pitchfork poisoning
sadly, the events as follows are true. luckily, i'm a masochist with a sense of humor.
monday morning. 1 something in the a.m. i hop in the backseat of one stranger's car to reach another stranger's home. around halfway through the ride there, he texts me.
"what does your slut outfit look like?"
it's january and i've been practicing brutal honesty.
my response is a long sleeve and jeans. it's freezing. what else would i be wearing, and what the hell is a "slut outfit"? if he means something purposefully tantalizing, the black lace up corset and knee-high leather boots that typically reside in the back of my closet are reserved for faithful girlfriends of 6+ months, not random brooklyn bros you meet online.
i hop out and the ridgewood street is expectedly silent. i message that i'm here and he comes down, tall, awkward, and fidgety as hell. he doesn't do this often. it's easy to gauge, it's written all over the speed of his speech. i go in and assess the scene. a small what i assume is an ikea bought couch. a massive shelf of books he's never read or will but thinks he should own. a smoky haze swirling around the room.
"is everything okay?'
rhetorical.
my sixth sense was ringing. i knew better. i paid $17 dollars for the uber to get here. i ignore my intuition. intuition doesn't cum. spoiler alert, that night, neither do i.
"yeah, i've been stoned all day. i cooked before."
open a window. idiot.
we sit on the couch. i try to make conversation. pretend i don't notice the way he's leaning towards me, studying my face and frame like predator to prey. he was eager for what our sexting from the hour before alluded to, and i get that, but i was raised in the southern tradition of exchanging meaningless pleasantries and holding hands to say grace before a meal. couldn't we at least pretend even for a moment to care about each other's humanity?
no. the hard and definitive answer is no.
bang. bang. bang.
it's his neighbor, who off the bat i can tell is an eccentric character in this dude's life.
"sorry to interrupt, but you two are gonna wanna get out of here. there's a carbon monoxide leak. a fire in the basement. better to be cold than be in here and…you know." eyes wide he makes a gesture demonstrating someone kicking the bucket, most likely both of us.
carbon. monoxide. leak.
i could have died in the ridgewood apartment of some flannel wearing random, from carbon fucking monoxide, and not even know it. his detector wasn’t going off and sadly for me i’m not the best at recognizing the scent of poisonous gas.
what a sad and pathetic way to go. do better by us next time, alyse. just, do better.
it's a long two hours ahead. let's get straight to the highlights shall we.
he suggests we go for a walk to distract from our almost fate, while his neighbors call the landlord and whoever else it took to solve the chaos. don’t ask me why i don’t take this as a sign to leave and quickly. just, don’t. we begin strolling, he goes to hold my hand. how sweet. he pulls me by the arm and swings me towards a brick wall, pushing me up against it. kissing me, he animalistically grabs at my chest in a way that hurts, shaking each of my breasts like a child with a snowglobe or a magic 8 ball. i was an object, or worse, simply home to objects, plural. a sentient set of body parts for the using and taking. now i like a rough and rowdy hookup as much as the next guy, but you know, you talk about it first. you set limits. you don't do…that.
i thought i'd known what i was signing up for. anonymous sex with a stranger, not the role of sex doll #3. straight to shooting. no audition.
skip.
he fucks me in a nearby park against a tree, while i disassociate to stunning views of the city skyline. "wow i should really come here again sometime", i think to myself.
skip.
sometime later, we’re back where it's warm, in his bed. the carbon monoxide is gone. the apartment deemed safe. he slumps back against the wall.
"i just came."
he announces, sporting a look that says "i'm deep in philosophical thought."
you can't be fucking serious. he is.
he stays this way for much too long, i turn to face the wall.
exhausted. used. irritable.
i remain in this position until the disappointment wears off. it doesn't, yet i move anyway. i sit up and ask for a t-shirt. you know. a memento, to remember the occasion, because this was just so damn special. he moves to fulfill my request.
"so…how many guys have you been with?" he says digging through a drawer.
i'd mentioned earlier in our texts that i've been identifying as a lesbian for the last five to six years, but for the last 3 months identifying as having an existential crisis. spending my days trying things just because i hadn't dabbled in them yet, and i'll do almost anything for the bit of all.
word to the wise, don't dabble. dabbling is overrated.
"one."
consensually. i'm hesitant to add, but refrain. why does he need to know me that well.
"so it's kind of like…i took your penis virginity"
"penis virginity" you're 27 years old, and you just said in full sincerity the words "penis virginity". i think to myself, no not at all, that's quite literally not the case. how presumptuous. how binary. how…fucking stupid. if you are not the first, you are simply not at all.
"ha. yeah, you and that other guy should start a club."
the shirt he hands me is white, with a red colored graphic on the front of a record being spun on a turntable.
"thanks. where did you get it?"
"a while back. at the pitchfork music festival."
of course he did.