comp-het chronicles, part ii
more things you do during your first year in college a thousand miles away from home before you realize you're a lesbian
[contains sexual content]
I find him on Tinder in late 2018 using a different account from my original one because that other one got banned when I told men they had to E-Transfer me if they wanted to talk to me. That apparently āgoes against the terms and conditionsā or whatever. What a bunch of squares. Anyway.
I swipe right on him because his bio says heās bisexual, and something about that is promising and also funny to me. Queer person to queer person. Bisexual to bisexual. A silly sense of solidarity there.
We match. I message him.
Hey! Iām bi too!
He messages me back. Haha, nice. Weāre one in the same, then.
Heās nice. And heās cool and heās relaxed and not a total drag to talk to. Weāre both first years, but at different universities several miles away. Itās clear that we have similar intentions: no desire to harbor any sort of relationship while still being open to something else. After a while, he asks me if Iād like to meet up. I want this and I should want this and Iām supposed to want this. Iām seventeen and in a new country doing my first semester at a new university and all alone with nobody to stop me. So I say yes. It is so easy to say yes.
[UNNAMED] lives a two hour train ride from me, and I take it with jitters in my lungs. His campus is 36 km from mine, far up in the mountains, and the journey cuts through layers of B.C. fog thick enough to smother the earth silent. But I like it. I like the long trek, the view of ice-tipped trees through the windows, the winter air that needles into the pores of my skin to snap me rigid. Itās cold up here, colder than Iāve ever been used to, which is why Iāve wrapped myself in petals of clothing to render my body a sleeping rosehip. When I step outside of the train into the cold, cold open after two hours, I tell myself that it doesnāt matter how many layers I have on. Theyāre going to be taken off eventually anyway.
Thereās one more bus to take to get to our meeting point on his campus, and when I take it, I stare out the window again, wistful like a shitty music video from the 2000s. I have to wonder if I know what Iām getting myself into. If I know what Iām doing. The bus winds up the mountainās curves and teeters trepid on its wheels. I suck air through my teeth and taste the feeble wind filtering in through the windows. Thereās no going back now.
He meets me at the bus loop at his campus where the ground is ice-gilded and any unprotected skin shrinks into itself. [UNNAMED] is exactly like his profile picture, actually. Heās got this long black overcoat on with a wool scarf tucked into it and hands resting in his pockets. Heās done up, eye-catching. Iām immediately self conscious of my giant thrifted corduroy coat and hair frizzed up from the ride here. He asks me for my name, confirmation that Iām real.
I laugh, a nervous, diluted sound. I can see my breath curdle in little clouds.
āYeah, thatās me. Hi,ā I say.
āWow. Youāre even prettier in person.ā
Itās stupid, this is all so stupid, but I laugh anyway while my face flushes hot because itās the first time anybody has ever said something like that to me and Iām still a young girl afraid of being nothing. We grin together in this unrelenting cold. He offers me his arm.
āWanna go back to mine?ā
I take it.
[UNNAMED] has a long pine tree tattoo on his left arm that I like to trace with my pinky. I like all the intricate little lines, the fibers, all reaching outwards towards still-blank skin. Itās such a basic ass fuckboy tattoo, but for some reason, I really like it on him. It suits him.
Weāre sitting on his bed in his single dorm room talking about something or other, taking hits from his dab pen, waiting for the inevitable. [UNNAMED] has dark hair and dark eyes that are shiny as marbles and he has a handful of moles sprinkled across his face. Heās textbook pretty, nice to look at. Well kept and manicured. Even his room is meticulous, not heinously messy like youād assume a college boy would be. His closet is lined with long, thick coats, mostly dark and neutral colors. We are up in the mountains, after all.
Iām talking about something wildly unimportant when he takes a long drag from his dumb ass dab pen. Smoke gathers in his mouth, warm and thin. Before I can finish my next sentence, heālike the stupid teenagers that we areāgrabs my face and kisses it into me.
The first time it happens, Iām thinking about how good it feels to have somebody take my clothes off in a way thatās not rushed or harsh. I like how his hands are gentle and he touches my skin like he is being careful not to break it. When he unclasps my bra as if it is the easiest thing in the world, I have to stop and laugh, and he goes āwhatās so funny?ā and I go, āhowād you do that with just one hand?ā and he shrugs and laughs and keeps it a secret. And Iām thinking about how thereās no alcohol anywhere near us because he doesnāt like to drink and how, even though Iām a little bit high, Iām still here.
