By: Joey Bender

I was alone, sad, and bored when a message from her came. I knew I shouldn’t reply—I didn’t really like her all that much, and I’m pretty sure she felt the same. But it was good enough; at least it was sex, I told myself. I never felt any better afterwards, but still, it was something.

I was lying on the couch in my underwear. I was thin, probably too thin. Jiu-Jitsu really saved me—at least I looked fit, not skinny and soft like I used to. Most people didn’t know Jiu-Jitsu makes your body feel like shit most of the time. It helped a lot with my mind, though—kept it kind of sane.

“It’s open!” I yelled. She barged in, already screaming.

Her name was Vicky. She had an alluring figure, full natural curves, and a captivating silhouette.

“Hey there,” she said with her usual displeasure. “The bus ride was horrible… people stink… and everyone is so loud!” She was shouting in my apartment. I didn’t really say anything, just “hi.”

“So what are you watching? Want to watch something together? You seemed a little down when we texted. Want to talk about something? Or let’s just fuck?” she said, punctuating the question by straddling me.

I thought about it for a minute. It seemed we didn’t really like talking to each other. It was confusing.

“Let’s fuck,” I said slowly. I stood up with her wrapped around me and carried her to the bedroom.

We lay in bed and started kissing. It was weird—kind of passionate but also mechanical. She stopped me after a few minutes and began taking off her clothes.

“No deep lingering, right? You remember what I like, yeah?” she asked.

I did. I took my clothes off too and touched her the way she told me she liked. I wasn’t sure I liked it, though. Sex with her always felt mechanical. I knew what she liked after a few times, and I just went for it. She did the same—bare minimum. It always felt like she was doing me a favor. I never understood why.

I tried my best, and by her reactions, I succeeded—especially with my hands. She liked it when I went down on her, when I fingered her. It made me work hard, but I didn’t care. Her reaction mattered more to me than my own pleasure.

After making sure she came, I tried to enter her, but after a few strokes, it fell out. I felt horrible. It wasn’t the first time. After Vicky helped a bit, I managed to restart and came pretty quickly.

She went to wash up, came back, and rested her head on my chest.

“My boss hates me,” she started. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy demands that fucker has.”

It was the usual. She went on about her coworkers, her gay friend, her parents. She complained a lot. I knew better than to give advice—it just led to fights. Still, I always felt weird. If this was only about sex, why did she care so much about my opinion?

So I nodded along, agreed with her, told her she was right to be angry.

“Was the sex all right?” I asked, trying to shift the conversation.

“You always ask that… Yes, it was fine. I came. I don’t know why your dick isn’t cooperating, but it happens all the time.”

Then she launched into a story about some guy she used to sleep with—how he took pills or something. I’d already heard that story.

She also told me someone tried to rape her when she was a teen—a kid from her hometown. She never filed a complaint, and it seemed he didn’t do anything to anyone else, or at least didn’t get caught. They’d grown up in the same town. She saw him on Facebook. He was married, had kids.

I wondered if he really meant to rape her, or if it was just a kid getting carried away. She hit him and ran. He never tried anything again.

“I’m so fucking disgusting. Who thinks that way?” I got angry at myself.

“I think he’s staring at my ass too—that fucking creep,” she muttered, circling back to her boss.

She thought most men were creeps, that most of them harassed her. Maybe she was right. Maybe not. I didn’t know. But I knew not everyone was out to get her. She was just hard, angry, and bitter.

At first, I was scared she’d get too attached or fall in love. She got mad at the suggestion and stormed off. Another time, I asked her to leave before my mother and sister arrived—I didn’t want to explain this situation. She got angry and stormed off again, said I was ashamed of her.

I never understood it. I wasn’t ashamed of her. I was ashamed of me.

We fell asleep like that—she complaining, me overthinking.

In the morning, I barely said a word. It was always before we separated that things exploded.

“Why are you acting weird?” she asked.

“I always say something dumb and you get upset… I’m just trying not to provoke.”

“Fuck you. Are you saying I’m hardheaded?” she snapped.

“No, no. It’s probably something I do… I just hate that it always ends on that note,” I tried to explain.

Too late. The door slammed.

Is this the last time I’ll see her? I wondered.

She wrote a few days later.