On Looking in the Mirror

Love, listen 
You gotta own up to this shit too 

Because no, it’s not your fault that he’s a lying asshole 
But it’s on you that you said

“I’ll be patient.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
“I promise it’s okay.”

When it fucking wasn’t okay. 

Because you are the one that prides themselves on being chill. 
On never being called crazy, or at least, not to your face. 

Because you have seen women, so many women, who let their emotions ride them and force men into that passenger seat. Who can’t let little things go. 

But those little things add up. Those little things mean something. And chill does not mean that you don’t have emotions. That you feel nothing. 

And because you’ve not been monogamous, you haven’t had a real, concrete relationship, you haven’t learned how to speak for yourself. To say, this isn’t right.
This isn’t how I should be treated. 
You’re not my boyfriend, but you fucked up. 

Instead you say 
You’re not my boyfriend, so I have no right to be mad. 
Even though you are.

And that’s on you. 

For setting the standard so damn low and being annoyed when even that isn’t met. 

Because my darling you deserve the moon 
The stars 
Flowers and hugs and kisses on the cheek. 
You deserve to have your hand held 
To be introduced as, ‘You know, that girl I was telling you about?’ 

Just because you aren’t monogamous doesn’t mean you are undeserving of respect 

Maybe if you didn’t act like you knew you weren’t, and didn’t deserve to be, his number one
He wouldn’t make you his number two

You’ve spent so much time bottling it inside, swallowing your emotions down, allowing tension to creep through your shoulders and to turn your muscles to cement to contain the feelings threatening to drown you. 
And when asked a question, instead of the answer you want to give, your flood may leak over, you may speak in nonsensical ways because you are not just batting with what you should say – you are battling with yourself if you should say anything at all. 

And through the mess you see what you fear the most. 
That look of 
‘You’re crazy.’ 

But now you’re sitting here wondering why he’s not texting you when you gave him carte blanche 
To treat you however he choose 
While you say 
‘It’s fine, I’m here for you.’ 
While you’re dying on the inside 
Wondering what you’ve done to deserve this 

And you did not ask for this level of jackassery 
You did not ask to be treated like shit 
But you did not demand better 
Because you felt you couldn’t 

That, my love, is what’s crazy 
You know you deserve more 

That someone fucking up your night and saying ‘I’ll make it up to you…Netflix and chill?’ Is not enough 

That someone saying ‘It’s just so confusing right now, I know she wants monogamy but…you’re just so cool.’  And then taking her on dates but ignoring you for days on end, is not okay. 

That someone saying ‘I promise, she means nothing,’ taking you home with them, then announcing on Facebook she’s their girlfriend is some cheap shit.

You are allowed to be upset. You are allowed to feel. And calling out this bullshit should not be your responsibility – but it is.

Because you have to be your own cheerleader 
Your own advocate 
Your own coach and overprotective best friend 

Because if you don’t set that standard so high that it provides you shade is this sweltering sunshine

Why on earth would he?

On Older and Wiser

cathy2

(Warning: The post is going to tread the waters of irritated, swim into the rivers of snarly, and dive momentarily into the depths of anger.)

There was a night, a couple months back, that deserves some dissecting.

Dissecting on why I stayed versus left. Dissecting on why this happened or that happened or just how far up the asshole scale this guy gets to be placed.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I haven’t said much about myself, in the sense of, what do I do for my job, or what did I study in school, or where do I live now, etc. etc. I haven’t planned to go too in depth in these things, for the sake of anonymity. (I am paranoid as fuck.)
But I think it’s safe(ish) to say I’m pursuing a career in the arts. I have a mentor, for lack of a better word, who keeps trying to remind me that he has gone through this path, that he has seen x and y mistakes, that I need to do a and b to take care of myself, and that I need to be patient as FUCK because this is a process and a journey.

He can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is older and wiser than me, and that the knowledge he has because of this will help me, and I can choose to ignore it, but it would be a dumb ass decision. He has not used the phrase ‘older and wiser,’ but, it has been implied.

What does that have to do with the asshole to outdo all assholes?

The guy messaged me online. He didn’t light my fire, but seemed decent enough. Worth a shot, anyways. He called me. I had some concerns, he assuaged them. We decided to meet for drinks.

