The Difference Between Bad Sex and Rape
By Samantha May
For Bean, who lives in sunshine and the smell of outdoor things.
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that you don’t remember the details of the day you had bad sex fourteen years later.
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that fourteen years later, you don’t still get angry about bad sex.
Years after bad sex, you can forget the person even existed until some random conversation with an old friend when you laugh and say, “Ohhh, that guy! I forgot he even existed.”
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that the memory of bad sex doesn’t make your stomach twist.
Your stomach doesn’t twist remembering the oppressive wet heat of the subway station at 3 a.m. that night in July, waiting to take the train back with him to Hoboken from the rooftop party in New York City that made you feel fancy (but only when you focused on the idea of it and shut out the loneliness, the self-consciousness, the scornful sidelong glances of everybody who seemed to be faulting the 20-year old girl for being there, and not the 30-year old man who brought her.)
Wasn’t it just bad sex? Women make mistakes. We do things we regret, and that’s how we learn to be smarter, less naive, more careful, avoid those situations. Should’ve known better.
The glittering allure of a casually sophisticated Manhattan weekend. Ignore that sinking feeling as you try to find street parking in the shitty little suburb of New Jersey (this is not New York City). Ignore the desire to walk back out the door as he kisses you hello (this is not comfortable). Ignore the filth in the corners of the shower as you wash off the anxious sweat of the six-hour drive (this is not the grown-up apartment you imagined), ignore anything that suggests perhaps this was a mistake. Ignore the yearning to turn right around and drive home because it’s too late, you’re too tired, and, after all, he’s the best friend of your best friend’s new husband, he’s from Spain, it’s all very sophisticated (quit being a baby.) Don’t act like a stupid 20-year old girl, he’s a 30-year old man and you already slept with him once before. It’s fine, it’ll be fun, you’re just tired.
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that you don’t have to convince yourself it’s fine.
Inside, you’re already saying no I don’t want this when you get on the train to go across the river into the city; you’re saying no I don’t want this as you pass the bags of garbage spilling onto the sidewalk; you’re saying no I don’t want this to his hand on the small of your back leading you through the dismissive looks of other murmuring 30-year olds. Inside, you’re already narrating the night to drown out the no:
You took a weekend trip to New York to see this hot guy, he’s 30 and European, you met at a wedding a few months before, he was a groomsman and you were a bridesmaid, isn’t that funny? He took you to a rooftop party in the city, the view was amazing, there were strings of lights and potted trees and these huge gorgeous flowers and you felt so small and alone when you went inside to hide in the bathroom and wait no don’t tell that part.
Even before you leave the party, you’re thinking how much you don’t want to have sex. You feel so tired and small and alone; it‘s so late and you feel so far away. And you still have to take the train back across the river back to New Jersey, back to the tiny apartment with soccer pennants on the walls and filth in the corners of the shower. (This is not how it feels to be sophisticated. This is how it feels to be young and clumsy and achingly naive.) You stare some more at the lights and the potted trees and the funny thing is, later, the one detail you can’t remember is whether or not the roof actually had a view of the city. Isn’t that funny?
Even late at night in July, underground subway stations in New York have this thick wet blanket of heat. Oppressive, pressing in at you. Like a steam room or a sauna but with less health benefits and more stench of garbage, flickers of rats darting through shadows, men slouching in corners. Since that night, you’ve never felt the weight of that airless heat without getting dizzy and nauseous. You’ve ridden trains late at night in DC, Boston, London, but New York subway stations make you want to throw up after 10 p.m..
You lean against a warm metal pole for close to an hour, waiting for the train. You pretend to fall asleep on the train ride home. Even though it’s nearly 4 a.m. and you drove six hours and had two, maybe three drinks at a party where nobody spoke to you, even though your body feels like it’s sinking into an abyss of fatigue, you never quite slip over the edge into sleep because you’re too aware that he’s expecting to fuck you. You pretend to be sleeping the whole way; you pretend not to notice him trying to kiss you. You nestle into his arm, hoping this will endear you to him, that he will take the hint, that he will let your tired body just rest in his small dank bedroom that is somehow both blank and messy.
Oh, child.
You never really believed it would work.
You’re lying facedown on the bed the whole time.