It hurts though. Unbearably so. But I have to do this. I have to go through with this, have to want this, do this, be this and experience this and grit my teeth and endure it because this is what college girls do, and I have to have experience with these things because if I donāt Iām just going to be this unwantable, inexperienced, sexless body forever and I want to know what Iām doing. I need to know what Iām doing and what I need to do because if I donāt then nobody will ever want to touch me or love me ever again nobody will ever ever want to love me if I canāt do this so I have to know at least this, these things, so that at least Iāll have something to offer to people that will make them want me and God I want so bad to be wanted. I have to have something, this, something, to make me wanted. And Iām already here, a boy hooking my legs around his waist, here now. I have to see this through.
āAre you okay?ā he asks me. Weāve barely started.
Iām not breathing anymore, gone all stiff like a corpse. It would be so embarrassing, I think to myself, to start crying right now.
āIt just hurts a lot.ā
He frowns and looks at me. Thereās genuine concern on his face. āIs this your first time?ā
I donāt know how to properly answer that question. I do what I can to dodge it instead, skirt around any implications and complications and avoid mentioning the other times I ended up underneath a manās body. We end up just sitting on the bed together, side by side, one of his blankets draped around my shoulders while I stare at the floor. His carpet is very clean. He must vacuum regularly.
āWe donāt have to do anything,ā he says. āWe can just sit here. Hang out. Iām okay with that. Really.ā
That sentiment alone makes me want to fuck him stupid. I pull the blanket closer into me, cover my skin, everything tender, too exposed.
āOkay,ā I say, and take a deep breath. āYeah. We can just hang out.ā
I end up in one of his t-shirts and my little pair of shorts, his arms snaked around my waist as weāre lying down with me clicked into him and watching some unmemorable TV show, and his body is warm and inviting and cozy to lean against. I trace his tree tattoo with my index and feel the blood underneath pulse. Itās so inviting, this stagnance, the way he breathes against me and does nothing but tap his fingers lazily against my hips. He waits for me to initiate, waits for me to be the one to eventually turn around and yank him closer and be the one to handle the speed of things, lets me be the one on top and in control so I can stay high in my body, and I find that sex is actually sorta fun when you have agency over whatās happening. [UNNAMED] takes everything slow and yeah I donāt finish, but for several hours, itās a good time anyway.
āThanks for being soā¦I donāt know.ā Iām putting his t-shirt back on and a good sort of tired Iāve never felt before kneads at my muscles. āPatient with me.ā
āWell, yeah,ā he says as he makes the bed. āI wouldnāt want to force anything. I want you to get some sort of enjoyment out of it too.ā
Itās the first and last time a man ever says that to me.
Itās funny. [UNNAMED] is also quite nice to talk to. He respects my boundaries (bare minimum) and we have good conversation when weāre not taking each otherās clothes off. In between our activities, he tells me all about womenās fashion, how important a silhouette is, what makes a great winter coat, New York Fashion Week 2018. He tells me about his brother with spinal problems who he cares deeply about, especially with their piece of shit dad. I tell him about my bipolar diagnosis and he isnāt afraid of me when I mention my hospitalization and even asks me honest questions about my experience. I tell him about moving so far away from home, how alone I am out here, my fear of disappearing. Strangely, he listens.
When I leave the next morning, still smelling of sex and sweat and menās cologne, he walks me to the bus stop and waits with me there.
āHey,ā he says as the bus pulls up to the station. āWill I see you again?ā
āOnly if you want.ā
āOf course I do,ā he says. āI had fun.ā
āI did too.ā
He smiles, a simple effort. āLet's do it again sometime then. Text me when youāre back home safe, hey?ā
He waves to me as the bus pulls away. I watch the trees blur into a cold-glazed green. When I get home, I imagine carving a notch into my dorm room bedpost. Another college girl checkbox complete.
He texts me on Snapchat soon after (remember: we are seventeen/eighteen and this is 2018), and we end up talking every other day or so, maybe a couple times a week. The frequency of our conversations donāt matter that much to me; my only concern is that heās accessible and willing to maintain this connection beneficial to the both of us. Strictly physical. Nothing more. I prefer it this way and I know he does too.
