was never good enough at riding his dick. He kept pulling my hair whatever way he wanted me to move, like I was a goddamn pony and my hair was the reins.
I tried to follow, tried to do whatever the hell he wanted. When I got the hang of it, he let go of my pounding head. He let me try on my own. I didn't want his hands on my hair again. But I always failed him within a few minutes, so his hands were back, jerking me up and down how he liked.
He started calling me names, and I think that he was under the impression that he was making me wet. He had given me an idea. If I was going to make him cum fast and stop hurting me, I could try talking dirty to him. "Your dick feels so good inside of me, Daddy. Do you like seeing your little girl riding your big dick?" I thought it was working, but then he had some sick idea. He tried fitting as many fingers inside my cunt as he could, even while I was riding him. He grew tired of that game. He wanted to fuck me doggy-style.
He dug a few fingers into my ass, moving horizontally and vertically, stretching me wider and wider. Then he fucked my cunt, never forgetting his attention to my ass. I could not think straight. I bled out of both holes.
Next, he wanted me to stand beside the bottom corner of his bed. He spread my legs wide, then pushed me over so I lay face down, ass up. He bent me over and plowed into me.
All at once, he stood. With a bored drawl, he apologized that it was shorter than the last time. He didn't think he was going to cum. I said, "No, no. It may have been shorter, but it was better than the first time."
My neck black and blue. And the lie cradled in my lips, "better than the first time."
.................................................
After it was over, he started talking again. He always needed to be talking. He continued telling me his tragic life story. His family had old money. He had become a drug addict and an alcoholic, one of the many treatment centers in the state of honey had called him home.
He believed in writing letters, talked about it like it was a lost art, like he was older than his years and his baby fat. He liked to write while he was in the bath, smoking Cuban cigars, writing on thick, rich paper, sealing the envelopes with wax.
He had taken a class in high school, which led him to fill a pocketbook full of quotes. He failed the assignment. Only wanted to fill up space with grandiose words, words that swam with hope, words with tongues, words with skin. I never had the heart to tell him words only matter when people read them.
He prided himself on "being weird." Earlier in the evening, we had needed to make an emergency run to Smith's for bread. He had an olive oil collection which needed empty stomachs and hands and appreciation.
He liked S&M. This girl from home was flying next week to see him. She liked him, but they had an arrangement. She would do his laundry, and he would tie her up and fuck her. She even brought her own toys. What a girl. They had made a sex tape over the summer. And he was furious because she had ruined the film. She couldn't handle the pain of him whipping her. She couldn't just smile and wave for the camera. Had ruined it.
His best friend from elementary school had molested his cousin. They had lived together at one point, and he wrote him regularly. He treated him like he was his brother. You can't turn away family. The alleged molestation had mangled his friend's relationship with his extended family. No shit, I thought to myself. He had been falsely accused. It was either his side or her side, a he said she said fabrication. The girl was too young to know what she was talking about.
We should be fuck buddies. We shook on it. Because I didn't know what else to say.
He read me Rumi. It was to be kept between us because his frat brothers would tease him. I read him one of my poems. I can't remember why. I read him another. He said I wrote about bruises a lot, and he wanted to know what it meant, but I couldn't answer the question myself.
There was his grandparents' love because he was the last red head. He was the youngest of his brothers. He was going to be a doctor. He grew up in West Virginia. The south calls to you. The south will always be home.
Again, S&M. I gave him a list of hard limits. He told me most of the girls he had been with had been raped, too. I told him I hadn't been raped. Twisting my hands behind my back reminded me of my old man.
He asked me if I had ever done anal. If I was interested in anal. Nah. I would only try small steps toward it if I had been with someone a number of times.
I had already had to stop him once. While he was fucking me doggy-style, he had tried to shove himself into my ass nonchalantly. I had sat up, then my hands had tried to direct him back to my bleeding cunt, silent as death.
And then he turned himself on, talking about he liked to call girls degrading names. It got tiring telling a girl how tight she was. He grabbed my tits, mauling them in his hands like putty. I moaned. But the encouragement was all he needed. He dug his hands into me like he was used to fucking dead girls. I cried out, telling him that it was too hard. That he needed to be more gentle, that I was already sore. His ears stopped working. He started rubbing between my legs, as if he had one setting. Cold, crude, as gently as a lion breaks the neck of a zebra. I shoved his hand away. He asked if he could? No. No, I had it wrong. He wanted to fuck me again. I didn't answer.
I motioned for him to lie on his back. My hands on his balls, my mouth on his dick. And this is what he interpreted as foreplay, and I interpreted as "he needs to cum, so he won't try to stick himself into me anymore." I wanted to draw him away from his thoughts of forcing himself into my cunt. I overestimated my ability at giving head. And then I didn't recognize him anymore.
He gripped my hair with both hands. I was afraid he was going to pull all of my hair out, he was pulling so hard. I thought he was going to make me bald. Dragged my head up and down his shaft. He held me down so long, without air. I threw up on him. I licked it off of his balls, off of the base of his cock. I don't even think he noticed. His eyes were hard, cold, decided, like the rest of his body. Then he ripped me off of him. I was mortified. He lifted me up on top of him with two handfuls of hair. He tried to push me on top of his dick.
"At least put on a condom at least put on a condom at least put on a condom at least put on a condom." I couldn't say no anymore. I could only beg for different accommodations. He stopped.
"I've told you my life story, and you don't trust me when I tell you that I don't have STD's?"
"Well, I've only met you today. Please just wait until we have sex a few more times."
"I guess that's true. Well, one day I'm going to fuck you without a condom. If you ever want to see my sex tape, I'm fucking you without a condom."
He pushed my head down, and I knew better than to hesitate. I licked up and down his cock. I sucked the head. I took him as deep as I could. He smacked my head to the side and slipped on the latex.
I asked for lube.
"Nah, I'm out. You're wetter this time anyways."
Then he decided to be gracious. He pushed my head onto his dick again. Ah, lube, in the form of my drool. How hospitable.
Then he got hold of my hair as hard as he had before, twisting his hands, stars in my eyes. He dragged me up and onto his cock. He looked at the pain in my face. He saw the pain, the fear, the absence of arousal, and it made him more aggressive. It turned that bastard on, seeing my eyes water and my forehead a labyrinth of creases. I was never good enough at riding his dick. He kept pulling my hair whatever way he wanted me to move, like I was a goddamn pony and my hair was the reins.
I tried to follow, tried to do whatever the hell he wanted. When I got the hang of it, he let go of my pounding head. He let me try on my own. I didn't want his hands on my hair again. But I always failed him within a few minutes, so his hands were back, jerking me up and down how he liked.
He started calling me names, and I think that he was under the impression that he was making me wet. He had given me an idea. If I was going to make him cum fast and stop hurting me, I could try talking dirty to him. "Your dick feels so good inside of me, Daddy. Do you like seeing your little girl riding your big dick?" I thought it was working, but then he had some sick idea. He tried fitting as many fingers inside my cunt as he could, even while I was riding him. He grew tired of that game. He wanted to fuck me doggy-style.
He dug a few fingers into my ass, moving horizontally and vertically, stretching me wider and wider. Then he fucked my cunt, never forgetting his attention to my ass. I could not think straight. I bled out of both holes.
Next, he wanted me to stand beside the bottom corner of his bed. He spread my legs wide, then pushed me over so I lay face down, ass up. He bent me over and plowed into me.
All at once, he stood. With a bored drawl, he apologized that it was shorter than the last time. He didn't think he was going to cum. I said, "No, no. It may have been shorter, but it was better than the first time."
My neck black and blue. And the lie cradled in my lips, "better than the first time."
