pitchfork poisoning (revised edition)
sadly the events as follows are true. luckily, i'm a masochist with a sense of humor.
it's 1 something in the a.m. technically monday morning. what a way to start the week. i shower, apply a wash of dark burgundy to my lips, and get in the car, making sure to check its license plate first. why does riding in some stranger’s car to reach another stranger's home have to be any more risky than it already is? 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. i think to myself 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 lovers of 6 plus months, not one-offs with pornstaches that 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. he doesn't do this often and neither do i, but it's easy to gauge with him. it's written all over the speed of his speech. he leads me up some stairs and down a hall like a tour guide. i go in and assess the scene as i untie my shoelaces. 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 there. i ignore my intuition. intuition doesn't cum. spoiler alert, that night, neither do i.
"yeah, i've been smoking all day and i cooked before you came."
i wished he'd thought to open the window.
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 and 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 the 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 odorless 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 so 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, and 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. but in some worlds, i suppose, those two are the same thing.
next!
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.
next!
sometime later, we’re back where it's warm, in his bed. the carbon monoxide long 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, but alas 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'd 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." my voice laced with sarcasm.
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.