Category: Sexism

FUCKBOY SPECIAL: ENRIQUE

12 november

smearing black liner over my swollen eyelids, bloated from crying. must be out of the airbnb by 12. it is 11:55. he left at 7:30 to catch his flight, climbed into bed with me before he left, hiking boots and all, wrapped his big arms around my body and kissed me deeply as if it was our last kiss ever, which it would be.

i have a problem with love — too much of it to give out. a problem with timing — mine is terrible. a problem with pain — i like it too much.

love is a really ridiculous bond. almost more physical than mental. the mind doesn’t choose who to love, the body does. the fact that i could sit at his side and listen to his rambling, all of which i find basic and relatively meaningless, contemplate his way of viewing the world and end up being disgusted, or disappointed, or just confused as to how he came to be this way — how could anyone? in conversations, feeling like i was constantly educating — giving out my knowledge and ideas like candy, most of which he accepted gladly, as he needed them — validating his existence over and over, which he told me so often nobody had ever done, while simultaneously he tore mine down.

according to enrique, i am
+
intelligente, lista, guapa, adventurera, diferente


dificil de entender, dificil de aguantar, rara, demasiado liberal, rápida a enfadarme, i push people, i like to get under their skin.

all true.

told him i wanted the feedback. i would listen. i did listen. i want to think about it. I want to improve. but so much of our incompatibility came from his direction and his blatant fear and intolerance for difference that it’s difficult to know how i could have done better with this one. except for the obvious: to have left him immediately, or at least after the first intolerant attack on my being. when he called me a slut, when he behaved selfishly in bed, when he kicked me out of his car on the side of the highway. i held out. in the end mother nature brought us down — my period came before his final visit and it disturbed him. he wouldn’t touch me after he realized.

i do know why i held out, but i don’t know where all the love comes from, or why i have to feel all this for people who hurt me so badly. he never meant to. he’s a good man with misogyniistic tendencies, like so many of them. nothing special. nothing unusual. i always think i’m just in it for the sex, then come to find out there’s always been more to it. much more.

i feel destroyed. everything hurts. all i want to do is cry, i sound like a goddamn country song. lord help me, save me from the images that stick. his arms and his shoulders. he put a little weight on. his eyes, green. the warmth. cargo pants and hiking boots and two grey shirts. mountain boy stranded on an island; forever conflicted, forever torn in two. i love it, i love it, i love him. i shouldn’t. there is better, there is more. jess, go and find it. jess, don’t be like this. jes come on. please. raise your standards. don’t give when you don’t receive. jes, you’re hard to handle. give credit where credit is due. listen more, listen better. stay calmer. retain control. control yourself.

this is nobody’s fault. it ended well, with love. like pulling apart a peanut butter sandwich. messy, had bread in it?

because feeling pain is still feeling, and feeling is better than nothing. living is pain, and living is also better than nothing. loving is living, and loving is pain. pain means you’re living. and so on and so forth. forever, or until you can’t anymore.

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NACHO

hey nacho
send some more pics of your
stumpy pink dick while you
hold it at the base with your
unwashed sheets and empty
walls in the background and
the the tv tuned to some
sports channel that
shit gets me so
wet i just
can’t
even

HARDER

i’ll say it to you now: all that shit buried stinking in some putrid garden hole wheezing up pansies. petunias. daffodils and tulips. my favorite, your favorite, your favorite for me.

what can i tell you? you’re the seeping body feeding my veins via toes and thorax and torso to brain. i am certain I’m certain of nothing yet here i am standing blistered and knowing: the only thing certain is you.

venga, hijo. vente a mami. let me show you the things you didn’t know were hiding. ten feet down and it didn’t cross your mind to wonder — so you say.

kiss me you stupid asshole. put your mouth on my god damn mouth. let me feel the prickles of that sparse gorilla wire you call a beard while it chafes red raw my baby face (guess we’re not too old for this yet.) let me watch your angles morph over the years, i’ll check em in the mornings as we wake up side by side.

take my sweaty hand and squeeze it. press it hard between your hairy thighs, rub it, wake it up. smack it. smack my ass. get a load o’ that  springback action, smile like a stoner. cock head, lean in — take everything you find, the survivor of some mortal tragedy feeding til his guts burst. the one thing sweeter than irony, baby. come on now, eat up.

SINNER

read the back of the
label: it will tell you
your sins for the day
but there will be no
advice for repenting provided. do
it yourself with slimy digits
coughing over the toilet. be
discreet: the sound of a
splintering facade is harsh on
young ears and of course
apart from slim you must
also be strong.

