Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

Break her heart and make her cum.

Speak to her boldly, in her native tongue.

Shall it be a far-off meadow, beside a lonely shade tree, as your fingers claw your anguish into the dirt and your thin, choked cries of despair are met with the songs of disinterested birds? Would you be inclined to distantly, dispassionately observe the progress of a solitary ant across your forearm as I do things to your body that will cleave it from its senses? Do you want me to sweat atop you in the summer heat, and feel each drop of my effort burn as it drips from my brow into your wide, vacant eyes? Would you like to feel the brittle grass scratch your urgent, autonomous hips as they meet my ruthless rut with a vigor that would shame a better woman?

Is it suitable, do you think, that I kill your dignity there, upon the altar of earth?

We’re both disappointed in your body. We both hate your mother. We both wish you weren’t so fucking stupid. We both wonder how low you’ll sink for me, and if I’ll hold you under when you want to come up. We both know I’m sending you to hell, and we both know you deserve the flames.

Isn’t it delightful, knowing two people with so much in common can find each other in this crazy world?

I love it when you talk dirty to me.

Go ahead, baby: tell me it’s all your fault.

I like when I scare you a little, and the way your fear makes you instinctively retreat into your femininity.

I like the way your womanhood so often manages to cloak you and entangle you and gracefully, delicately strangle you.

[CONTENT ADVISORY: Don’t read this unless you like feeling sexually paranoid and ashamed.]

No matter the man –be he your father figure, your priest, your doctor, your judge, your boss, your teacher, your student, your lover, or simply your dearest of friends– he will always have his moment. His moment when everythng is just so; you’ll say something he doesn’t like, the light will be falling across your face in that perfect way, his hormones will be raging as they so often do, he’ll notice that you smell of flowers and sin, and you’ll realize you have never felt so small and alone.

His gaze will have become absolutely, intensely male.

That’s when he’ll look at you and silently confirm everything you’ve ever suspected about the men in your life; he’ll admit the surest of truths without uttering a word, and you’ll only be able to blink in reply. You’ll be seized by a certainty that the unthinkable is suddenly one irrational, inhuman impulse away from becoming the unforgettable.

It’ll pass in a second; he’ll shrug or shout or change the subject, and you’ll be able to breathe again. From the point of view of anyone watching, it will be as if nothing happened. Everything will be the same, except you’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that somewhere deep inside him, within this man who shares your world, there was a little voice speaking out, clearly and urgently.

“No. Not her. Not this time.”

You’ll both actively try to forget, of course, and he might even succeed; after all, he has only the memory of what he did not do, while you must carry the knowledge of all he might have done. But that’s not the part that will truly haunt you.

No, the thing that will make your nights long and sleepless will be a gnawing, pressing inner voice of your own, one that cares less for you than it should. Over and over, it will ask you a thousand questions using a thousand words, all of them variations on a single theme.

“But… why not?”