I usually have rules for these nights. We meet for drinks, that’s it. No sex, not on a first meeting. We meet on neutral territory. We go, we sit, we talk. We get to know each other. Is there chemistry? Is there a spark? Is it worth pursuing further, taking to a place behind closed doors?
I’ve broken this rule twice now.

One guy was worth it. One was not.

In general, I go between studios and home and that’s about it. I know some bars, not a lot. I told him to pick a bar near his work, because I didn’t know the area. He gave me the address.

The address was his apartment building.

I was pissed, and left. He explained he wanted to find a central point to meet, (which couldn’t have been a bar, why?) and I said I was trying to find one. We wandered, missing each other, finally found each other. I was freezing and annoyed. He found a place for me to sit down and eat, get a cocktail, warm up. We started chatting. Again, he was nice enough. The conversation flowed easily enough. I’d had better first encounters, but I’d certainly had worse.

I may go into more detail on this next bit in another post, because it deals with other shit that went on that night. Suffice to say, I decided to go back to his. We went to a liquour store and picked up wine, and he got me a whiskey he thought I’d like. We went back to his, and he poured an entire glass full of whisky. Enough that if I’d drank it all, I would have probably vomited all over his floor.

We talked for a little while, but then we were alone and he was on me, pawing at me like a horny teenager. He said something about liking my reactions. I said I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have sex that night. He continued to kiss me, trying to touch me, trying to turn me on. He wasn’t entirely bad at the foreplay, but I also was very aware it was my body chemically reacting, versus me enjoying myself because it was him. He let me go for a little while, then came up behind me and pulled down my pants when I was refilling my glass with water.
“I hope you made up your mind, because I sure did.”

I don’t know if anyone else has experienced this sensation, to know that the actions happening to you could be coming from basically anyone and your body would react the same way. To feel the synapses in your brain, the chemicals releasing, and know, yeah, this could be okay, but, this is just a body opposite me, not really a person. It sounds terrible, and dissociative, but, it’s there.
(I also understand that if I hadn’t been in such a state of apathy about it, that his actions could be considered assault. I want to clarify I did consent.)

I didn’t want to take off all my clothes, and he was in too much of a hurry to really care. So we fucked with me still wearing my zip up hoodie and knee socks. It looked like an 80s workout video gone wrong. He couldn’t really get it going, he wanted to flip me over so I had to look at him. Then, he whispered in my ear;
“I want my cum leaking out of you as you’re working,” (He was more specific, you get the idea.)

I couldn’t actually respond to that. I shook my head frantically.
“Not right now,” He said, in one of the most condescending voices I have ever head, “But someday. It’d be so hot.”

I was so dumbstruck. I’d just met this guy. I felt so little towards this guy and he was talking about a future in which we’d be having sex without condoms, where we’d be in a situation where that could even be considered a remote possibility.

He finally rolled off me, and tried to take off my sweater. I told him I was cold.
“Still? After that?” He looked both unconvinced and confused. It was true, I was cold – amazingly the ten minutes of whatever that was had not heated my bones – but I was still not okay with being naked around this guy. I know it’s silly, but somehow being naked meant being vulnerable, and what we’d done didn’t (or at least, not to the same degree) in my brain.

He said something about me freaking out about his comment.
“Well, more than just diseases,” I said, “I’m fucking terrified of getting pregnant.”
“Oh, you’re not on the pill then?”
“No, I have an implant.”
I had to then explain what my specific implant was and what the percentage of failure was, to which he said,
“Oh, so it’s not an issue then.”
“No, it is. It’s a very big issue to me. I do not want kids. It will forever be condoms and my implant until I am old enough for a more permanent solution.”
“That’s a bit extreme.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Well, can I just say, as someone older and wiser than you, you’ll probably change your mind.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m just saying, I’ve known women who’ve had a similar mindset and they’ve all changed their minds, it’s just something they do.”

Because I seem to be doing a lot of clarifying today, I am not passing judgement on other women who have kids, change their mind about having kids, or on women who want to have kids. I am passing judgement on those who tell me they know more about my own mind than I do.

So, I stood up from the bed.
“Are you mad?”
“I need to go to the bathroom. And yes.”
I came back out a couple minutes later and he was standing up, waiting for me.
“Don’t be mad.” I didn’t look at him. “Look, I’m just saying that as someone older and wiser than you I know people who have changed their mind and you’ll probably change your mind. You might not. But, just don’t be mad.”