I donāt mind all that much if he only sees me as half a person. I donāt know that he does, but I wouldnāt care if he did because this whole thing is entirely transactional. You look so hot in that color; the things Iād do to you if I was there; when are you next free? I take it in. Catalogue each comment in my file-organized head. Iām racy and sexy and everything Iām supposed to be. Now that Iām wanted, I must finally be perfect.
The next two hour train ride a month or so later feels more like two minutes. Itās snow season now, the trees thick smudges of ink against the crush, and he has to steady me as I try not to slip on the frozen ground. As weāre walking back to his room, we pass by another boy in a long tan coat leaving footprints in the frost. [UNNAMED] leans over to me, pulls me closer the same way youād pull your friend near, and whispers to me, āI hooked up with that guy a few months ago.ā
It makes me giggle like an immature high schooler which, in a way, I still am at my age. āTop or bottom?ā
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. āUsually top, but if I have to switch, I will.ā
It makes us both laugh. Itās amusing, this shared queerness. Unexpectedly comfortable. [UNNAMED] is a great time in bed, sure, but I also donāt mind his casual company, even if it is brief. I appreciate the way he asks about my life instead of just talking about his all the time, how he takes genuine interest in the things I mention. In another timeline, maybe we were real friends.
We know each other better now, know what makes the other inhale sharp and tug hair and how to follow one anothersā curves and arches and straight lines. We both discover something that I like that nobody else has ever unlocked before because they have never cared enough to look, and he uses it excessively until Iām digging my nails into his shoulders and am seeing undiscovered colors. Heās saying my name to me and Iām pressing it back into his mouth with mine through the two-in-the-morning dark. I like the way he fits flush against me and he likes the things my hands have learned to do and neither of us want anything more than this and we both like it that way.
And [UNNAMED] teaches me about drugs. Not in the sense that he pressures me into them, but he explains the effects of some and recounts his experiences with others. (Writing this now, Iām reminded of that one tweet thatās like, āgrown men do shrooms and experience emotions that girls have been feeling since they were twelve.ā Ha.) He opens up a container with leftover smidges of cocaine and, only upon him asking for permission first, I let him rub it onto my gums. Itās barely anything, and I donāt feel the effects of it much, but itās bitter and soft and makes me smack my lips together loud and laugh. Heās no stranger to dealing pills or weed or powder and makes good side-money doing so, and he even offers his services to me if or when I need them. With his hands drawing figures in the air, he recalls the time he did DMT and apparently saw the āTree of Life,ā a vision of a big tree with the branches leading to different possibilities of his life derived from different choices, every outcome laid out before him. I watch him talk about it animatedly and think to myself that it all sounds kind of stupid, but I listen anyway because I want to fuck his brains out again later. With his knowledge of the pharmaceutical world, he breaks down the chemicals of my prescription medications I got from my stay at the hospital, and I even give him a pill or two of quetiapine to keep for himself. A weird little keepsake to hold onto or maybe consume later to combat his insomnia. He turns it over in his hands, inspects it closely as if scrutinizing the validity of a diamond, and whispers a quiet āwoahā to himself before saying thank you and adding it to his collection. Heās not disgusted or afraid of me and asks for me without taking. Itās more than I have ever known.
āI donāt think thereās anything to be ashamed of,ā he tells me when I talk again about my stint in the psych ward and how my family refuses to talk about it. āIf anything, Iād say youāre strong for going in the first place. And Iām not just saying that because I want to have sex with you,ā he adds quickly. āI do mean that.ā
And because I am small and fragile and seventeen, I take this notion and wind it around my finger tight. And I suck it up, swallow, live off of it for hours, days, the lowly little girl I am. Thereās this tightness in my throat, face charged, and I scrunch up my nose in that way that I do when I donāt know what else to say. Iām grateful though, and he knows it because my eyes are focused on his dumb tree tattoo again, tracing the branches over and over until Iāve memorized the dips and edges of them. Since my heart is still the size of a thumbnail, I lack the words. I lack substance and truth and expression. So instead, I show my appreciation in a way I know how.
At some point, I find myself on my back with a black tie wound tight around my wrists. Itās 100% silk because heās classy like that, particular about his clothing and a little homosexual with it too. Iām lying there, restrained, and as I try to pull my fists apart, he tells me how good I look when Iām held back helpless, so I stay helpless and I donāt complain when it hurts. I remind myself that fighting back is sexy but fighting too much is bad and men like it when youāre hurting and canāt do anything about it and so I should like it too. We do have a safe word but I never use it. I decide I donāt need it, that I can take whateverās given to me now. Doesnāt matter what. I can take it, and I do.
