‘It’s a match’
It was your bio that got you my swipe right; you made me laugh. It was something about how I would “have to pay for you and your mother” on the date, how sex is definitely not on the cards, and that you’re 6 feet and 4 inches… You mentioned those were “two measurements ;)”. I made some lame joke about how I could never wear heels if you were only 4 inches tall… I then laughed at myself.
We met on a Friday, I was running late as usual but I promised to try my best and not keep you waiting. And I did try, I was only ten minutes late… I must have really liked you! When I arrived, you said I looked better than you thought I would (I knew I would).
The date was in that wine bar in Fulham you suggested, it was small, busy and as soon as we arrived you told me you hated wine; I questioned why we’d come here. “Look at us already bickering, this is exactly the love/hate relationship I wanted”, I smiled and rolled my eyes.
Three glasses in, we then shared a fourth with a cheese board; you agreed to eat all the olives though because I hate those.
We talked about our lives, we laughed and really connected. You were confident, affectionate, and made me feel special, like all eyes were on us, which I didn’t hate. You were a good kisser too. I remember thinking ‘he’s perfect’.
We ended the night in a cheap cocktail bar; I had blisters on my feet and my head was spinning from all the drinks you fed me. It got to 12pm and I needed to head home. My best friend Charlotte (who said I could crash with her to ‘keep it classy’ on the first date) was waiting up for me and I didn’t want to take advantage by rocking up at 2am.
An Uber pulled up across the street and waited as you suggested I get in with you. I was drunk and could barely walk (new heels on a first date, bad move). You said you’d drop me back on your way home since my friend’s place was around the corner. At the time, it seemed completely logical so I got in the Uber. I trusted you.
I soon realised that we weren’t going back to my friend’s, it was never your plan to take me home. And in that moment, intoxicated and preoccupied, I just went along with it. I did voice my annoyance but a part of me thinks you kinda liked that.
The car pulled up outside your flat share in Clapham. After showing me round, you handed me an old t-shirt and a new toothbrush, I brushed off the feeling that you had done this a few times before. Once in the bedroom I told you I didn’t want to have sex, you acknowledged this and I thought we were on the same page. Once again I trusted you.
You kissed me, and when you wanted to take it to the next level I allowed it, I was enjoying myself and I guess I just didn’t want to kill the mood… In hindsight maybe this confused my message of ‘no’?
When you tried to take it further again, I knew my body did not want you, I pushed back. I felt your trying to push into me again and my body automatically tensed as I tried to shove you away making it clear, this was far enough. You tried again, and again, and again, until you quickly replaced your fingers with that part of you I didn’t want.
It didn’t feel bad, no one really explains how it’s supposed to feel though, but it twisted my stomach. Maybe you thought that once you got it in I’d enjoy it and thank you for the experience. I don’t doubt that you’ve had a high success rate in the past given your method; I bet most women say nothing, let you get on with it and pretend they were just teasing you, making you ‘work for it’.
I couldn’t breathe, you were heavy and I was in shock. I fought against the part of me that wanted to switch off and let it happen to avoid the reality. I got you off me, you didn’t protest. But once you left it felt as though you’d taken some part of me with you.
You took away my control and the ownership of my own body, because the next morning I let you have every single part of me. What was the point of resisting your advances now? Now that you’ve already had me once against my will, after you knew what I felt like, at least then I could call it sex like it was my choice this time.
It would be as though the night before never happened. You could sleep easy, and I could go back to my friends and laugh about my disastrous one night stand that happened the morning after, because you were the perfect gentlemen that didn’t fuck me when I asked you not to.
In the morning, I left you. Humiliated, used and nauseous, I felt what you left inside me escape the body I spent years learning to love, the body that at this moment I now hated. I clenched my jaw as I walked barefoot to the Uber, thinking, ‘if it wasn’t for these fucking shoes I’d be at Charlotte’s right now.’ Somehow, I even managed to blame the shoes before I blamed you.
And now the day after, with my insides still bruised and the smell of you on the clothes that lay on my bedroom floor, I can see the true reality of that night for what it is. Some would say I shouldn’t have drunk so much or maybe I should have ordered my own Uber home… I was stupid to be so trusting, right? In reality, I had spent an amazing evening with a guy who I believed was a complete gentleman, so I took him at his word, his promises to deliver me safe to my friend’s doorstep. I was wrong, clearly.
Nothing online tells you how to feel or what to think, trust me I’ve looked. There’s no story the same as mine that would give me some sense of perspective, to connect to and say, “oh that’s why this happened”. So, I sit here, writing my own story, wrapped in a towel, after running myself a scolding bath to get every part of you out of me. It’s now that I begin to realise it wasn’t my fault.
And just so you know, I don’t hate you, not really. But I do hope that occasionally you think of me and how you ruined it all with what you did. I hope that the next time you ‘promise’ to take a girl home, you follow through with that promise. Next time, do the right thing.