And then he tried to give me a hug and kiss the top of my head.

Ladies, Gentlemen, Non identifying, Goldfish, and Bird People,
Let me say it louder for the people in the back.

DO NOT TELL ME MY OPINIONS ON MY UTERUS.

Do not tell me what they will be, should be, or are.

Do not tell me I will change my mind one day, that I am young, that I won’t have a full life without a screaming infant in my arms.

I am glad my parents wanted kids, obviously. I am happy for all those who want to bring life into this world.

I do not. Therefore, I will not. It is unfair to ask those who do not want to, to do so.

No matter how old or wise you think are, you can keep that opinion to yourself.

Because those that are actually old and wise will never have to say so.

On A Child’s Thought

"I want to be an astronaut, president of the United States and ruler of the universe! Chica power!"

I had to visit relatives this weekend. Like many, my family can only be described as “colorful.”

For a very long time, I was the baby of the family. I was delegated to the kid’s table. Even after starting graduate school, it was still the kid’s table. It was an odd contrast, because from the time I was a teenager, I was always asked about boyfriends, what my dating prospects were like, etc etc. So I was being treated like a child while being expected to live up to certain adult expectations.

I thought they’d finally given up, until my cousin asked me a question last night.

Now this cousin, I understand, has not had the best socialization. At family gatherings, there is minimal interactions between mother and daughter. It became very apparent upon entrance that the mother expected my sister and I to essentially babysit her daughter while she got some adult time. My sister and I were having very little of this.

My cousin, at one point, asked my sister and I if we had boyfriends/husbands. My sister said no. The cousin, who is 9, patted us each on the head and said, “That’s okay. You’ll find someone someday.”

Oh, hell no.

What has this girl been learning.

What has this girl been told about us.

What has this girl been told about single women.

What has this girl been told about her goals for her life.

What has this girl been told that she thinks it is okay for her to pat 20-somethings on the head and say, oh, that’s okay sweetie, you’re still of breeding and marriageable age? You could still find somebody…

Fuck.
That.
Shit.

I like men. Obviously. This blog is proof. Dicks can be really good. Can be terrible, but can be really good.

But I have never *needed* to date. Wanting and needing are fundamentally different things.
I will never need a man.  

And isn’t about fucking time we taught our daughters that? That they can stand up on their own two feet and be their own person without someone else by their side hogging their spotlight?

I want to hope that my cousin will figure this out herself, and I want to hope that she will learn it’s not okay to pat single women on the head like a lost puppy. It’s not a lot of hope, but it’s there.


Regardless, I’m currently sitting in the airport, by myself, eating a meringue, enjoying the last rays of sunlight. And I will sleep in my own bed and and enjoy all the space and the blankets myself, because I can and will.  

On Neon Lights

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He’s running late.

I’m sitting in a freezing hotel lobby with a dying computer trying to relax, trying to watch a movie, when I’m nervous and cold and aching all over.

He didn’t tell me he wouldn’t get off work until hours after my flight got in.
He didn’t tell the hotel that I was authorized to check in. So instead, I’m sitting here, beside a fake Holiday Inn fireplace, hoping my laptop battery holds out, trying to keep myself calm.

In truth, I’m not so angry as I am nervous. I haven’t seen him in almost five years. Our history has been…bumpy? We’ll go with bumpy. And we’ve talked about this, built this up. But, it was all fantasy – timing and distance getting in the way of fantasy becoming reality.
So when I said I could potentially have time/money to come up for a weekend, I didn’t know what to expect. He enthusiastically agreed, and I suppose I thought he’d put a semblance of effort in.
I certainly expected him to try to get to where we were staying at around the same time as me, or let me know if advance if there would be a problem, let me know when to try to arrive, but…

He finally comes through the door, and I shove the computer away. He hugs me, and he’s bouncing up and down. A barely closed bottle of happy energy.

I thought we’d talk for a bit. I’d have time to decompress, to relax.
I thought I’d have time to get my hands back to a normal temperature, anyways.
He’s on me, kissing me, holding me, and it’s almost like I remember but at the same time entirely different. I remind myself I wanted this. I remind myself I came here. Of course this would happen immediately.

