I won’t become a doctor.
One day you will be sick.” —
Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl
This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous), and their doubts about religion.
We sat on the edge of the big white bed. My feet couldn’t touch the hardwood floor which made me feel so little, every time. My thoughts were scrambled, no thanks to the tequila. I was drunk. This was against my rules. Liquor is poison in my veins, on my tongue. I say things and do things I would never do. But I was bored, it was raining, and I was lonely.
His apartment creeped me out by the lack of things he didn’t have. His detachment from sentiment noted while I fingered the ugly necklace around my neck. White glistening platinum. Generic. A gift a man thinks a woman would want or need but never does. It was becoming increasingly difficult to fake smiles and coo at him. My adoration for him was strictly enforced, designed for wallets. But now, I knew I never needed it. Didn’t want it anymore. What I wanted he could never give to me. I was falling in love with someone else, somebody I didn’t want to love. It was beginning to consume me, change me.
He started to tug at my clothing and I collapsed onto him, burying my face into his neck. My skin was crawling as he pawed at me with eager hands. He was demanding. I had to be freshly shaved, freshly showered, a specific perfume, even more specific lingerie. He had many fetishes and I played into everyone of them. He called me “good girl” and sucked my toes while he was inside of me. The kind of guy that performs cunnilingus not for a woman, but for the validation that comes from a woman’s orgasm. Which is so easy to fake when you are wet, it’s just a series of kegel exercises and manipulated shudders. He never really made me come, I just gave him what he wanted. How could I come with his grunts and intrusive fingers, lapping me like my pussy was a melting ice cream cone. There was no passion, it was all a show to keep his dick hard.
I stared at the ceiling with a fistful of hair. He liked to pull my underwear up so it was wedged between my lips, wrapped around my clit. That was painful. It never felt good. It was like bucking against sand paper. He had callouses and long fingers with rounded tips; in other words, a lung condition. He would finger me until I was dry and ask me why I wasn’t wet. His body was covered in thick keloided scars and terrible 90’s tattoos. He was denying his age, which still showed like weeds in the crack of cement.
He flipped me over and I was face first in the down comforter, smothering a growing annoyance in beautiful ivory feathers. He was the jackhammer type and I could only concentrate on the base of the condom slamming into me. A raw feeling that started in the pit of my stomach and ended with little pink dots on the sheets. That is all he got from me, drops of something that could be washed away. A wound that would heal.
He begged me for anal, forcefully prying my ass apart so he could stare at the pink of my flesh. I always said no, but this time I shrugged apathetically. It would be the last time I saw him. Go out with a bang so he would remember me sweetly kind of thing. He deserved a nice parting gift after a year of sleeping together. I felt bad. He had no idea how many men where in between the same legs he was, how many men I had played the same way. It was all a game to me, kill or be killed, you know?
He was drunk too and beginning to soften. How cruel. I finally caved to this one demand and his body wouldn’t allow him the gift. A pathetic reminder of his age. He fell on the bed in disappointment and tugged on the chain of the necklace, pulling my neck into him. Soon he was snoring and I quietly collected my clothes he had thrown around the room. I stared at him for a while in the doorway before I left, feeling slightly guilty for everything he had given me; the trips to Hawaii, the clothes, the purses, jewelry. His version of kindness, his darkness. His ultimate loneliness. But it wasn’t real. He didn’t want to know me, he wanted to own me.
After a while, I dropped the peach coloured thong on the floor and kicked it towards the bed. He could have that. I wouldn’t miss it. I stood in his kitchen with a throbbing headache or was it heartache? I thought of Bobby, swallowing more cool silver tequila and stared out the window for an hour or so. My throat and pussy burned. It was morning. The rain pounded on the windows so loudly I could no longer hear him snoring. The rain pounded on the windows so loudly I could no longer hear my heartbeat.
I left, knowing there was nothing good about me.
…please, oh wise anonymous one, tell me more about how to live my life.
“Have you made a stand on some point that’s important to you? Have you refused to budge from your ideals? If so, you may be so caught up in proselytizing from your soap box that you’ve forgotten the main point of the whole issue. Before you let your pride destroy a possible opportunity, you have to step down from that soap box and allow someone to really communicate with you about a barrier that lies between you. Then you need to try to be objective about the matter. If you do, you may have a change of heart.”