Sunday, May 21, 2017

Then There Was Dinner

I'm in hyper processing mode and not sure what to do about it. Having had my rape shower it seems like what I want the most is to spill out a series of collected words where it suddenly makes sense. But all the words that seem to come to mind are coming from that dark place in the back of my head.

Sometimes I have crazy fun adventures like having sex in the Sears Tower. I'm a stranger person and I do weird and strange things when I want to, when I like to, when I like the people I'm with, when it all seems to come together in a way that makes me thing "this will be an adventure."

Sure, sure, why not. I'm enjoying who I am right now, and who I am includes a lot of people, good dates, a minor amount of anxiety, and for the first time perhaps in my entire life thinking that I'm entirely attractive enough to be worth peoples time.

Not that I never felt that way before. Just before there was always a stronger self-deprecating side of attraction. That dark shadow again telling me that anyone daring to take a second look at me, not to mention a third, must be out for something. 

Then there was dinner last night. It was a second date. The first date ended in my bed. I am unapologetic about that. I wanted it to end it my bed, I liked the gentleman in question, we had a very good night and I was feeling good about what I was doing. I never felt as if I was making bad decisions or was in any way doing anything I didn't want to be doing. I think that is fine. I think every woman on the planet should feel okay about wanting to sleep with someone when she wants to, assuming she has the freedom, interest and intent do do so. That's where I am.

At dinner, which started thirty minutes late and which I was almost certain was I going to be stood up for, I met my date again. He was still charming, still just the little but of accent, still smart and intelligent and I was still happy to be there. As we dug into why he was late I realized two things 1) I like this person, they have a career and responsibilities 2) this date is not going to end in bed.

My reasoning for number two was entirely valid. I have no shame in saying I went out to have dinner and have a nice round of sex number two with my date. We worked well together and had a good time. However, when the date has a medical issue they are dealing with and surprise emergency that require sleep and full cognitive function I don't feel comfortable going to bed. It would be both selfish and inconsiderate of me. And so, sex was - as it were - off the menu.

The date was fine, the good good. We had nice wine. We talked about life and art and travel. I was happy to be out on a date. I felt beautiful and desired, even if I knew the date was not going to end in bed and that was okay.

I was okay with that.

And as we walked away for me to get a cab.

And as we walked down the street.

And as I finished paying for dinner so we could walk down the street.

And as the couples passed and we held hands for a moment.

And as he kissed me and I enjoyed the warmth of it for a second.

All of those moments were okay.

And then he grabbed my hand and tried to pull it lower and I pulled away.

And then he said come on, let's just go to your place.

And then I said no.

And then he grabbed my face again, pulled me into his lips again. His mouth tasted rotten and like meet.

And I said no again.

I smiled.

I fucking smiled.

And I laughed. And I pushed him away and tried to explain to him why this was not going to happen tonight.

My heart was beating.

My heart was pounding.

My phone was in my hand and I got a car.

Come on. He said.

I have a hard on he said.

It's your fault he said.

The least you can do is take care of me he said.

As long as I leave by one a.m. he said.

And I smiled.

And I laughed.

And I tried to be coy while desperate for the car to come.

That car is big enough for both of us.

Let me come with you he said.

You should take care of me he said.

Next time, I slammed the door.

My wrist were sore from where I wrenched off his fingers. My mind was swirling. That's all fine, I thought.

Fine.

It's all fine.

There is nothing wrong.

Everything is fine.

I drank a shot of vodka when I got home.

Everything is fine.

And then I slept and had uneasy dreams of all the times this has happened before, of all the times I have let this happen before, of all the times I have acutely believed that I have somehow brought this on myself before, on all the times I have believed that I deserved this before, on all the faces, and names and smiling teeth that gnash in the dark corners and I think, I think, I think...that's fine.

This morning I realized it wasn't fine.

I'm mostly fine, because that is what I do, but somehow I feel so drained by it all. Like there is just an emptiness there that doesn't understand what is going on around it. Like somehow this is all my fault and I should be ashamed to have these feelings and even more so I should be ashamed to write them down.

If you write them down anyone can read them. Anyone at all.


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