Wednesday, September 9, 2009

A Whiff of Violence

Now that I was "half in love" with Latin Muslim, consecrating our union was the logical first step. En route to whisking him into my dorm room on a Friday morning in December, I took him through the Yale Campus.

I'll never forget the wonder in his eyes as he drank in the sights of Yale Commons, the large, majestic main dining hall. He was surprised at all the free cereal, the unlimited second and third helpings, and last but not least, the fact that he – a convicted felon – was actually inside the rich kids' university where he was normally and emphatically not welcome.

In my dorm room, an interesting situation developed. One minute he was kissing me and unloosening my clothes, and then the next he had somehow unzipped his pants and was working on insertion.

Uh uh.

No.

Stop.

He complied without protest.

On the subject of date rape, he was an absolute gentleman.

But there was a whiff, a hint of violence in him that I could just smell. In the back of my mind, I knew it was only a matter of time before he hit me, even though I didn't voice the tiny, persistent suspicion to anyone.

A few days later, Latin Muslim quit the rehab house and pulled his first disappearing act. The next time we talked on the phone, that didn't stop him from berating me "for not trusting him enough to tell him about myself."

But that conversation ended with him saying, "I love you," as he often did. Only this time, instead of just letting it pass, I said, "I love you, too" for the first time.

Soon, he was back in my dorm room for another round of wrestling my panties to the ground. I fought him every step of the way. Not intentionally. It's just that the love-making attempts hurt.

He was an interesting mix of patience and exasperation.

"Anita, stop running from me."

"Anita, don't lock your legs on my legs. You keep doing that."

"Anita, stop using your strength. You control your vagina. When you start fighting me, you tighten up. Then I have to force my way in, and it makes you feel pain."

"Damn, girl, you wear me out. You know you're strong for a motha**ing girl."

I honestly wasn't sure whether or not I was still a virgin. There had been pain, but no blood. Wasn't there supposed to be blood? But how could I still be a virgin if a man had been inside me more than once?

(Virginity Diaries Part 6 of 11: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 Lessons Learned 1 2 3)

2 comments:

Cheron L. Hall said...

Damn.

Bri said...

My first couple experiences with sex were like this. He was 38 and white. I was in love.
I was a crazy 18 yr old.

Post a Comment