And he’s tearing off my shirt and my pants and I’m so, so nervous.
It’d been a while since I’d had sex. Too long. But my previous experiences with it had been a combination of both wonderful and exceedingly painful. This was height of ‘the time of vag hell.’ I had halfheartedly tried dating, but this wasn’t exactly a time in my life when I would call myself “happy,” I was struggling in my city, between moves again, and finding someone to just relax with, while it would’ve been nice, was just another stress I didn’t need.

So while his foreplay might’ve worked for some, for me, no, it was not enough.

It was pain. Tense, terrifying, horrible pain.

We try a different way, and it helps. And he manages to make me orgasm, for the first and only time that weekend, but far from a release it feels like agony. Like tearing something from me that didn’t want to give.

He stands up, still that happy energetic ball, and leaves me to pull myself together. I’m a mess of emotions, with a steel mask in place.

Will it be like that for the rest of the weekend?
Well, he hadn’t seen you, he was probably excited, maybe he’ll take more time, you’ll be ready next time?
Oh God, what if he does take longer next time?
Maybe booze will help? Can you find a bar near here?
Maybe you won’t have to again tonight?

He’d mentioned going to a concert, when we were sort of planning this weekend, saying things we might want to do.
He’s pulling out some sort of drug, he calls it a supplement, but it a drug, just the kind a test won’t care about, and I say fine, but I’m driving back.

It’s not until I’m in the passenger seat of the pickup truck that he says it’s a three hour drive. Because why wouldn’t it be?

 

We grab dinner before the show, and talk about old friends, old memories. I say how much I want to travel, don’t want to settle in one place. He’s saying he wants to come with, if I need a travel ‘companion’, he’s there, and I don’t know how to respond.

 

The concert, as it turns out, doesn’t start until 1AM. It’s not really a concert, though, it’s part rave, part club night, and this would be fine, but I’m so tired already, and looking forward to a three hour ride back in a truck I’m not sure how to drive with a guy taking uppers and drinking. If we could just get a cab and go home, I wouldn’t care.
And then I go to the bathroom and see blood.
Because he’d torn me.
I come back, and he’s whispering in my ear that he wants to fuck me again when we get back.
I don’t know how to deal with this; deal with him. I don’t know how to yell at him and tell him he’s acting like an asshole when he’s been in my physical presence for less than eight hours, and I don’t have a flight away for two more days. I don’t know how to deal with a body that at that point, I had no other explanation for than sheer hatred of dicks.

 

So I took a deep breath, and said, no, I’ll be too tired. I got his ass in the car, got my ass in the car, made him stay awake long enough to help me figure out the controls, and got us back.

 

And I’m exhausted, and he’s rolling over to me, and trying to touch me, and it burns. I tell him the Reader’s Digest version of the truth. That he tore me, I need the night to recover, he can fuck me in the morning. He groans, and falls asleep.

It’s not so bad, in the morning. There’s no foreplay, at all, but I’m so tired my body gives up resistance, and I convince him he doesn’t need to try for anything but his own pleasure because I’m still sore.
We have a nice day, go explore his city. I take him to a very nice dinner for his birthday. We don’t run out of things to talk about, and it’s nice, and easy. He makes me smile.

I’m relaxed again.

 

We go to the hotel and watch TV, and eventually, he kisses me. 2 seconds of foreplay and he’s in me and I want to scream. I’m trying to adjust, to take him, not even to enjoy it, just to make it through. I want it to be okay more than anything. But he pulls away, and there’s blood on the sheets.

And he doesn’t get it. I’m upset, and I call down to the desk to get fresh ones. He says it’s just my period.
No, it’s not. It was too rough and you tore me. He gives me a raised eyebrow.
I understand that wasn’t rough for you, but that was for me. Why am I justifying myself? I’m the one in pain. I’m the one bleeding. I’m the one trying to deal with this.

We don’t mention it again that night. In the morning, he has to give the car he was borrowing back, and get a different one. He gives me a kiss, and I pack my stuff. I debate. Do I want to try again? Do I want to leave it like that?

He calls me. To get me to the airport, he was borrowing another car. This car has a girl attached.
Okay. Whatever.
But, girl attached is girl attached.

 

I think it’s been established by now that I really could give a rat’s ass about commitment. But, there’s a difference between ‘we’re not committed’ and ‘here’s the other girl I’m fucking let me dangle her in front of your face as you’re on your way out the door.’

So he comes in to get me, and we kiss goodbye then, because it’s an unspoken fact that from that moment, I am the ‘friend,’ and not the fuckbuddy. That’s her role now.

