I want to be very clear that this particular post is riddled with triggers. Though I do not write about his subject lightly, I do believe that these experiences need a broader voice and exposure. This happens too often to consider this, our country of collegiate “hunting grounds” and side street predators, a free and safe one.
In light of this, I disclose the following:
**TW: Stealthing, sexual assault, and display of sexual predatory behaviors.
I knew he was bad news when I picked him up. Twenty extra minutes navigating had my sense off kilter and I took my gut’s screaming as an effect of butterflies. I feel I should known it was my body’s alarm. Instincts gone amuck.
He told me he lived in Lexington when we started chatting on the app. He told me about his band and pregnant band-mate. He told me a lot of things those few days. A lot of lies.
Cue foreshadowing of doom and my would-be downfall.
Jason, 29, Lexington was a baldie in denial about more than the toilet bowl barely growing from his oily scalp. He thought he could trick random girls into paying for rooms; they would drive from miles around to hear his reality erasing, Freddie Mercury dissing, general mansplaining, pretentious cisgender straight, white boy bullshit. He thought right in my case.
He claimed to be able to “chip in” half a room. This turned into just $20. By the time we made it to the Capital in Frankfort, the only open room in the tri-county area (thanks Bluegrass Stakes) he was suddenly flat broke. But he was “so grateful” I was “willing to cover room, just this once.” He “promised to pay me back asap,” of course! And I was too horny, too frustrated to refuse him.
Then I was too tired, when we made it to the room, to make the trek to my trunk where the spare condoms live. It was cool though because he had one on him.
I insisted, in my insecurity, to do it in the dark. The ambiance made me feel more at ease. His phone barely left his hands.
Pay attention here; I sure wish I had.
He was already naked when when he turned toward my nude form. He (pretended to) fiddle with a condom then slip it over his erection: his far from impressive erection that I’d caught a glimpse of as he undressed. His hand didn’t raise far above his pelvis as he (feigned) put on the condom (that non-existent condom) and entered me.
I was so ready and it honestly felt good to be (barely) filled again. Too good, but I didn’t notice it then. I didn’t notice a lot those maybe two minutes, but I know I’ll never not notice again; I swear it to my future self.
After partaking in MY weed, occupying MY hotel room for maybe half an hour; after calling and texting his ex/roommate/”business partner” about “a deal” she apparently couldn’t negotiate without his expertise with the “client” for much of that time, he insisted I drive him another half hour back to their home. I was exhausted, but I agreed.
He received the full cold shoulder, not even thawed by bong hits or self induced orgasms. The ride to his house was quite save his amateurish guitar strumming and my asking him to (once again) removed his nasty ass BARE FEET from off of NEWLY DETAILED dashboard. Douche. I barely spoke to contain my rage out of utter shame and disappointment. This was not the first time I was used and it would not be the last.
Then started, stupidly chattering about this business deal. Apparently his “business deal” was drugs. Not just any drugs: heroine. The same substance that killed a friend’s sister and countless others in my state. FUCK. HIM. His kids lived in that house: he was bringing junkies in to move (and no doubt get strung out on) some lack tar. No wonder soles were black. I imagine his soul is as well.
I ignored my every nerve ending screaming to drop his ass on the side the road. Why didn’t I abandon his dope-dealing ass out of my car? Jesus, Past Anna, get a fucking grip! He was not worth the air breathed or the space he wasted with his occupancy, much less my time.
When he was out of my car I pulled into a drive way across the street and promptly scraped Camille’s front end. Again. My put car puts up with so much from me. Bumps; exes slamming her doors, bashing her dash, throwing her windows off kilter; feet. Compass Bird Drive is short and despite the name’s implication only ran two directions; I took the one taking me the fuck out of there, the way I came.
I’m growing upset from reliving this. I’ll be sure to continue this entry later.