CW: stuff I like.
Assembled from old LiveJournal posts and my memories of a few hours ago, which are not to be interpreted as exact dialogue given they likely mingled with my fantasies.
“The way you move your hips should be criminal.”
“The way You make me move them,” I say.
“Do I make you? Or have you maybe always been like this? Always been a little seductress, making men look at you, want you… always known exactly what you were doing, always lied about it—is that it? Do I make you, or are you a lying little tease?” I’m sure I must have answered, must have come up with some at least half acceptable thing to say, but I can only remember the terrible surety of knowing my shame had made Him need to fuck me again already, that instead of staying in this afterglow, I’ll be ending the evening sore.
My favorite weekends are when [the Catholic boy’s school] has their mixers. It’s the one time I truly feel like myself, and at the end of the night I can feel my heart and know I’m alive again and everything in me lights up. I always go on my own and can lose myself there, dancing, with lots of eyeliner and my black boots. I like to stay near the outside of the crowd so that the guys without girlfriends who are walking around looking for something to do see me. And they always see me. Someone did separate me from the first guy I made out with last night, which was awkward, but not the second. I know the second’s name, but only because I purposefully checked his nametag after I realized I didn’t know the first’s.
“What if I said I’d want to take you out sometime?” some guy said to me when I left.
I said, “I’d believe you.”
“Nobody else could Love you,” He says. “Not at this point. The things you’ve done, the things you like, the things I’ve made you like. You’ve come while I’ve pissed down your throat. I have videos of you begging to be fucked in the ass. Hell, you like being beaten—really beaten, punched and kicked until you cry. Maybe they did once, but at this point? You’re lucky I found you. And now, you’re stuck. You’re not strong. You’re not fast. You’re not smart. You can try to leave, but we both know I’d fucking destroy you. I’d drag you back.”
“Come back,” this one says over the phone as I turn on to the highway. I saw him script this to himself from his front porch, watching me after walking me to my car. “I know you think you’re happy with _____. I know I’ll probably never have the kind of job he does, or even something stable. But I could make you* truly *happy. We could have such a life together. v, I’ve been in love with you for five years. Ask my sister.” I don’t have to do that, because I already know. I knew when I went to see him that day, and I knew when I visited him in New York, and I knew five years ago, too. “That’s my fatal flaw: how much I hate loving you. That’s why I never act on it.”
No, I tell him, your fatal flaw is loving me. Hating it is merely a fact.
“Come back,” he says, “come back.”
He spits on his hand, gets ready to enter me again. “I’m sure you wish that was on you.” Maybe He saw me shudder when He did it, but He’d know anyway. I remember when I figured out He’d been training me to come when that happened. It’s too late, He told me then. It doesn’t matter if you know what I’m doing or not.
“Stay still,” He says. “Don’t even think about it. This is about me now; you don’t get to come again, except maybe at the end if you’re really fucking lucky. Every time you do, you move your filthy cunt, and I’m going to get off inside you now. So present yourself to your god. Put your ass up and stay. still. I don’t care about your disgusting little orgasms. This is all you have to offer me.”
This one calls me at two in the morning, flirting around the lines of drunkenness. “Aren’t you going to ask me to tell you why I called?” he says.
“No,” I say. “You’ll tell me if you want.”
“Well,” he says, “80% is that I just thought of how we used to be friends. Aren’t you going to ask me what the other 20% is?”
“No. You’ll tell me if you want.”
“I’m imagining you on your back on my granite counter,” he says, “like in that poem you wrote last September.” That poem wasn’t about you, I think but do not say. “I’d make you come so hard you could only think of me with any other man.” Sure, I think. They all say that. It’s so important to them, being the one I remember. “I’m imagining how high your back would arch when—are you going to tell me to stop?”
“No.” I lay on my floor and make the requisite moaning noises, half-listen… play Tetris. I don’t care about the words, and I’m not getting anything sexual out of this. What I get is confidence, and it comes from the sound of his need. He doesn’t text me the next day. Instead, he mails me a sweater.
“You don’t deserve to come. All you deserve—no, all you want is brokenness. You want to be treated like the little lying whore you are. After all the guys you left hanging, everyone you screwed over? You don’t deserve to feel anything good at all.” I can’t say for sure if what I’m feeling is “good”—this laser-focus sense of disintegrating at His touch, holding my breath like that will hold me together, desperate not to… lose? Disobey? Fail?—but I know that it is what I will save for whenever I’m next allowed to get myself off. I’m unsure in this moment if I’ve told Him that as of late, this is all I fantasize about: being told all the ways in which I’m a liar as I try not to give in. But it’s too late. It doesn’t matter if He knows what He’s doing or not.
“Let me tell you a story!” This one always uses too many exclamation points when he’s drunk. “I liked you! For so long! And figured you would never like me back! So I tried to find a reason not to like you but I couldn’t! So I invited you to my house and the whole goal was to find a reason not to like you! And you were still perfect!” When did I last speak to him? Two, three months ago? When did I go to his house? I saw so many men only once this year. “And you just left at the end! A truly good person would have just said they weren’t interested, but you played me from the beginning!” Oh, I remember now. We watched a Glee special on Valentine’s Day. I really thought he knew it was just as friends—except, of course, no, I didn’t. “So now I know you’re a liar! And I found a reason!”
“I hope that hurts”, He says—and it does hurt, that burning between my legs that happens when He fucks me multiple times in succession, or else without warning, or else stays only barely entering me so that the friction builds more and more as I’m reminded of my own weakness. “You deserve to hurt, the way you hurt so many boys–so many weak men–just for your own amusement. This is all you ever wanted done to you: you wanted them to teach you a lesson. You deserve this for the rest of your life, the kind of girl you were.” And it does hurt, that throbbing in my jaw that comes when I have to use all my focus to clench it shut, those exquisite, acerbic moments where what I would say back to anyone else is “fuck you.”
For five minutes that winter, we didn’t hate each other. And though I didn’t go with him to the Sweetheart Dance, he came over to my house after. I insisted I was too tired, and he told me he was already driving around my neighborhood. I was exhausted. I don’t remember much of what happened. But I do remember most that gorgeous face, that silent contorted moan or scream when I moved my hips over his and did not, no matter how he looked at me, kiss him.
I’m silent now. He hasn’t told me He doesn’t want to hear me, but I try my best not to breathe too loudly, just one small thing I can maybe control. If I open my mouth, I’m sure I’ll either come or cry. I want to look back at Him and see the way He is overcome at these moments, all venom and power, but that would cause the same problem. So I focus on keeping my ass up for Him—not moving even when He’s thrusting into me with all His strength, even when I feel so full of Him that if I don’t stop pushing back I’m sure my body will not bear it—until those final moments.
And then, I cannot hold it in anymore: I beg. Please, please, please.
“No, you goddamn little cocktease,” He says. “You may not.”