“No matter how much I tried to lie, she broke in. Just that look on her face, staring at me in some smug, amused, slightly sexual way, put the first small crack in my mental image of my life. I didn’t like her. She was rude, brash, and loud. When she walked she stomped, big combat boots or tennis shoes, I could hear her coming down the hallway at work. She was short, too short. And bald. And she smoked. And she stared at me every day like she was having sex with me while I was working. I talked to her at work, and even gave her my phone number. She wanted to have sex with me, and let me know it. I liked it, feeling desired, feeling like I was someone worthy of having. She wanted to take me out for coffee, and didn’t care that I had a girlfriend.”
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She knew, at night, sitting alone in her apartment, she knew something was wrong. She would do anything to distract herself, read, watch TV, chat rooms, even meticulously clean. Anything to keep her wall up, the facade that got her through everyday life. She always felt different, her desires a betrayal of the strict feminist teachings that she embraced and idolized at college. This feeling drove her crazy, sickened by the cravings of total submission, objectification, rough and painful sex, all against everything she believed. Her life was going exactly as planned, on track in every way. She had what most dreamed of, perfect career, a home, friends, although she was alone she felt content with her successful life. She had a life her feminist role models would applaud her for. Inside she was ashamed, she admitted her thoughts to no one, these things were the reason she was always alone. She kept her walls up, determination to have her “perfect” life drove her through each day. Very little could console her when the walls did come down, or some detour distracted her from her path. Those were the nights she lost all control.
I’m procrastinating. I have many many stories to post, but all need editing, and I really don’t want to. It’s my least favourite part. So Dianne is doing it for me. Which worries me, since right now everything is well, porn. So here’s our conversation (currently going on) about my worries and her thoughts (on this already shiny 6:30 am day).
Dianne: “ugh whljml”
Me: “You read that story earlier right, did it make you uncomfortable? Did you think that thats what I want and we don’t always do that?”
Dianne: “uncomfortable? It made me gooey. I was having trouble editing because of all the sex, the sex was distracting”
Me: “Well, I was just worried that you would read that and think its what I want when its just stories”
Dianne: “Do you want me to get zip ties and tie you to a pole”
Me: “No. Do you think Anne and Stan Rice got a carriage of people ponies like she wrote about. Maybe just tried it out for a week or two?”
Me: “Ok, because you know I tell you when I want something, usually when I’m naked”
Dianne: “Ta da, vagina”