Wednesday, October 21, 2009

If you are related to me, please don't read this. K thanks.

I'm already in my sweats when he messages me. I decide to go against my better judgement and have him over. I put on my favorite shirt. Shoes with hollow heels. Long houndstooth jacket. Three Excedrin. I feel so chic as I walk up the stairs to his apartment.

It's freezing out. My hands are jammed in my pockets. He's wearing a t-shirt and long scarf, which coils up on my kitchen table. He points out an anarchist pin. I pour champagne in a tall glass and a measuring cup.

We talk about philosophy, and I am proud that I know something he doesn't.
I meann, if you read Schopenhauer, his influence on Wagner was profound. It changed the entire ending of Gotterdammerung. Instead of Siegfried going to Valhalla, the world is destroyed.
Yea, I'm not too familier with Schopenhauer.
'It would be best if we had never been born.' I pour us a beer.

He does a dance around the kitchen. I sit with Wotan in my lap. I'm not drunk. Half a bottle of champagne, a few beers.
Drink this one, it's my favorite. I know I'm just doing this because I want to have sex. It's working. He tells me how much he loves sex, the amount of toys he has, looking down my shirt the whole time.
How big are your breasts?
I smile and lean forward.

The next part of the night is purely speculation, as I've blacked out. We drink beers in the shower. Make our way to my room. My memory is spotty.

Why aren't we having sex now? It's not for lack of trying, on anyone's part. My body, imperfect but my own, usual and regular and known, is not responsive. Jesus.
He stops. You're dry.
I mean, I can't. I'm sorry.
I don't know what to say. This has never happened before. I try even harder, and only become self-conscious.

I use my vibrator. Nothing. He's holding me down, whispering in my ear, so low it's hardly a voice at all.
Are you going to come for me?
I'm trying. Nothing.
Do you have lube?
No. I bought lube once. Used it once, and then didn't have sex for months afterwards. Ended up giving it to Thomas.

We try everything. Nothing is happening. I am so embarassed. He jacks off in my bed and I feel like a failure. Somehow, through all of this, time progresses. It's morning. I'm still drunk. Assess the damages as we platonically shower. Two beer bottles, Coronas, as I shampoo his head. I avoided obvious bite marks, but my breasts weren't spared. And I'm bleeding, and am bleeding from both, and all day, my legs are shaking. It takes all of my focus to hold them together in class. And every time I pee I want to scream.

What was supposed to make me feel better has backfired. I already am constantly reminded that I am less experienced, more self-conscious. Who tells that to someone, especially a naked girl? Is it supposed to make me less so?

My professor asks me how I'm doing.
I am ok. I had a rough night. It's a boy issue.
Those are hard.
Agreed. Lips pressed together, legs shaking.
Well, it's not worth your time. You can just throw all of your energy into your work.
Ok. That sounds easy.

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