Why are American flip-flops built like that ?

Femcel pt. 8

Pt.1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

The day after my first sensual/sexual experience with a man, I felt numb, but also wrong in my body. I couldn't formulate an opinion about what had happened physically, but I felt horrible about everything else. His behavior, his words; so much apathy, so much disagreeableness, so much greed. I wanted to smash my head against a wall for having allowed this to happen.

I started googling things, as one does, and began worrying about the possibility that this interaction could very well result in a pregnancy. I felt stupid too. All this education, all the time I had waited, and there I was; having made the stupidest mistake of them all, in such a short time and in such a simple way. I started reading about women saying they would never sleep with a stranger, let alone without protection. It made me feel dirty, regretful, ashamed—you name it. I also thought, "Damn, I get to feel this post-no-nut shame following my very first experience." Shame can poke through amphetamines and antidepressants just to tell you: damn, what was wrong with you, seriously? Also, what did you expect?

I was talking to an American guy I had matched with during the same period I had matched with yesterday’s idiot. He wanted to meet in two days and was very excited. I said yes. It was a weird collision of feelings; I was walking in absolute novelty—the disgust, the anger, the shame still so fresh—and also feeling for the first time in all my interactions with men, resilient, for moving on right away to the next guy. "This is how you do it. Fuck him! He's probably busy being a loser right now, while I'm onto the next guy, who wants to meet at this fancy hotel he’s staying in."

The next day, I went out and bought a pregnancy test. Negative. I wanted to make sure. I started picturing the possibility of a fetus in my belly. His child. God no. God no. I went to the mirror and stared at my pussy, wondering if it had changed since last weekend. I googled some more and read about HPV, thinking about how he had run zero risks getting with me, while I took them all. I could get cancer one day because of yesterday's stupid encounter. I read about women on Reddit who had hysterectomies due to HPV infections. I cried. Finally, emotions.

That night, the American guy said he was leaving tomorrow, so the only time we could meet was that night or tomorrow early in the morning. I said I could come in the morning. I was usually horny first thing in the morning, and I needed some more time to rest and put myself back in the mood. Numb, not scared, and horny. Antidepressants, amphetamines, and beta blockers.

At 7:15 am the next day, like it was nothing, I was on the tube to his hotel. People were walking to their important and serious jobs, and I was on my way to meet a perfect stranger to do... I don't even know what. I didn't even want an orgasm. He had asked me beforehand to send him videos of me masturbating. I declined. I then understood that what I was doing wasn't fully sexual. I wanted to feel desired, to be touched, to feel closeness, to be seen, to be looked at, but my subconscious understood where my idea of nudity ended and that of my sexuality started. It solidified a realization I had started making when last weekend's stupid guy suggested we watch porn, and I instantly said no. Porn and masturbation were my sexuality. I didn't want to share that with him. My nudity had a sexuality I hadn't fully identified with nor appropriated due to the weight loss and body hair loss I had experienced in such a short time, so I wasn't uncomfortable sharing it with them. I wasn't comfortable doing it, but not as apprehensive or nervous as I would've been had it been my old body.

I got to the hotel's reception. Very fancy hotel, and there he was—looked just like in his pictures, plus a bed head. He seemed so relaxed and comfortable; all of this was natural and mundane to him. In the lift to his room, I looked down and saw his feet. American flip-flops are insane; the straps are way too far from the phalanges. He had fungus on his big toe and a coat of what I assumed was antifungal nail polish on it. I wondered what made it so that he felt no shame about it when I would've never been able to meet him in a similar toe situation. And there we were. It irritated me. I thought, again? These guys are more committed to letting me know that they don't care about their toes and my judgment of them than about anything else, literally. Also, something else they both said was "Wow! You shaved!" when I sent them nudes. What the fuck, why would you say that? The art of flirting and dirty talk... I used to mindlessly assume handsome guys are naturally gifted at those things. Then these guys punished me for these preconceived notions.

I put my bag in the untouched corner of the room as he went back to bed. He was really tired; he had partied with his friends the night before, but he insisted on meeting before he went back to America. I lay next to him but left a large space between us. We talked for a little while, and he told me to get closer and remove some clothes, as I was wearing many layers. He spooned me for 1.8 seconds. I wish it had lasted longer. Actually, this was what I had come there for. All the rest was what I had accepted to give in exchange.

He got up, removed his boxers, and told me to lie down. Not that way. He wanted me to put my head on the edge of the bed and open my mouth so he could put his penis in it. I had completely forgotten about the existence of this thing. I didn't react; I was too surprised by both the act itself and how well my beta blockers were working because I wasn't as panicked as I should've been. I didn't understand how he could find it truly pleasurable in terms of sensations. It was definitely a representational thing, more than anything else. He had it in his mind as something he wanted a girl to do to him, and I was a girl, so he did it first thing.

