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.”
“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.