āWhat do you like?ā he asks me at a stop. Nobody else had ever asked me that.
It doesnāt take long for him to figure it out. Then, with my hands laced together above my head and my lingerie slid to the side, [UNNAMED] hooks my legs around his shoulders, pulls me forward, and devours me empty like a dog starved for days.
āWhat about you?ā I ask as he unwinds my wrists some time after. Despite his best efforts, I never actually got there, though I came pretty close. I chalk it up to the antipsychotics. We ended up doing what we usually do, and Iām sore all over again. āCan I tie you up next?ā
āOh.ā [UNNAMED] coils the silk around his knuckles. āIāve never had it done on me before, but yeah, sure.ā
He shows me how to properly knot somebodyās hands together and I put it into practice on him. I also place a sleeping mask over his eyes so he canāt look at me, only feel me, imagine whatās not there. I almost take the liberty of stuffing another tie into his mouth, but I decide against it. If he wants something that bad, he can hear himself beg for it.
Suddenly I am the most powerful person in the world. Thereās a rush, an overswell at something so new and different. Straddling his middle, I apply pressure to his throat and hear him gasp underneath me. Yes, I think to myself, matches striking where my joints lie. This is what Iāve needed.
It doesnāt last very long before heās had enough of my fun and we go back to what he prefers and what I figure is usual. Red welts stripe their way across my body among other discolored patches of skin. Iām his painting of blood and bone and for that I am pleased because itās proof that someone wanted me strong enough to leave a mark. When he falls asleep, I lie awake and count the flecks on the ceiling for a while; the image of him, eyes covered, hands restrained, had needled its way into my mind and set itself there. Itās not that I was bored before, but Iām peckish now, concerned with getting tired with the familiar. Is this what itās like? Is this what itās going to be like, now and in my future relationships and forever? At least he keeps me around and leaves me tinted fervent, even if he doesnāt always hold me after weāre done, which is fine. I have to be content with this, I remember. Itās just what I have to do.
āWhen will I see you again?ā he asks me at the bus stop, again in the cold. Always cold.
āI dunno. Iām going home to California for break. You want me to text you when Iām back?ā
āYeah. We can hang again after.ā
āOkay. Yeah.ā My bus arrives. I smile through the snow. āIāll text you.ā
Even while Iām back home for winter break, [UNNAMED] texts me. Most of it frisky, some of them pictures of me in tight dresses, tiny tops, suddenly hungry; Iāve tasted the appetite of someone else and now I want more. All I know how to do is want, be famished, and now I am starved to be wanted, my body now a ticket to desirability. If this is what will make me craved, then let me flaunt it.
When do you get back again? He asks me.
Early January.
Wanna link up? I can come to you too next time.
Itās a nice sentiment, but I have a roommate in my shared dorm room, and she has nowhere to go if I kick her out. Plus thatās sort of a dick move that not even I would resort to.
Itās ok I donāt mind going to yours. And ya, we can hang when Iām back in Vancouver again :)
He tells me how good I look. He tells me how bad he wants to rip my dress off and what he wants to do to me after. I drink it in, all this wanting with an easily detached distance, mine and his.
I get back the first week of January, and within a few weekends into the month, I am back on the train, the bus, the stop where he comes to pick me up in the thin mountain air. We donāt waste any time. Iām shoved up against his door the moment I take my coat off, his palm gliding up my back, and everything else quickly follows.
Itās rougher and harder than the last time and ends with various marks darkening across my body that I wear with pride because I am at my most beautiful when I am bruised and worn and bleeding. When his mouth tries to pry off the mole on my clavicle, I let his teeth scrape me raw. He asks for more, and I give it; he gives me more and I take it, all of it, everything, just to show that I can. Look at me be useful. Iāll prove that Iām the perfect, fuckable girl that Iām supposed to be so everybody will want to put their hands on me, and then I will know I am worthy of being wanted. Who Iām proving all of this to, Iām still not sure.
