By Leslie Wolter
I used to use sex as a weapon. Although there were certainly moments to be savored, for the most part I hated the deep probing into places that could make me feel weak, vulnerable, reduce me to pathetic tears at the time of orgasm. I wanted control to decide when and how to be moved, usually ended up not moved at all.
I used to scan crowds for men to fuck. Not because I was attracted to them, in fact often I found them repulsive or laughable, and many times was most intrigued when thinking of the various ways I could demean myself by coupling with them. I worked in the campus library, and would feign boredom as I looked around and made lists of the types of men I could fuck. I would chronicle how they might smell, taste, would imagine the awkward poking of their hips, their ineffectual groping. For some reason this was a pleasure I engaged in often.
The Chinese exchange student with his tight high-water pants and glasses. He would smell like garlic and body odor. He would be a virgin and would lunge into me with years of pent up ardor, then push me away in self-loathing when it was done.
The muscular, meathead football player would let his unmanageable girth sag onto me, would secretly enjoy his power to crush and eclipse me. He would pound my body with forceful fury, and clutch the bed or the sheets instead of me. After he came, he would roll off and add me to the list of whores banged, desperate to forget how badly he had needed it.
The silver-eyed poet with the long, greasy hair who would smell like cigarettes and patchouli. He would stroke my arm and extol the beauty of my porcelain skin, but would poke his sad penis into me with the same tired frenzy as any other man.
These lists took up pages in my journal and made me feel a sense of control. I would read them and laugh and be able to forget the hollowness, the disgust that would ultimately accompany such encounters. Fucking strangers in my mind, conquering them one by one, made me stronger, more able to face the truth that I was always a woman in a society that reviles women.
I would not be a victim of the boyfriend who went out to return drunk with his friends every night and would come to me past midnight with sex on his mind. He thrust into me so hard and so long once that there was blood on his dick and he kept going. He rolled over and passed out, and left me with nothing but a throbbing heat between my legs and some blood on my thigh.
I would not be a victim of the feeling that enjoying sex meant I was a whore, not enjoying it meant I was frigid, boring, dried up, useless.
I would not be a victim of eyes that slid along my body and sized up my curves in relation to their ability to provide satisfaction, a warm hole suitable for fucking and some soft places suitable for grabbing while fucked.
I would not be a victim of the fear that accompanies walking anywhere at night, every man a potential rapist.
I would not be a victim of a man who can lie, can look in your face and say you touch his soul, who can fuck you and then never look at you again.
And so I would fuck with force, with anger, power fucking not expected from a woman. I would fuck because I wouldn’t BE fucked, wouldn’t sit waiting to be sized up or ignored, forced or cajoled or lied to. Although I would certainly not say that was a healthy place for me, I sometimes think it wouldn’t hurt to visit it once again.
© 2006 Leslie Wolter