sawr mhilk: Sex and Writing Rules Men Have Inspired, Like, Kind Of, An Alphabetical Series
Paul pushes me.
The duvet is somewhere on the floor.
Nude, I’m here because I trusted him, or something about him.
I didn’t trust him a week ago.
We’ve been colleagues for six months, ever since I moved to Montreal.
Paul is one of the only people I know in Montreal. My experience of him so far has exacerbated my longing for home.
Paul has always put me down. My looks, my work.
For years to come, and maybe forever, I will always think of Paul when I think of my body.
In this moment, he’s just pushed me, I crawl away, two crawl lengths to the edge of the bed.
“Maybe we should take a little break, ok?”
He means, too much fucking. I thought. Fucking was good.
I heard a joke recently. A comedian featured in a special known as the “The Kings of Comedy”, the most recent version, I don’t remember any other joke performed in the entire ninety minutes of the comic experience but I remember him saying, “And ladies, what’s with this,” as he turns around, bends over, and puts his fingers between his legs, wiggling them, like hair. Asshole hair.
His joke made me miss my appointments to my hair removal salon in Toronto. “Between the cheeks”, they call it.
Paul pushes me away and I remember this joke, a man bent over, his ass facing the audience, his finger-hair waving at us.
I turn to face Paul.
He gets up.
In the dark, I can see the slant of his thin torso. His ribs.
I retrieve the duvet, wrap it around my belly, my breasts.
Target practice is over.
The end instigated by my eagerness to prove that I am worth having.