I canāt help but be mildly annoyed when I get him off twice with no return. I want to blindfold him again, render him sightless so he canāt see me or my face, and then wrap my hands around his neck until heās almost pleading blue, but he declines, and I respect that. He doesnāt go down on me either, and that annoys me even more. Something is off between the two of us tonight, but I canāt pin down what. Inevitably, we end up watching some forgettable TV show like we always do while I lean up against him in bed and absentmindedly twist his sheets in my fingers.
I like the sex fine enough, I guess. And I like being touched like Iām wanted, someone elseās hands wrapped around my hips while thumbs dig into the divot where femur meets pelvis socket. I like to have somebody take my clothes off and look at me hungry and tell me that theyāre hungry for me. I like not being afraid anymore. I like incisors against my jugular, ready to bite down and gorge on the swell. I like the shape of my own voice in the dark, the way it spills out high-pitched pretty into the lightless. I like the convenience of him and that thereās no possibility of running into him on my campus so I donāt have to see him unless I feel like it. I like that I am solid enough to satiate, good enough to keep around and gut ragged. I like that he doesnāt like me enough to want anything more. In fact, for this I am relieved.
The next morning, I am sure that something is off. We slept untangled in his small bed; there was no reason to link together close, and the building was too hot anyway. He seems distracted, not all there with his attention and eyes wandering. Even I am mildly irritated by the way he doesnāt offer some sort of extra cordiality after heād just been inside me for several hours, but what it is I ache for, I canāt put a name to. I tell him I know where the bus stop is by now and that I can walk there by myself. He nods and says okay, yeah, text me when youāre there, text me when youāre home, whatever and whatnot. I leave with my coat closed up to the top button and let my feet carry me to the bus stop with muscle memory. I donāt need a guide to get me there anymore.
[UNNAMED]ās messages grow less frequent, more sporadic, and I donāt really care. At the same time, the ones that he does send, I donāt know what to do with. Iām not sure Iād label us as friendsācolleagues at mostābut he still speaks to me with an odd sort of agreeableness inbetween his more common sex-centric texts.
I like hanging out with you too, you know, he texts me. I think youāre a cool person. And fun to be around.
I stare at my phone in my dormās bathroom, my bright white screen blending in with the fluorescents. Just moments ago I was taking pictures of how good my ass looked in these athletic shorts. Somebody flushes a toilet. Water gurgles down the drain. The pipes spit.
My thumbs type out something along the lines of Thatās really sweet of you to say. Thanks. I swipe out of the message function and let him type without me watching. I donāt open it for the rest of the night.
When I am not in class, I am in my schoolās theatre, working myself thin. My semester ends in early April and summer break comes quickly, and then I am back home in California where my stage management jobs bleed me dry. I have no time for raunchy texts or lewd photos. There are other more important things I need to be doing with my life. He still texts me, though. A few times a month or so. Swipes up on my photos in an attempt to start a dry conversation. I concede at times and leave him on Read at others.
It would be useful to keep him around. It would be smart, even, to maintain this outlet for such a thing and have something to come back to once the new school year rolls around, but it becomes tiring, this slog of talking. Iām no longer sure if itās worth it to sustain this if it means acting like I give half of a shit about anything either of us has to say. I offer a word here and there, and he does the same. Itās whatever. Itās enough.
We should def hang when you get back.
Sure, I think as I send my phone to sleep. Sure, sure.
My second year of university rears its evil head, but Iām ready. I am busy and ambitious, still young enough to strive, my days packed for thirteen hours at a time and me loving every Stockholmed minute. The texts between me and [UNNAMED] have more or less fizzled out by now, and I know I should maybe be broken up about this, a boyās attention plucked away from me after heās had his hands in places Iād always kept quiet, but I canāt find it in me to be upset. Heās just a boy. I can find those anywhere.
I delete Snapchat (remember: itās 2019 now and Iām still a teenager) and feel adultlike, stepping out of some sort of childhooded sphere, and along with it goes my line of contact with [UNNAMED]. Thereās an unread message from him that I never open. I say no goodbye. I know heāll be alright without me anyway. Iām nothing special to him, thank God, and he sure isnāt to me. I chop the shriveling limb from the tree knowing itāll grow back greener. Itās not hard.
[UNNAMED] moves on, probably. I donāt know where he went or what heās doing. Iām sure heās fine.
This is like. GOREGOUS. Iām gonna call u abt it
havenāt even read it yet and i know this is gonna rock my fucking world