THE MARCH

burnt alive and limbs twisted
back like gnarled oaks counting
hundreds of years with the same
shoving roots. too aggressive
he says, and we say eat shit

bring on the chainsaws for our
slaughter, splay our needles out
like blood and bile for we’ve
always more to lose but still
more growing

a clear-cut in the children’s
park, church parking lot, public
private old-growth stands, the
silent heaving wombs that
made you now under your fire

fight back, he cries: the grasping
child swinging fitful little hands,
his mother laughing rises. time
again to teach him what is right
and what is wrong.

in solidarity with the women’s march against the Trump inauguration and the anti-Trump resistance movement

STÉPHAN

Started work this week. I guess I’m a teacher now.

I too find this hard to believe, but it must be true because I hang out in the teacher’s lounge and use the teachers’ automatic espresso machine and can make copies, like as many copies I want of anything I believe needs copying. I stand in front of classes full of high-school shitheads and get to choose whether they call me “Jess” or “Prof” or “Prof Jess”, which does have a pretty nice ring to it, and I get to pick on the ones that won’t shut up when I’m talking. The other lady teachers invite me to smoke with them behind the building and the only male teacher, Stéphan, asked me out for a pint today, to which I agreed, and though he does have an admittedly nice ass for a 42-year old man I didn’t read too much into the offer, considering he wears a wedding ring and it was only three in the afternoon.

So we meet up in the lounge, and after only a few words Stéphan turns and storms out of the building, me at his heels, his long woolen coat blowing up behind him. He unlocks his little two-door silver Peugeot and drops himself in, lighting an enormous hand-rolled cigarette. “I’m so furious,” he breathes, launching into a French/English mashup tirade about some stupid worthless connasse of a colleague he’s got. I give some sympathetic nods and occasionally even make mouth noises, though I cannot make out enough of either language to know for sure what he’s actually on about. Despite his fuming he is driving quite cautiously along, taking great care to stop at each and every yellow light; I am becoming aware that he is pumping the car full of weed smoke. He might have noticed me sniffing. “You smoke?” he asks.

“Sometimes.” A sheepish smile. It’s a Friday. He hands me the joint and I take a drag.

Potentially stoned by now, Stéphan seems to relax a bit. He rolls his shoulders around, tosses his head, and leans over to pick up a CD case on the floor by my feet. “Now this, this is a record I’ve done,” he says, stopping at a green light.

I trade him the joint for the case and point ahead. “You sing?”

“I rap.” A clear emphasis. A car honks from behind and he steps on the gas. “Do you want to hear it?”

Trapped in a rather unfair position, I nod. I extend the CD towards him, but he hastily waves it away. “No, I’ll do it for you live.” As if I’d bought a ticket. Lucky me!

Now, if you have ever heard a middle-aged caucasian Frenchman rap in English, perhaps you can share my sympathies. Stéphan The Rapper lays his lyric on me soft and sweet with the rhythm of an elderly woman crossing an unstable wooden bridge, with the sporadic jerking of a newly severed limb, with the intermittent forgetting-of-words demonstrated by any human being doltish enough to attempt rapping in his or her non-native language. He beats the steering wheel with his palm at times, accentuating such elements as the “brightly shining bosom” (beat beat beat) of the woman he has targeted in his make-believe audience and, after he has presumably bedded said woman via his untold libidinous rapper talents, the way she “screams” (beat) his “name” (beat) “in bold lettahs” (beat beat).

I am focused on the road, 60% of my fist in my mouth to keep from spitting up on the dashboard, eyes watering from the thickening smoke and the emotional torment of not cackling aloud. Stéphan, noting this clear enthusiasm, entreats me to four complete raps, each one more graphically depictive of his palpable sexual prowess. I am relieved as he finally parks alongside a curb boldly marked « PAS DE PARKING » and we walk to the pub, him chattering all the way. At the bar I sip on the beer he slides me, grateful for something to occupy my hands as he guzzles three full pints and rants at the barmaid, with whom he is on a first-name basis.

After about an hour Stéphan is ready to go. I reluctantly follow him back to the Peugeot which, remarkably, is without a parking ticket. We’re on the road for all of thirty seconds when he veers slightly into oncoming traffic, self-correcting with an abrupt jerk of the wheel and an “Hup, sorry, I’m a bit drunk now.” Contrary to what you might think, dear readers, I do have my limits, this being one of them. I ask him to pull over, claiming to have a friend up the street just a block, waving my hand in an indiscriminate roundish direction. “Ah, I’ll just park here,” says Stéphan gaily, and rolls his two right tires up onto the curb. This is fine with me. I am out of the car and jogging in the opposite direction. “Thanks for the pint, Stéphan!” I shout behind me, not looking back.

Yes, thank you, Stéphan. I sincerely look forward to working together.