We spend a lunch with them on one side of the table sharing their own inside jokes and old memories and secret glances. I smile and laugh when appropriate, and let them get on with it, not showing how upset I am.

 

They drive me to the airport and he gives me a hug.

My flight won’t leave for seven hours.

He said he’d check in on me later, we’d talk once my flight got in, but we haven’t spoken since. I’m okay with this. I haven’t felt the urge to reach out, to like any pictures, to say hello, to know even cursory details of what’s happening in this guy’s life.

I understand that from his perspective, this story will look different. That he may have expected something much more enjoyable. That he may have wanted some crazy off the walls fuck machine and a destroyed hotel room. And that’s fine. At that point in my life, I never advertised that. He knew full well the extent of my experience. From my perspective, it was a fucked up weekend where my emotions and physical limits were pushed far beyond what I ever would have hoped, and I was left alone in the airport terminal feeling sore with a queasy stomach half full of thai vegetables.

We can’t know how these things will play out before hand. No one knows the future. And sometimes it takes stupidly shitty couple of days to figure out whether or not your gut instincts on a person/situation were right all along.

On Birth Control

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Some of these stories will take place during what I like to call “the time of vag hell fire.”

This is, quite literally, the time when sex felt like terrible, horrible pain, because of the medication I was on at the time.

See, when I first heard about male birth control, and the fact that trials would stop due to side effects, I was a little ticked off.


Scratch that, I was pissed as hell.

 

For seven years, I was passed from birth control pill to birth control pill, and spent five years on a pill with dangerously high estrogen levels that put me at higher risk of a stroke, (even more dangerous because of my family medical history) put me at a higher risk of infection, and caused severe damage to the nerve endings in my vagina.

Also, because I kept trying to have sex while I was in pain, my body tried to defend itself against said painful sex, and started causing muscular contractions that still existed up until this year.

There’s actually physical therapy for people who need to work their way through stuff like this.

Essentially, because of ineffective doctors, lack of information, and myths perpetuated about how sex is supposed to be for those who possess a vagina, I suffered for years when I didn’t have to.

I don’t know how to describe it except for the feeling of ‘out, out, I want this out right the fuck now.’

And that’s not how it should feel.

Even if you’re doing it wrong.

 

Which brings us back to this idea of male birth control.

My first reaction was that of, “So they can’t handle a few mood swings? Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

 

I then recognized my pettiness, and felt guilty. I wasn’t angry at the guys in the trial, I was angry at an industry that for decades has refused to recognize the very real complaints of people suffering from depression, from nausea, from weight gain and loss, from very serious side effects, and has done nothing to improve their products.

But, just because we have suffered doesn’t mean others should as well.

 

I am lucky. It took multiple doctors appointments to sort it out, but eventually I moved to a different city, saw a different doctor, and received competent treatment. They recognized what the meds were doing to me, prescribed medication to help heal the damage done to my nerves, and got me on Mirena – the plastic version of the IUD that I will advocate until my dying days.

 

I say this not only to bring attention to it, but because this era of ‘the time of vag hell fire’ played a role in stories I will tell. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but knew that something wasn’t right, and when it was fixed, that played its role as well.

 

For so many reasons, this should no longer be an issue.

  1. We should not be demonizing feminine sexuality – turning feminine virginity into something that can be ‘taken away.’ If we could begin to dispel this myth on hymens and sex ‘supposed’ to be painful the first time, maybe it wouldn’t have taken me such a long time to sort it out. (see above video)
  2. I feel this goes into the stigma attached not only to the health care of women and transwomen, but also to mental health care and sexuality in general. When you’re taking a hormonal contraceptive, you’re taking just that – hormones. You are altering your body chemistry. If we, as a society, were more open to talking about mental health and cis and trans women sexual health, maybe we could get better at sorting out which medication was right for us.

 

The pill and other hormonal contraceptives can be so helpful, but that doesn’t mean they cannot also cause harm.

We have to be better at recognizing this is real, and acknowledging that cis & trans women who are saying something is wrong are probably more aware of their bodies than men are.

 

With that being said, stay tuned for some more stories about terrible sex.

On “Babe” and “Baby”

It’s in his first messages.
“Babe, you coming?”
“Babe, you on your way?”
“Baby, can you send me a picture?”

