Everyday Black Matters
I’ve been reading Stephen King’s hillarious and irreverent memoir on writing. (My husband thinks old Stevie is charming me as watches me smile & giggle my way through it). Anyway, he talks about how he was formed into a writer, not made. He talks about needing some basic skill sets to be a good writer. All this got me thinking about how I want to be a good writer, but it’s so dang scary. He talks about needing to take risks with your writing.
Without further ado, my first writing risk. I’m going to share with you my blogging friends, a chapter I’ve written for my book. So far it’s my favorite chapter. It’s very personal, but so is the nature of my book… this is what I’ve gotten myself into! One last thing, Stephen says in some ways writing chooses you. And I do feel ‘chosen.’ And I feel lucky enough to know that this book is not just what I want to do, but that I’ve been chosen to write it ~ it is my life after all. And yes, I know it still needs “primping.” Here goes…
(I’m sort of shaking in my boots right now!)
“Rafeal”
Up until the landmark day of December 31, 1995 I had never been able to say no to a man’s sexual advances except on the rarest of occasions. Enduring a sexual relationship at three years old with ones father certainly does not set a good precedent. I had but a mere 4 years in between the tender ages of ten and fourteen to be completely sex free.
After that, I had no reserves left to keep sex at bay. It wasn’t that I lived for the unrestrained life. I certainly did not enjoy the sex and in fact it became increasingly more of a mystery to me as to what any woman wanted to do with it. I knew the risks. I knew about A.I.D.S. and I knew girls like me were sluts. I was powerless against it, or at least that’s how I felt.
I had given absolutely no thought to the correlation between my abuse and my wild child ways. The moment I gave this theory one second of consideration I would attack myself. In a yelling, screaming, beating myself manner until I was convinced, “all right already, I’m just a hoe.” Such was the nature of the consequences. Lies got buried so deeply in my soul it would end up taking multiple therapy sessions to unearth them, let alone figure out what to do with them.
In addition to that, each new partner heaped on layers of guilt that made progress impossible. Here I was 18, trying desperately to figure out who I was and hoping against hope that my sole purpose in life was not going to be spent in gross, unfulfilling sexual relationships with useless men.
In the meantime, during sex, I became a log. And it always hurt. I learned to cry silently. I remember that my tears that would pour out of eyes, down my temples and into my hair, not the traditional down the cheek. Even the idea of crying while your laying flat on your back is sort of depressing. I felt suffocated, that is both logistically and emotionally. The suffocation made it difficult to live let alone be able to muster up enough strength to say “this hurts.” It was all of this same old same old from the time I was 14 until I was 18. But all that changed on a cold New Years Eve a long time ago with a boy named, Raphael.
My good friend, Stefani and I decided on a party at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. I spent the whole party dancing with a particularly beautiful young man named Raphael. He was tall with smooth skin and a strong jaw line. A pleasing chocolate brown, black man. He was a Senior studying Business and Marketing and sadly, that is the extent of what I know about him.
We went back to his apartment on campus. Within 5 minutes the lights were off and we were on the floor. I’m not sure why we couldn’t spare the extra 10 seconds it would have taken to get to the bedroom but what do I know is that he managed to remove every piece of my clothing so quickly and smoothly I got the feeling he got a lot of practice. Things were just getting underway when it happened. I realized I did not want to have sex with Raphael. This was no different than any other man I had been with but this was the time I made a small attempt to do something about it. I turned my head to the side and started to think. My reasoning went this way:
1. I had just met him. Not that this tiny little detail had stopped me before but suddenly it made sense why sleeping with a man I’d only just met may not be wise.
2. Why not just sit and talk, for example? Or, if we were going to be perfect strangers and engage in sexual activity wouldn’t making out suffice?
3. I didn’t really want to. And more importantly my body didn’t want to. I was all ready grimacing in pain. In general men, you should know that 30 seconds is not enough time to get a crock-pot hot.
4. Finally, we hadn’t even exchanged last names let alone whether or not this little romp could lead to a bastard child or a sexually transmitted disease.
In lieu of all this, for reasons I can’t quite explain I mustered the strength to decide in that moment, that I would never again have sex with anyone else until I was married. History was written. That night was the last time.
Now, this was of course was on the giant assumption that someone would eventually have my sorry soul. (Miraculously, not only did Dave have me, but we waited until our wedding night. Well, to be honest it was a few days after the wedding but thank God, I finally realized the whole shebang could be fun after all).
In what felt like a substantial display of courage, in just slightly above a whisper I asked Rafeal to please stop. Naturally he inquired if this was a stop-for-a-moment request or a stop-all-together request. Even this small interaction threatened to break my resolve, but I managed to eek out a request to stop all together. And, he stopped. He didn’t force me. He didn’t beg or moan or get angry. He just got up. He said if I wasn’t comfortable, he wasn’t comfortable. Well, that wasn’t exactly the response I’d expected, but it was a response that changed me.
As he handed me my clothes I had an Eve sort of moment. I realized that I was naked and I was ashamed. I asked him not to look at me. He grabbed his clothes and went into his room.
When he came out he eased the tension by offering me something to drink. After all, we were still strangers. Worse yet, we were strangers who had gotten naked together and then stopped having sex after 2 minutes. The tension was palpable. I was aware of that tiny logistical detail that for a woman to stop sex abruptly is one thing. For a man, well, it’s entirely different. I broke the silence with, “I’m sorry.” He was emphatic that I did not need to apologize.
Do you want to stay? He asked.
It was late and the drive was long so I agreed.
Do want to stay with me or on the couch?
I said, “with you.”
And so we laid down and slept together. Slept as in, sleeping, slept. I got what I had always hoped in these situations: a man to hold me. He held me all night, no funny business.
I left in the morning and never saw or talked to him again.
Maybe I am delusional. Maybe he hatched a plan in his mind to bide his time until I would give in. It does not matter though. What matters is that he met my resolve with actions that assigned me value whether that was his intention or not.
And for that I’d like to say thank you, Raphael.
Copyright: Grace Biskie
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