You get to pretend like maybe this isn’t a big deal. When you go to open up a new word document, and possibly your cat is running around on your finger tips, and you’re second-guessing your vision, you get to second-guess if these are stories that you really want to tell. But the world has come so far – wait, no, scratch that. Women have come some distance, Adnf ig what you share helps them build on that, then you’re heading in the right direction, right? Riiitght?
Here’s the thing, the really hard part. I would have told you about how my live-in boyfriend (though he was so careful to never call himself that) left me for my best friend. I might not have told you about how he said she was coming to stay, and how he threatened that he’d leave me if I wasn’t around for when she stayed. Yeah, it was a cool time.
So yup, you would have heard how we sold Thomas’s bed when he’d finally fucked off to Jo, and used the money to pay his phone line, predominantly, but also to provide alchohol for a party we calleed ‘Beds are burning’. If you read the zine BOYS BOYS BOYS BOYS BOYS you’ll know about how after the part I invited some dude over and we ended up having sex.
And this is where 2018 kicks in. Yes, I had consentual sex with him the first time, and when I was grossed out by him waking up in the morning saying “It’s okay, I’m still wearing the condom” I got to say no no no no.
But here’s the thing: the second time he came over, and after we’d passed out and woken again in the morning, he refused to leave. I went out with my flatmate to return library books and still he slept. I blasted Robbie Williams and he did nothing. I shook him awake and told him I had other thigns to do and he still refused to leave, so I dressed and went into the lounge and eventually he followed me there.
This is the bit where it gets hard to write about. Like, because we were a gossipy flat, I could tell them that he’d said “you’ve got amazing nipples – they’re so suckable”. What is so much less easy to say is the fear I felt when he refused to leave. Yes, we made jokes about how he’d tried to keep his hat on. To this day, I make jokes about how he’d reffered to my vagina as “this cute yonni here”. None of that captures the absolute terror you feel when all the males you know are gone, and you’re left with this guy that you had sex with because you felt guilty for sleeping with him the day you sold your ex boyfriend’s bed.
So like, I wanted to be calm. I wanted to be cool, and calm, and like, no big deal. I slept with like, tons of people, this wasn’t the second guy ever to stick his dick in me or whatevs. So Kate and I went to the AUT library to drop off some boosk after I’d shaken her awake climbinh in bed with her. I returned to my room, suggesting he go so I could get on with the things I needed to do. I’m not sure if it was then or the first time I slept with him that he suggested we go for another round. I do remember exaclty what it was that he said to me in the mornijng afer we’d passed out about to have sex – “it’s okay, I’m still wearing the condom”.
Gross, no, not okay. So I’d vacated my bed, got dressed, suggested he should be moving on. None of that had worked so I’d played Robbie Williams loud – I liked it but figured otheres didn’t. I’d left and come back. Eventaully i was just like, vacuum cleaning loudly and then I left the room to go read the paper in the lounge.
I used to love to sit on the two steps up into the lounge in order to spread out the whole paper in front of me so tjat’s what I was doing when he came into the lounge ot find me. Admittedly by that stage he repulsed me, my skin crawled at the sight of him and I just wanted him out of my home. But he wanted to chat. I asked him to leave. He said he’d go wake up all my flatmates and tell them about how he fucked me. I told him to go ahead, and that he’d been the joke over Sunday Lunch before.
There was only one person home – my flatmate Kate who’d gone for the drive to the the library with me before after I’d crawled into her bed complaining that there was a boy in mine. He told me he was going to go tell her about how he played with my nipples, but she said when he walked into her room all he said was “sorry, wrong place”
He came back into the lounge, having called mmy bluff. I was now fucking terrified. He wasn’t a big guy at all, but now he knew there were only two girls in the house. I actually can’t remember what he said, only that he started trying to pull my skirt up as I sat on those two steps between the lounge & dining room, trying to read the paper. I didn’t want him touching me at all but I thought shit, maybe I owed him because I’d had sex with him in rage at my ex so maybe I owed him maybe even though his touch repulsed me that was all I could get and that was all I deserved. I was so terrified that he’d try to steal from me, and my mind immediately went to my new tiara, all twisted copper wire and pink gems. I was doing my best to act nonchalant, while continuously telling him to go away, to fuck off, to get the fucking fuck out of my house. The rage built up, but more than that, the terror. The terror that I’d let someone into my house because I was so angry at my ex boyfriend, and then that I needed someone to fuck the ex out of me, so therefore I _owed_ M something. The idea that I had to have sex with him so he wouldn’t drunk drive home. The feeling I had that I _had_ to do it because he wasn’t Thomas, and because I was gross and should be grateful for anyone who wanted to fuck me.
But here’s the thing: No. I should have been able to call it off at any stage. I should have been able to say “actually could we just spoon?” or “hey this kissing thing is cool okay cool bye”
Instead, what do I get out of this Hilarious anecdotes about how he tried to keep his hat on, or how he referred to my vagina as “this little yoni here”. plenty to giggle at. It wouldn’t be fair to interrupt people’s good times with a story about how I worried that a guy would tear through my room, putting his hands on all my stuff, ripping my new beautiful twisted copper tiara apart. I didn’t want to tell multitudes about how when I was sitting on the ground on the stairs to the lounge trying to be aloof reading the paper he kept pulling my skirt up so I was pretty sure he’d rape me there and then on the carpet and maybe I’d take it because probably I deserved it for leading him on?
I try to forget this shit. That was like, July 2000. And then the other day, someone on twitter liked one of my tweets.It was him. Fuck. So much for my pre-sleep benzo. I guess I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’m not yet able to talk about all the mistakes involving consent.