He didn’t listen.

See right through me.

It was the third time it stung and hurt in rhythm to his thrusting digits that night.  I told him to stop, but his long fingers kept moving inside of me.  He’d pushed things farther than I’d wanted all night long and now we were naked on my bed.

“You’re hurting me!” I said and pushed at the arm and wrist connected to my body.

“Stop!” I said again, firm and angry.  “You are hurting me!!

He pulled his hand out and kissed me drunkenly.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

I explained to him how to touch me and let him restart.

It hurt again.  I cried out again.  I yelled at him to stop again.  I pushed his hand away again.

He wanted to fuck then, but I said no.  He pouted and begged, kissed my neck and touched my pussy.  The wine fuzzed my brain and it was much too dark in my room to clearly see that he needed to just go away.

I let his touch calm me and when he slithered down to put his mouth on me I held my breath.  “Do not suck on me,” I said.  “It will hurt; I’m too sensitive.”

He sucked.

“Don’t suck!” I said again and pushed at his shoulders.  He didn’t budge and continued to suck.  I felt my labia pulled away from my body by the suction and I hated it, that awful, tugging sensation.

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!”  I shouted.  “I just told you not to suck!!!”

I told him to lap at me.  “Like an ice cream cone.”

I wasn’t  there anymore.

I was in a black space with no exit, thick and viscous.  My arms and legs were mine, but they weren’t free.  This man was doing these things to me that I was supposed to enjoy, but I wasn’t.  It hurt, it pissed me off, it felt pointless, I felt lost.

It finally ended somehow and I was submerged in upside-down darkness and only wanted him to leave.  He wanted to stay the night.  “No, you need to go home.  My mom will be here at 8 in the morning.”

He pouted again and recoiled from me.  As he gathered up his clothing he complained they were wet from my ejaculate.  I told him to shut up, incredulous.

Because I’m a woman and trained to be polite I hugged him goodbye, but he was terse and walked out stiffly.  Several minutes later he texted to tell me how much he liked me.

Late the next morning he texted to say he’d left some things behind and that he’d had an incredible night with me.  I’d found his boxers already, but he’d also left his work keys.  I searched the couch hoping they weren’t there, but they were: two shiny silver keys on a ring, a big one and a little one, much like my delusion and self-respect.

I haven’t told him they are here.  He wants to see me again.  I don’t want to.  Keys or no keys.

I don’t know how to proceed.  Do I tell him how I remember the evening or do I just say “Sorry, this isn’t going to work out for me.”  I want to disappear and not think about the disaster that was my Friday night, erase it completely from memory.

I wonder if I could be wrong about everything, that maybe I was begging for it.   Maybe I did sometimes, I don’t recall that clearly.  Never mind.  It doesn’t matter.  It will soon be rolled into the other stories I have of nights similar to that one.  Of being over-powered by their desire and choosing the path of least resistance and saying, Fine, ok.  I’ll do it, when truthfully, I don’t want to, but am too scared to say No only to have him say Yes we are because then it really is bad.  And scary.  And my fault.

I am clear that No means No, but when a drunk woman is half naked on your lap and her hard limit is your hand in her pussy, but it’s ok to suck on her tits I get the confusion.  I understand the risk, I understand the world I live in.  It’s not set up for me to have hard limits if others are soft.

I blame myself for not having the guts to kick him out the second I felt it was sideways.  Instead I tried to salvage it, make his mistake and boorish behavior ok so it wouldn’t be a scary assault, so he wouldn’t see he’d gone too far and reached a vulnerable place in me – both literally and figuratively.  I let him stay and I attempted to make the night mine, not his, and all I really accomplished was confusing him and hurting me.

And now I have his keys to remember him by.


I may give mixed signals, but No still means No.

I’m hard pressed to call it “sexual assault” because if I were him I’d likely have tried the same things with me, but I can’t not call it sexual assault, either, because I said, “Absolutely not,” and he did it anyway.

I arrived at his apartment a little after 7:30 to catch a cab to the bar, but we decided to hang out for a glass of wine first.  He smelled fruity in a weird, masculine way; his apartment was tidy and inhabited by a giant 8-month old puppy named Blast who liked my crotch immensely.

We sat on his back porch and sipped our wine.  He’s from the same state I am and we talked about the strange new world we now find ourselves with gigantic bugs who seem to think they own the place, much like their two-legged counterparts.

We called the cab and began the walk out to the busy street to meet it.  The dusk sky was brilliantly smeared with pinked and blue clouds and the breeze was cool on my bare shoulders.  “You look really beautiful tonight, Hy,” he said.

“Well, thank you,” I replied.  He took my hand to help me down a slope and into the cab.

The bar was littered with hipsters and Johnny Cash memorabilia.  Gladys Night and the Pips were playing when we walked in and ordered a shot and beer back — Jameson and a tallboy Lone Star for me, a Stella for him — and Lionel Ritchie saw us out.

