Transatlanticism// little white ego box

There’s a saying that you should treat potential lovers like serial killers. What does that mean? I’ll clarify. There’s a phenomenon regarding a slightly odd behaviour observed in the anecdotes of young women who survived encounters with men who later turned out to be serial murderers of other unfortunate females. The killer tells their victim in some way, what their intent is. That’s to say, whatever things your potential lover accidentally tells you in the early stages of your encounters, you should BELIEVE THEM. 
     Getting ready to leave my apartment was a little surreal. I was not meeting this man through friends. I was not meeting this man through an accidental shared interest. I did not meet him at a society meeting, or a book shop or even in a bar. 

The word transaction sprang to mind. I had certainly had casual sex before but not like this. Not meeting someone with the sole intent to let them fuck me for the afternoon. But there I was. Doing it. I’d scrolled through dozens of men and spoken to more than a few. A wanton afternoon of curiosity quickly turned into an arduous task. No one interesting enough really. 
But I managed to choose someone all the same.
I had more than an agenda as the conversation progressed. I didn’t just let the conversation go wherever. I steered it. He seemed nice, maybe a little shy. But enjoyable levels of sarcasm and some interests similar to my own pushed me forward. Emboldened me. I found myself saying all sorts of things, and meaning them. 
We exchanged numbers. And then a mutual declaration of intent. A frank discussion about sexual health. We set a day, a time. And that time was now.
I’m a cocky fuck. Not much rattles me. But I was a little squirmy. I sauntered along in the sun, towards the meeting place, headphones in. But there was an undercurrent, for sure. A pulling, somewhere behind my belly button. 
He’s Canadian. Well educated. Not in my field, something very different in fact. I pushed my food around on my plate, not particularly hungry- no place for food. I was attracted to him, pretty immediately. 
We didn’t waste too much time before going back to his place. I used the bathroom and when I came out the curtains were drawn, and he was sat in a somewhat arrogant manner in his office chair. Regarding me the way I imagine he would regard an interviewee. But there was something very sexual about it. It made my cheeks a little warm to realise I kind of liked being observed like a commodity. All shades of wrong.
Under the façade of a joke I sunk to my knees on the floor, and he lunged at me, pushing me to the ground. I wanted him to hurt me a little. Why was I allowing the dynamic to change so much? Why was I so…..differently inclined by now? I didn’t really have time to consider the answers to these questions. Every time he hit me, I smiled and asked for more. 
I let him direct the encounter. I let him restrain my hands in handcuffs, whip me, bite me. He fucked me so hard it made my head spin. I’ve never slept with someone from North America before. And it pained me to admit it to myself but I felt my toes curl every time he told me in his Yankee voice that I was being a good girl as I obeyed his orders.
I’m an egalitarian. I’m not a sad victim of the patriarchy. I know what I like and what I don’t. But I liked this.
The next day, I went to his place again. Just until midnight. I wanted to fuck him again. I wanted to feel his hands on my forearms, pressing me down. How humiliating for someone like me to want such things.
Then a series of events led me to spend four days in his bed. 

I’m torn by my predicament. I was being loose. That’s how this started. I was trying something different. But I can’t deny that when he asks me now if I like being his good girl, with his mouth so close to my ear like that, and a clever hand in my underwear, I nod vehemently and I fucking mean it. Sincerely. Hearing that North American voice talking to me like he owns me…… Well, in a time of Trump and brexit, it causes me some discomfort….
It’s very different from a lot of my previous experiences. How do you reconcile yourself as a professional and as a woman, when you find yourself enjoying the feeling of a man pulling your hair and bruising your ass before he fucks you in the throat like a whore?
What a dilemma. 
When we first talked, we had the perfunctory exchange about what our expectations were. We both typed a little statement about how we weren’t looking for anything serious, but for the right person blah blah blah….and he informed me that he’s moving in four months. Fine fine fine I thought to myself, I’m used to flitting in and out of people’s lives, IDGAF right?

However. It’s not just a fuck and go situation. We hang out. We watch movies together sometimes. Our humour is actually pretty similar. Even if he is a filthy elitist compared to my free range hippie vibe. Laying in his bed, head and arm slung across his chest, I do feel something. It almost makes me want to meet his gaze, let him see me. Travelling on the train to another city close by, we earnestly discussed going on a weekend away. 
It’s like having an out of body experience, feeling this happen to me. Because I don’t remember what it was like. I don’t know what’s happening, I can’t know and neither can he. 
But i guess it would seem that how you meet someone and what kind of sex you end up having with them…it’s all good. When you see people in the streets holding hands it doesn’t cross your mind whether or not he ball gags her, or if she lets him blow his load in her hair. Because that stuff….at the end of the day, whether it’s considered degrading or not is still intimacy. It’s private. There are just loads of forms of it. No matter how uncomfortable it is to be sincere and open with somebody, the second you fuck them more than once you are slightly inviting them to see you. Terrifying, right? 

But titillating all the same.

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