Don't Be A Slut: You're Rejecting my Penis

Sexual pressure. Pressure to have sex. Pressure to feel sexually attracted to Conspiracy. Guilt because I did not.

As our relationship became more and more dysfunctional – or, to be more precise, as I became more and more aware that our relationship was dysfunctional – I wanted to have sex with Conspiracy less and less.

It wasn't that Conspiracy was a bad lover. He wasn't. He was, in fact, my first orgasm.

But increasingly, he was a man I didn't feel safe sharing myself with.

There were always outbursts. An innocent comment could spontaneously combust into a mushroom cloud. He'd been known to verbally confront one or another of his male friends, accusing him of flirting with me. And the same thing that got me praised one day could get me criticized on another.

I was always walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around his temper in the place I called home.

During my brief fling with Poet, Conspiracy and I had said we'd go back to just being friends. This arrangement turned out to be temporary, transitory, fleeting – because I was the only one who truly accepted the arrangement. Conspiracy quickly changed it back to us "being great friends and lovers."

He didn't react well as I began to pull away from him, both emotionally and sexually.

I became quieter and quieter and quieter around him. Silence was my only protective weapon. The less I said, the less chance I'd trigger an eruption. But the less I felt heard, the less I wanted to open up in his bed.

It came to a head one night while we were watching Martin, a popular 1990's black sitcom. That night's episode was about the main couple sharing a bed after agreeing to abstain from sex for two weeks. I giggled when Gina, the girlfriend, rolled over, sliding her booty all the way over to Martin's side of the bed, while he struggled with the twin emotions of frustration and temptation.

Conspiracy did not laugh.

"You may be laughing, but that's exactly how I feel." In his trademark staccato, he described his level of sexual frustration. And he ended with a startling accusation: "YOU'RE REJECTING MY PENIS!"

On the long list of things I did wrong, Conspiracy was adding penis cruelty – in all caps.

In my head, I began rebelling against the ridiculousness of that statement. Did it mean that I didn't have the right to say no to sex? Did he really blame me 100 percent for our sexual issues? Was his penis some precious specimen that was supposed to be immune to rejection? Who was doing the rejecting, me or my p*ssy? Did he really see himself as the victim and me as the victimizer?

All of that whirled silently between my ears.

Practically nothing came out of my mouth.