Egh.

I’ve told him what I want. He’s told me what he wants. They don’t really align, but it’ll work for tonight. He’s cute, or at least, his pictures are. He has a graduate degree. He has his own store, a little facial hair, and strong arms.
He wants me to meet him near his. For a myriad of reasons, my place is off limits.
He meets me in his car, and God, it’s a gorgeous car.

He takes me for a ride, and I see him smoking, I think it’s vape, but he is not happy when I mention it.
“Oh, you saw that?”
Uh, yes mate, I saw you smoking the thing right in front of me? I do not have vape-specific-blindness.
It is then over the course of this car ride I discover that
1. He has no college/uni degrees of any kind – which is fine, but, why lie about it?
2. I would have more mental stimulation talking to a stuffed animal.
When we pull up to the house, he tells me I need to be quiet, and leads me to the tiny room with the tiny single bed. Because.
3. He lives with his parents.
I get the millenial life. I do. But he was on the closer side of 30 and taking girls to a single bed. At this point, I also had no fucking way to get home, because we were near no transport links, & Gett had been ignoring my requests for a cab. So.
“What do you like?” He whispers in my ear.
Would it all be worth it if the guy could give me a fabulous orgasm? No, but it’d help. It’d help take the terrifying car ride where I had been positive he would crash it at least twice out of my head. It would take the situation out of my head.

There are five seconds most every guy has – five seconds where they find a magic spot, where fingers work wonders, and there’s so much potential…before they turn into hell’s jackhammer because MYDICKISWORKINGDIDNTYOUKNOW.

He doesn’t even bother taking my shirt off before he’s ripping the condom open. He’s got my legs around his waist, and his back is slick with sweat, and he keeps trying to kiss me full on, opened mouth, getting drool all over my mouth, and I’m twisting my face into his arm so he doesn’t see the look on my face.
“Yeah, baby, just like that.”
“Yeah, baby, bite me, just there.”
“Come on, baby, kiss me.”

When these nights of terrible happen, a switch flips to what I call ‘sex worker Emma,’ that just gives up entirely on gaining any semblance of pleasure out of the situation, and focuses entirely on making the guy come as quickly as possible so that I can get the fuck outta dodge.
Yes, this does include faking orgasms. Sorry not sorry guys, most of us do it.
“Come for me baby,”
He’s groaning and sighing, and I’m scratching my nails down his back, biting into his shoulder, squeezing around him.

And he’s finally done. He smiles down at me like he’s just conquered a fearsome beast. I immediately get up and grab my skirt. He grabs a baby wipe and starts to wipe off his dick.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“What?” He looks confused.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, just gotta make sure the coast is clear.”
Oh sure. Because the parents can’t know you brought back a wanton lady in the middle of the night for this bed rocking lovemaking. My mistake.
He’s still methodically cleaning his dick.
“Mate, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Why?”
Is that seriously a question? Because, besides, you know, bodily functions,
“Prevents UTIs. Gotta go right after sex.”
“Oh, like, clean it all up? I didn’t know that,”
I glance once to the baby wipe surrounding his flaccid penis.
“Yeah. It’s a treasure trove of bacteria.”
“Huh,” He genuinely looks like this is new information, like I’ve just explained something interesting and he’s discovered something new, as he throws the baby wipe away.

He finally shows me where it is, and I’m grateful that my makeup is still intact, and with a quick finger fix my hair is back to normal. I show absolutely no signs of the 10 minute disaster than just occurred.

He’s back in the kitchen, and offers me a drink. I fill up my water bottle, he grabs a beer. And proceeds to drink it as he drives me back.

“Tell me something fascinating,” He demands.
“What do you define as fascinating?”
“I don’t know, you’re smarter than the girls around here, they didn’t go to uni, they only cared about sex, tell me something I don’t know,” He flashes a smile at me.

Gag me. Besides insulting girls you have probably had sex with, you didn’t go to uni either, so cut that shit out.
I talk to him about something political, and he tosses the bottle out the window.
“Hope that didn’t bother you,” He says, half apologetic.
It did. I say nothing.

He gets lost half a mile from my place, and I get out of the car.

When I get home, I scrub myself raw, trying to get all traces of him away from me.

In the morning, he texts me again.

“Did you like my dick inside you baby?”

Baby
Baby
Babe
Baby.

I’m not your fucking baby.