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I have never been overly aggressive or forceful with women. I'm not that guy who throws her on the kitchen table and rips open her blouse, popping all the buttons and ruining a perfectly good shirt. Or who fucks her up against the wall in a dark alley behind some Dumpster. I never wanted to be Mickey Rourke. I don't think he did either. It takes a willful suspension of absurdity to be that kind of man, to maintain that five-o'clock shadow, to buy that leather jacket, to put all that shit in your hair, to keep that toothpick in your mouth when all you really want to do is spit it out and buy a pack of grape Bubblicious and go watch cartoons.
Still, when it comes to sex there's always been the tacit understanding, or the pretense of the tacit understanding at least, that I'm in charge. That even if I'm not the guy in the back alley behind the Dumpster, I'm at least some guy. A guy at least.
Not with Gwen. She manhandled me.
It was always a blur of pain and fear and domination. I remembered it, and could only deal with it afterwards, as a collection of warped Polaroids stapled to the inside of my head:
Me flat on my back, my arms splayed out like I was being crucified, my legs kicking helplessly with her on top leaning over, crushing my biceps with her hands and screaming in my face.
Me on top of her, my back arched, my mouth wide open, my head almost snapping off at the neck because she was pulling my hair, while her other hand palmed my side with almost hydraulic pressure, collapsing my lung and squashing my spleen.
Me behind her but backed into the ornate wooden headboard of her bed, frantically trying to push her away as she slammed me against the wall with her ass.
Me on my back again, both my arms pinned above my head, her one hand vise-gripping both my wrists, her other hand flat on my chest, her fingers popping my ribs like bubble wrap.
Whatever position we were in, I was the one getting fucked. At first I tried exerting myself, gently, but firm enough to let her know that I could take over any time I wanted to. But then I felt the raw power, the machine-like force and resistance. It was unyielding. I would've had to push full out and strain with everything I had to overpower her, and even then I wasn't sure that I could. I didn't want to find out that I couldn't.
Not that she was a big girl or anything. She was about 5'7", medium frame, built like any twenty-five-year-old woman who keeps in shape. But she was fucking solid, and thick, without being broad or outwardly mannish. Her muscles must have been coiled tighter than a normal person's. Maybe they were more dense. There was something
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I tried faking an orgasm but she either didn't notice or didn't care. I tried bucking her off but that only made it hurt worse.
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mutant about her. Because I don't go around getting out-muscled by girls. Not usually anyway. But with her there was nothing I could do. She was the sadistic older brother who holds you down and slaps your forehead over and over again, let's a string of spit fall until it almost hits your face and then slurps it up, over and over again. Only this older brother was fucking me. I'm telling mom.
I tried faking an orgasm but she either didn't notice or didn't care. I tried bucking her off but that only made it hurt worse. My bones were weak from the pounding. My pelvis was shattered. My whole body felt like early onset osteoporosis. I'd have to join a swimming pool therapy class and lift a beach ball over my head with the rest of the old ladies at the Y. Is calcium more potent if you snort it? I was brittle. I was a broken man.
And then, after it was over, after she was done kicking my naked ass until there was nothing left of it, she had the audacity to curl up on my dislocated shoulder, nestle her head underneath my fractured jaw and sigh and say, "Hold me. Hold me tighter."
"I can't. My arm is broken in three places."
"Ahh, that feels so good. To know you're there. It feels so safe."
This as I was openly weeping.
I lacked the strength to be incredulous, indignant, or even quietly sarcastic. It sounded like some cheap scam straight out of a trashy women's magazine. Some Please Your Man? Please Yourself! article on how to use basic psychology and transparent strategy to create the illusion of power in your relationship. There was a cute chess metaphor about queen taking king while leaving all the other pieces on the board, and some anecdotal scientific evidence about how men like to hunt and make fire, how women find shoes and lipstick empowering.
I knew that article. I knew that magazine. And I could tolerate its simple, harmless, vapid philosophy. With enough alcohol I could even participate in it for a few hours at a time. But Gwen was reading a different magazine. Once you can only get over the internet from shadow publishers in former Soviet Republics. One you have delivered to a PO box wrapped in brown paper and sealed in plastic. This article was not called Please Your Man? Please Yourself! It was called He Is Not Boss, He Is Bitch! And it read in rough translation:
Strip him down. Toss him like rag doll and beat him within inch of life. Beat him until humiliation hurt worse than pain. Maybe set him on fire and laugh. Then be kitten. Tell him he is boss, is brute man, so he will pay for jewelry and fur coats. Pay for trip to America to find old man husband who will die in sleep and leave you rich fortune.
Magazines make me sad.
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