Conversation and laughter flowed; I effortlessly led the conversation to sex as I’m wont to do.  I need to make it clear to every man I date where I stand: I currently sleep with other men, I am slightly kinky, I experiment, I ‘m not looking for a relationship, but am open to it, blah blah blah.

His eyes lit up at my tales and I was overcome with bashfulness time and time again, but I worked through it.  I have to get this stuff out there.  I feel compelled to make sure everyone knows where I stand.  My own talk was titillating, I felt warm and smooth and he is a handsome man, so when I had the opportunity I grabbed his shirt from where he stood above me and pulled him down for a kiss.  It was perfect.

He growled into my mouth how much he thought so, too.

The sexual compatibility seemed to be there, on paper, anyway.  That’s the first hurdle a lover of mine must pass.  And the chemistry was decent.

Too soon for my taste he suggested we go back to his place for more wine.  I said OK, bid a silent farewell to the tattoos, piercings and skinny jeans scattered about me and hopped back into the cab.  His hand slid up on my thigh and I let it stay.  It was nice enough.

Back at his place we went to the porch.  Lightening bugs popped in and out of view like fading lights.  He moved his chair closer then stood up altogether and loomed over me.  I looked up at him knowing that he was done talking.  He bent down to kiss me and grabbed me hard by the arms.  I liked it.

“Let’s go in my room.”

And this is where I should have done something different.  This is where I knew things would go wrong, but I couldn’t find the words to set it right.  He took me by the hand and shut and locked the door behind him lest his dog barge in on us.  His bed was low and covered in white down.  He lit a paper lamp on the floor in the corner and sat down and fell on top of me.  We kissed passionately, his whiskers raked over my face.

He grabbed the top of my dress and let a breast fall out.  His mouth clamped down hard and I winced and cried out.  My nails dug into his neck and I pulled him closer to me.  It felt good, but I knew where this was going and I didn’t want to go there.

My other breast fell out and now he pinched the nipple.  I was impressed at his passion and his inclination – clearly he likes it rough like I do – but I couldn’t shake the overriding feeling of I don’t want to do this.  His hand ran up my thigh and hit me me on my flank.  Hard.  I writhed a little and moaned.  Fuck.  I’m doing this all wrong.

When his hand began to fumble at my boyshorts I pulled him up.  “No.  I’m not going to fuck you tonight.  I’m on my period.”

“There are lots of other things we can do, you know.”

“I know, but I don’t want to.  I don’t want our first time to hook up to involve blood.  I just don’t.”

“But your clit isn’t anywhere near the blood.”

“I know that, too, but I don’t care.  I don’t want to.”

And then he slid my panties to the side and lay his mouth on me.

I was shocked.  Horrified, really.  He began to suck and I yelled at him to stop, that if he kept sucking he would fucking die.  He switched to lapping, which was nice, but none of this was supposed to be happening.  I’d just told him No.  I tried to enjoy it, but it was impossible.  I was pissed and a little scared.  What if I made him stop with a tantrum??  Threw him off and screamed at him?  Would he try to hurt me??  He seemed like such a decent guy, clearly I confused him and I should try to exit this situation as smoothly as possible.

I pulled him up off of me and let him kiss me again and ran my hand down to his erection.  Maybe if I could get excited about that then none of this would have happened.  Hot and smooth in my hand — slim — it only served to remind me of The Neighbor instead.   I said I had to pee.

In the bathroom on the toilet, staring at the polka-dots on his shower curtain and trying to keep the dog’s snout out of my pussy, I took my time to think.

This date was fucking over.

I went back into his room and said, “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m feeling fickle tonight.  I need to go home.  This isn’t going to happen.  I swear it’s not you, it’s me.  I just need to go.”

He looked crestfallen, his bare chest dark and broad beneath me.  He said, “No,” and pulled me down for another kiss, made me straddle his exposed cock, a long, lean piece of meat.  “You swear you’ll see me again??”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Ok, then.  I understand.”

He got dressed and walked me to my car.  Home, I wanted nothing more than to fall into TN’s arms, but he wasn’t there and had only texted me to accept a dinner invitation for tonight.  He was likely with another woman.  So, I fell into my purple sheets in only my panties, tangled my limbs in my comforter and closed my eyes.

No means no, no matter what, but I don’t blame Mitchell.  I blame myself.  I’m not fit to do this right now.  I love The Neighbor — there, I said it.  This admission will likely bring hellfire and bullshit alike down upon my ears, but so be it.  I’m like a zombie out there.  I reel them in, but can no longer seal the deal.  I’m only half alive.  I don’t have it in me anymore to eat all men for breakfast lunch and dinner (just a couple here and there, apparently) and I got myself into a bad situation because of it.

I’ll likely not see Mitchell again not because I’m not curious about fucking him or even excited to do so — because strangely enough, I am — but because he made me say No so many times.  He should have rolled off of me the second I said so and certainly not ignored me.  It’s a shame, really.  I thought he was nice.  But then again, I guess he wasn’t at all if he didn’t listen to my No.