I guess I could say that this blog’s been compromised. People who know my real name, who know who I am out there in real life, know it’s mine. And because that’s the case, I’ve lost all desire to put anymore of myself here. In fact, it creeps the hell out of me that as much of me as is already here is now associated with the much more complicated, walking, breathing version of me. I wish I could take it all back. And I may do so yet.
In other words, dickfuck, I can’t write here because I see your fucking invasive, boundary-challenged, irritating little IP address popping up here day after day. You went looking for this collection of missives, despite my request that you not. You told your friends about it even though a reasonable, rational person would know that this is deeply personal and therefore not the sort of thing one shares with friends — particularly not when it’s about a woman he barely knows.
This writing was always risky for me. And you, asshole, made one of my worst-case-scenarios a reality in your seeking it out. See, here’s the thing: you read this stuff– this bunch of hot air, these long show-off-y passages, these raw and pretentious letters– and you made assumptions about the sort of woman I am and the sort of sex I like. You were not right about any of it. And yet you acted as though you were, without bothering to consider whether your perceptions lined up at all with a much more complicated and conflicted reality of me.
It creeps the hell out of me that you return to read this smutty stuff, but not my other blog–where the messier, smarter, less pure-pussy version of me exists. It speaks to all my anxieties about being wanted as a fucktoy, but without being taken seriously as a fucktoy who thinks. Much less a fucktoy who doesn’t always want to be a fucktoy. But what do you care? You just want the dirty shit.
Well, guess what? You can’t have it. Not unless you steal it. Oh, wait. You already have.
You might be interested to know that what I remember of you makes me shudder. When you’d poke your head around the shower curtain without it even occurring to you that I might not want to be watched while I trimmed my fucking pubes– as though once you’d seen me naked I could never have further use for a sense of privacy around you–? What the fuck? Oh, god. Thinking about it makes me feel like I’m suffocating. How could I have let you into my house? My body? It was awful for me. Months later, my chest still feels tight every time I see that goddamn IP address.
You know, I’ve worked so hard to make myself receptive. I’ve taken pride in the all the work I’ve put into unpacking, breaking down and understanding my own limits so that I could push them without feeling predated upon. And maybe, up until you, I got lucky. People didn’t take miles when I gave them inches. Nor did they go and show my private, anonymous blog to all their fucking friends. But you? You just blindly blundered through without stopping to wonder if any of the liberties you took were, in actuality, being gladly offered to you.
They weren’t. You took far more than I had to give.
Oh, what the hell? While I’m at it, I may as well mention that I’m also still creeped out by the fact that you read my body’s autonomic physiological response as wanting you. Let me take a moment to relay a little factoid about female anatomy to you: if a woman lubricates when someone gropes her in her sleep, it does not mean she’s turned on. It means her body is trying to protect her from being ripped open by a predator. Dude, women lubricate not just when they’re hot, but also when they’re scared. It’s an evolutionary defense mechanism. I shouldn’t have had to tell you I didn’t want to be fucked at 4 in the fucking morning, when I had to get my ass up and haul it to work 2 hours later. Until you, no man had ever so much as tried to take such advantage with me. Why not? Because considerate, respectful, non-self-interested, conscientious men know better than to fuck women in their sleep, you goddamned entitled asshat!
What was wrong with me? My radar is usually so much better than this. My life has been populated with such good men because I have such good radar. How could I have let you slip through?
I don’t know. Perhaps it was, in part. their goodness, their conscientiousness, their respect, their attention to me and my needs that left me unprepared for a man like you. Vulnerable in a way I shouldn’t have been. Shouldn’t be. Bless them for that. Fuck you for taking advantage of the trust-well those men had so generously filled up inside me.
I compromised. I was compromised. My borders. Compromised. Fuck you. I hate myself for it. Fuck you
Oh, yeah, that’s it. The worst part: I’m furious with myself for not having opened my mouth, for lying there in my sleepy haze, thinking, surely not! Surely every 21st Century man knows that consent isn’t an absence of a “no,” but rather, a presence of a “yes.” But you didn’t know that. And you didn’t ask. You simply took.
And your regular visitations to this site continue to take. From me. You are stealing. From me. Do you fucking understand that?
You killed this space. You bankrupted it. Despite your avowals of loving this writing, you’re the reason it can no longer exist. Simply put, I can’t write a fucking thing knowing you’ll read it. Do you understand that this space is not and was not yours? You had no right. Not to look for it and not to spread it around. None. But you made it yours and I can’t, for my life, reclaim it. And I grieve for my loss of it with an anger you’ll never understand.
Shortly, I’ll be taking all my old posts down. I don’t know what I’ll do with them. They may resurface elsewhere. Someplace safer. Someplace where neither you nor anyone else will ever know they’re mine. And they may not.
In the meantime, though, please heed my one request: go the fuck away. Forget I exist. I would already have done the same for you, if my statcounter weren’t giving me such reliable and frequent mementos of you.
You are not now and never have been welcome here.
