opposable thumbs. Shut up brain, shut up brain. Simon gently guides my pelvis up to try and take off my skinny jeans. He does marvellously, until they get stuck on my shins. I lean down to help him.
‘No,’ he smacks my arms away and yanks.
Shocked, I say, ‘I was just trying to help.’
‘Well don’t.’
He struggles to get them off a while longer, muttering, ‘What the fuck are these things?’ Then, once he’s finally yanked them off my feet, he beams at me, all cocky and voila! Like he didn’t just smack me. Like I was supposed to find being told off sexy.
I’m not sure what to do so I lean up and kiss him, craving tenderness for counterbalance. But he wraps my hair around his fist, pulling me towards him roughly, using his other hand to try and unclip my bra. I know this one has a tricky clasp and he’ll struggle but I’ve learnt that he won’t appreciate any pointers. So I run through all the things I like about him to try and get myself back into it, pretending it’s not taken over a minute now for him to get the hang of it: Simon always replies to my messages within an appropriate level of time. He makes me laugh. He is not like other people who work in finance. I remember how hard we giggled on our first date because the waiter was so incompetent and kept ignoring us. I remember how, on our second date, he turned up holding a bunch of tulips because I’d told him they were my favourite. I remember the lovely message he sent me last week, when I had to rain check because I got struck by the office lurgy, telling me to get well soon. Nobody is perfect, I think to myself, as he rummages himself out of his boxers and silently instructs me to slide out of my knickers. I’m so lucky I’ve met him, I think to myself, as I wait propped on my elbows while he faffs around with the condom. This could really be the start of something, I think to myself, as he leans me back. I take three, subtle, deep breaths just as he’s about to enter me, stressing that it won’t work that it will hurt that it will be awful and my life is ruined … but … oh thank God he’s made it in and we’re having sex. I sigh in relief, my entire body relaxing. Simon mistakes the sigh for satisfaction and lets out a matching one. He pulls my face towards him to stare into my eyes. That’s nice actually. I like that. It’s tender and real and safe for two whole minutes of missionary. But then his eyes leave mine, his face closes off, and he gets rougher, thrusts more forcefully, like it doesn’t matter if I’m there at all. Why do they always do this? Why? I need him to look at me. I need him to see me. I need to feel like this is something. But the porn urge has overridden him and I feel like nothing once more and I’m losing it, spiralling away from this room and him and into the darkness, holding on by my fingernails.
But it’s about to get worse. He pulls out and, without asking, without checking, without kissing me or showing me any tenderness at all, he starts arranging me into the doggy position. It’s so cold and unfeeling and no, no! Where has he gone? Why is he acting like I’m not here? My anxiety builds and builds, my stomach curdling as he yanks my hair. The nice man I thought I could fall in love with is gone and I panic …
I can’t.
I freeze. Primitively suspended in the moment. Fear soaking through me.
He doesn’t notice, or maybe he’s pretending not to notice. Either way, he’s getting ready to start again, despite me stiffening up, but no …
No no no.
Not this way.
Please not this way.
The white wallpaper.
No. But oh God.
This will be so much easier, so much easier if I just go along with it.
But I can’t.
I can’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ I squeal. I roll myself over so I’m no longer bent over the bed. I fight the urge to kick him away and run out of the room.
‘What the hell?’
I glance up to see panic bleed across his face. His mouth hanging open, lips slightly curled.
Shit. I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it. I’m terrified and want