sex

"The moment I realised my love life had to change."

Image supplied.

It’s a pattern: Man tears me down, I feel bad about myself, then work extra hard to please him.
It started happening the night it rained bobby pins.

There I was, thrusting my hips and making the appropriate noises while gazing up at a white ceiling that crowned azure walls. The hustle of San Francisco’s Nob Hill district reverberated through the room. I hoped it hid my yawn.

The man didn’t seem to notice. With him, the act of sex was more akin to setting a clock than expressing physical intimacy. He was obsessive, and succumbed to aggressive meltdowns when I didn’t meet him. I don’t recall his exact words, but I remember my mind drifting to three lines from Ezra Pound’s poem “Francesca”:

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I who have seen you amid the primal things

Was angry when they spoke your name

In ordinary places

I love poetry, and this poem stuck with me. The possessiveness of the speaker frightened me, but it also provided insight into the men I often chose. Maybe he’s scared and insecure, not cruel, I’d rationalize. (Post continues after gallery.)

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During this time, I was woefully stuck in my own head. My dating requirements were purely surface-level. I didn’t know why I felt this way, but this man believed he knew. “You’re selfish, Giana,” he explained, patronizingly, one day. “You only think about yourself, all the time.”

No, I’m not! I wanted to fight back. I give to the poor even when I’m broke, I always share my food, I’ve offered to pay on every date, I drop virtually everything when a loved one seeks me…

However, I lacked the will to fight back. Instead, I said, “Oh,” then fell into a pit of self-loathing for not defending myself. It’s a pattern: Man tears me down, I feel bad about myself, then work extra hard to please him. Soon, I find myself involved with someone whom I quietly hate.

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I thought about this all while he performed that night. Thrusting. Moaning. His eyes were bloodshot. He reminded me of a cartoon monster. Suddenly, I noticed that my hair was falling out of its Pinterest-sought updo.

No!

Learning and perfecting an updo, such as that one, has always brought joy. It was part of a morning routine I had with my mom as a child: brushes, pins, hairspray, and the delicate perseverance of the craft brings back sweet memories.

My hair that night. (Image supplied.)

 

At that moment, my happiness felt threatened.

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One by one, bobby pins fell out of my hair, trailing down my face, and falling into the darkness below me. I felt overcome with a desire to save them, my hair, and overall appearance. If I could fix my hair, maybe I would like him more.

The bronze pins cascaded around me until none were left.

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I laid awake in his bed that night, contemplating the excuses I could create to call a Lyft and leave. Instead, I stayed and silently searched for my bobby pins. When I eventually drifted to sleep, I toured restless dreams where the skies rained those same pins.

I pride myself on being a free spirit in the romantic realm, but last winter I reached a breaking point. I kept dating men I knew were cruel, but convinced myself that I just needed to give each “a chance.” (Post continues after video.)

The night I spent surrounded by those azure walls, I knew I needed to make a change. Maybe I didn’t need to dive into monogamy, but I knew I needed more substance. I could not spend another night parading a smile that did not match my racing mind.

As I woke up the following morning, I felt motivated. I stopped seeing him. I told myself, nearly every day for months on end, that I needed more. I needed to share my time with someone who made me curse the clock for moving too quickly. I wanted someone whose stories lit up my night.

Five months after that night, I experienced another cascade of bobby pins. I couldn’t tell you the music playing, the color of the walls, or the thoughts that undoubtedly interrupted my bliss. My focus was on him. I couldn’t stop staring at the furrow in his brow, or admiring the passion in our contact.

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We laid side by side afterwards. When he spoke to me, all he said was “hey,” but it was enough to make me (temporarily) forget every piece of prose I have ever read. For the first time in months, I wanted my own story. I felt happy, but calm. I drifted asleep next to him, and cursed the clock for rushing our time together.

When I awoke, I realized my bobby pins had fallen out. I grabbed them, perfected my hair, and left.

Later I realized my hair was a mess, and I had left most of the pins in his bed. Briefly, I pictured their taut, ribbed frames scattered amongst his possessions.

This made me happy.

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