I was sixteen. You were nineteen and the good friend of a friend.
We spent the night fooling around. First at the party. Then at my house.
You threw the condom onto the roof of the shed outside my window. I cursed, you laughed.
Then at your house, we fucked in your basement. I remember it was pretty great.
The next morning, we sat on either sides of the couch watching The Transfomers: The Movie while we ate overly-sweet cereal.
"Come here," you said, putting your bowl down. I was curious and hopeful. I found you attractive.
You had me lie on the couch next to you, and you took up a pillow and put it over my face. Pressed down. Hard.
I struggled.
You lifted the pillow and looked at me, your dark eyes wide and innocent.
"It's ok," you said. "Don't fight it."
The pillow came down again. I couldn't breathe.
I pushed it away when I got my hands under it.
"Don't you understand?" you said with a gentle smile. "Just... trust me. Don't fight it. Come on..."
This time the pillow pressed harder against my face, and I had to buck with all my strength to be free.
I stood panting in the middle of the living room as you took up your bowl of cereal and turned your attention back to the TV.
I left. Ran down the street. Feet striking the pavement, lungs burning.
...
...
...
It was only when I finally slowed, finally leaned down, hands to knees, gulping in air, that I realized just how excited I felt.
I wasn't afraid.
Not of you.
I was afraid of the desire that coursed through me at the thought of relinquishing control.
Were you trying to kill me?
What if I had stayed and submitted?