The bottom sheet is dark brown. There is one pillow and two cheap throw blankets, neither big enough to cover your body. Everything about this bed leaves you exposed.
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that you don’t remember the color of the sheets.
You lie facedown after getting back to the apartment. You don’t move. You pretend to be asleep. It’s past 4, nearly 5 a.m. He nuzzles your ear, undresses you just enough for what he wants. You don’t move or moan or make a sound and he doesn’t miss a stroke, doesn’t even pause when he asks if you’re awake. You mumble something into the mattress. Years later, you realize your answer was irrelevant.
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that he doesn’t care whether you’re awake.
It’s not rape, that’s ridiculous. It’s a sophisticated weekend trip to NYC to see this sexy older man, European, the best friend of your best friend’s new husband. Remember how dazzled you felt when he chose you that night of the wedding – peeling off the suit he looked so handsome in, lifting the skirts you ran laughing in, down the hill of the golf course to kiss in the grass, half-empty glass of chardonnay splashing your hand. This isn’t rape, it’s a STORY, a laugh, an adventure, a sexy sophisticated weekend fling.
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that you make up a different story.
The truth is that you regretted the whole thing as soon as you got there, even before you left for the party in the city. The truth is you don’t want to be there. The truth is you don’t want to be having sex and you hoped he’d get the hint because you‘re reliant on his good graces, good mood, hospitality, and he’s 30 and you’re 20 and you’re six hours from home and it’s nearly 5 a.m. and you’ve already had sex once before, and once you’ve already done it there’s no going back, right? And the truth is you have nowhere to go.
So you pretend to be asleep. You don’t say no. You don’t say anything. You lie facedown and you don’t move. He doesn’t take the hint.
Inside, you’re already numb, your face scraping against the mattress; you mumble a reply when he asks if you’re awake. He doesn’t so much as pause. He doesn’t stop. It starts to hurt. He doesn’t notice or maybe doesn’t care – does it matter? He complains you‘re “like a dead fish,” that you were “much more fun last time.” He doesn’t use a condom.
Maybe the difference between bad sex and rape is that you keep the details a secret. From yourself, from everybody.
Later, you start avoiding your best friend when she asks why you aren’t returning his calls, when she tells you he keeps asking about you, tells you how much he likes you. She lives in a different state anyway and now she’s married and you’d been drifting apart already and you always tell yourself that’s why the friendship fades away.
A few days later, you’re in the ER with a UTI because it’s 8:00 at night and it hurts so much it’s making your eyes water but Planned Parenthood is closed by then and 20-year olds don’t have a primary care or a gynecologist. So that’s where you go because you don’t know what else to do. You’re sitting there waiting in the Emergency Room and reruns of a game show are on TV and you’re seething. You’re fucking seething with rage that this dirty dirty motherfucker gave you an infection, just to add insult to (unnamed) injury. You are hot with anger, fighting hot angry tears. Anger at him, anger at the UTI, hot anger at yourself for being so stupid, for being so naive, so fucking angry and small and alone and dizzy with the airless heat. The anger comes flooding back every time you look at the medical bills you get in the mail from having to go to the fucking ER because you’re a stupid 20-year old girl who doesn’t even have a doctor, a stupid 20-year old girl who should’ve known better.
For months, the bills keep arriving with grim regularity. You shove them aside, shove your anger aside, ignore that sinking feeling, ignore all of it, ignore it all. You don’t start paying the bills until they stop arriving and you start getting phone calls from a collection agency.
It takes seven years for the delinquent charges to stop damaging your credit.
It takes fourteen years to start asking yourself, was it bad sex or rape?
About the Author:
Samantha May is a writer, educator, and queer person based in California. Her work has been selected for inclusion in the annual Harvard 'ALANA Anthology' and the 'Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans.' She refuses to protect the guilty.
About All Accounts:
All Accounts and Mixture is an annual online feature celebrating the work of LGBTQIA+ writers and artists. For this series, we seek work from authors who self-identify as "queer," while acknowledging that this designation is subjective and highly personal. Our goal is to provide a forum for writers whose voices might be mis- or underrepresented by the literary mainstream. Submissions are open from June 1 to July 1. Poetry, prose, visual art, reviews and interviews will all be considered. Visit Submittable for more details.