This post deals with rape and might be triggering for some readers.
I wish everything was still in bright primary colours.
Remember when you were little and the world was in such vivid and clear colour?
Red bikes, blue skies, yellow jumpers.
Then you enter your teen years and everything in your world becomes black and white. Right and wrong.
Oh, how blissful it is when you know everything! With no life experience to really know anything.
Down with capitalism. Stay woke.
Black and white.
Then as you grow the world begins to shade, nothing is one just one colour, no one is just one thing.
All that certainty of black and white suddenly becomes grey.
This story is from the grey.
I was a slut before it was OK to be one.
Before you could just call it female empowerment and have ownership. I still question how much ownership you can have in a one night stand. In an experience in which a stranger twice the size of you will take your clothes off and bare weight on top of you. If consent is held and orgasms are had you walk home with your head held high. Look at me. I’m so empowered. Owning my sexuality.
But really you were just lending it out and hoping they don’t smash it with their bare hands.
I wasn’t raped once.
I don’t remember his name, he worked at a pub. He served me drinks and his eyes lingered a little too long. I loved that. I loved entering a space and making eye contact. Seeing which glances lasted long enough to know the possibilities. Looking around to see who I wanted to fuck. I’d always scope the scene I entered, eyeing people out and placing them into categories.
The men that were out of my league. The men that were in my league and the men I was too good for.
I was as attracted to these men as I was to the unpredictability of it all.
I loved not knowing where my night would end.
He was on the edge of too good for me. He knew it. The thrill I got when he asked for my number was a high better than any drug.