I often read about guys being "selfish" in bed, and that you, as a woman, have to make sure you get your pleasure too. It's a beautiful euphemism for what's actually happening. He wasn't selfish; he used my body to realize a fantasy in which my presence doesn't matter. I didn't react because I wasn't ready for sex. I had no ability to establish a boundary. I thought: I don't like this, but I'd rather wait for him to be done than make it an even worse experience by saying no. Because then, he would probably move on to something else, to which I'd end up saying I don't like this either, and then another thing, and then the dreaded question which I would fail at aptly answering: "Well, what are you doing here? Get out!" I wasn't sure the beta blockers would hold me together if that happened. The most important thing was for me to stay calm and not have a panic attack.

He then turned me around and told me to place my hands above my head and keep them there. Oh wow. But... okay. He raised my legs all the way up, and since I wasn't very flexible, it just kind of raised my whole body. I pursed my lips because I wanted to laugh—I knew he wanted to do a porn moment, but the girls in porn are very flexible, and I wasn't. He spread my legs a little, looked at my pussy, and told me it was aesthetically porn-level. I said, "Oh... thank you..." Thank you for showing me one more way one can attack and terrorize the art of eroticism and sexuality. Let’s think for a moment about Jazz, about lace making and lingerie designers, about artists and their muses, about sculptures, poetry, perfumes, flowers, burlesque artists, pole dancing, belly dancing, the women with moles on the side of their mouth, sexy tattoos, Agent Provocateur, the smell of coffee, perfume and leather on men, long gazes and crude words whispered between sweet kisses and aroused breaths. And then there's this guy, telling me my pussy is porn-grade or something. Sigh.

He started trying to penetrate me. I had told him I had never been penetrated, and he was okay with that. And just like last weekend's guy, there was no reflex to check if I was wet, no attempt to make me wet, no comment or questioning about the fact that I wasn't wet. I knew why. If I was enthusiastic about meeting them and having sex with them, then I should come to them soaking, dripping at the thought of them fucking me. If you say yes like a whore, then you should come to me wet like a whore, give me a blow job and moan and look up at me while doing so, and then beg me to fuck you raw and come multiple times all over my cock while you continue to beg me, and then massage my balls as you come on me, and then swallow my cum and put some on your eyes and on your face and leave without washing it off. And ask me if next time I could fuck you in the ass because you want to feel my cock in it so so bad. And moan every time you call me. "Hello? Ahhh yess daddy" etc.

As he pushed his penis against my vaginal entrance, I felt so much pain I started screaming. Really loudly. But I don't remember what it sounded like. My brain had turned off my hearing function—selectively , because he stopped and I could hear him telling me to relax and that I was blocking my entrance mentally, and that I just needed to relax. He tried again and again and again. Same thing: I was screaming but couldn't hear myself. He finally asked me if it was too painful; I said yes. He flipped my legs to the side like trash bags and told me there was no point in continuing if I was in pain. I was relieved. I knew it wasn't going in, but the no came from him, so he lifted off the dread of having to ask him to stop myself, which I was probably too scared to do. Which is stupid. But it's how I was raised: on fear, conditional love, and the idea that strangers' opinions are always better and more important than mine.

How do you work on this? How do you fix this? "Work on your self-esteem."neoliberal psychology. You need an amount of corrective experiences that teach you, in a way that you're able to register as true, that you shouldn't be scared, that you're not better or worse than everybody else, that you deserve good things, etc. This was one of my first attempts at living a corrective experience. Fail. But I didn't even understand it was that bad at first.

He stood up again and started jerking off to my body. He asked me if he could cum on me. I said okay, not on my face though. He grabbed my leg and pushed it out so he could have a better look at my genitals while masturbating. I moaned a little to help him out. I didn't know what else to do. I stared at his face; it was the first time I was seeing a guy jerk off IRL. He looked beautiful. Cute even. His expressions or the way his face moved were cute. He orgasmed and ejaculated on my stomach, but I couldn't feel a thing. Maybe the temperature was exactly the same, or my brain shut off my skin's ability to sense things. I didn't want to look at it. He left for the bathroom and came back with toilet paper and gently wiped it off, then left again to take a shower. I went to the corner of the room where I had put my bag and took a wet wipe and wiped myself again. There was a bag of melons from McDonald's and half a hash brown I had kept after a quick breakfast I had before meeting him. I ate some more of it because I was underweight and kind of scared I might faint at some point. I was definitely fully disconnected from my body.

He called me from the bathroom and told me I could use the bathroom at the same time. I hated seeing him take that shower. It's me who's supposed to take it. Or at least suggest we take one together. When he was done with it, he dried himself and wore shorts and a t-shirt and his stupid American flip-flops and suggested we have breakfast downstairs. I said okay, dressed up, and followed him out.

tbc.

Femcel pt. 9