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Losing Faith In Words
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How what we say and the way we say it can make all the difference in the world.

  You know you want it really

He was slender, but he was also almost twice my size. And the way he had me pinned to the wall - because I was pinned now, not just pressed - made it impossible for me to reach my purse, which is where I would have carried my mace if I’d ever thought to buy some.

My own lack of response didn’t seem to phase him. The polite, friendly, laughing guy who... I’m not saying anything would have ever happened between us, because I doubt that it would. But who did seem a nice enough person to spend time with, if I ever ran into him again with friends... well, he was gone.

Replaced, and this is where a lot of teenaged flashbacks started occurring, by maybe 180 pounds of greedy meat that may have been murmuring things like “you’re so lovely, you smell so good, yadda yadda yadda,” but might as well have been spouting the same things as those teens. “Come on, you know you want it really,” and “it’s okay, you’ll like it once we start” - and this was always my favorite, because the subtext is just so laughably presumptuous. “Just put your hand on it. I promise I won’t do anything.” Meaning, “the moment you touch my manly meat, you won’t be able to resist doing more.”

A quick rewind to what I said about Warhol. Even if I had been taping all this, it wouldn’t have helped, because the way he had me positioned, with my face against his chest, I couldn’t actually speak.

His hands were on my shoulders, holding me in place. A leg was pressed between mine, to stop me wriggling out. And his crotch wasn't simply pressed very noticeably up against my hip. It was undulating too, a slow gyration that left me in no doubt where his brain had migrated to this evening. Warm night, light cotton pants. I could feel the heat coming off him in waves.

Decision time. Not just for me, either. For every girl who has found herself in this kind of position. Remember, deep down you know the guy isn’t bad. He didn’t set out this evening (or, at least, I hope he didn’t) intending to rape a girl on their first date, no matter how hard it is to believe that right now. It’s like there’s a switch somewhere in his psyche, which is flicked when the blood starts to rush from his head, a switch which doesn’t so much transform him into an irresistible sex machine, so much as it turns the girl into a fired up rampant nymphomaniac, who only needs his sweet talk (and a hand on his “it”) to awaken all of her naughtiest impulses. You know you want it really.

It’s his fault for not being able to control that instinct, but it’s not his fault that it’s there in the first place.

So. Three choices. Do you continue to struggle and risk escalating the situation from badly crossed signals to violence or worse?

Do you “give” him what he wants and see if you can get him off with nothing more than a handjob?

Or do you go limp in his arms and, when he thinks you’ve stopped playing “hard to get,” you knee him in the nuts as hard as you can, follow through with a high-heeled kick in the face, and then run as fast as you’ve ever run in your life?

At home, a half tearful taxi ride later, my mind was filled with visions of the third choice, and once I’d ordered the pepper spray, I started checking out self-defense classes in town.

In bed, after a furious half an hour spent frenziedly writing in my journal (it was too late to call any friends, I’d decided), I couldn’t sleep for fear of dreams that might take me into the heart of the first choice.

But in reality, I had been very, very close to opening door number two. So close that I was already trying to free my arm so I could reach down and get things started. Which was when he suddenly pushed me back, condemned me as “a cheap fucking cock tease,” and then delivered that final, parting blow.

“I was told that you were fun.”

I didn’t, in the end, take those self-defense classes. I did pick up the pepper spray, but it’s still in my closet, not in my purse. And I didn’t tell the friend who introduced us what happened. Partly, because I didn’t want to upset her, or make her feel bad about placing me in that position.

But mostly, because I didn’t want her to hear his side of the story.

How my leg had been pressed against his all night long.

How I hadn’t objected when he put his arm round me.

How I talked him into joining me as I walked a darkened block of stores.

How I didn’t say a word as he nuzzled my neck.

And how, if he hadn’t stopped me by stepping away, I’d have given him a handjob there and then. Yes, given. Because he didn’t even need to ask.

You see? It all comes down to language; it all comes down to words. But I learned a valuable lesson that night that I should have picked up a decade before. If things start getting out of control, and you find yourself being backed into an uncomfortable wall (literally or figuratively), you should never be frightened to make a fuss.

Because it's better to cause an embarrassing scene in public, than to be the star of a crime scene in an alleyway someplace.


I just realized this was my 50th article for SexIs. If I'd known beforehand, I'd have chosen a more cheerful topic to write about


Hey, don't worry about cheerful! This was an amazing article. I enjoyed it!!


thank you Kendra



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