Hey! My name's Lolita.
Sitting at an averagely-packed bar in an insignificant venue a few hundred yards from my apartment, I drank my fourth glass of wine, resigning myself to the reality of being stood up. It was approaching midnight and we had agreed on eleven–then again I had never seen you, so perhaps you had come... observed... been unimpressed... and left. I checked my phone again, 11:57, and downed the last bit of Malbec.
"She'll have another glass and I'll have a double of Williams." Your voice dismantled me; my spine erected immediately as your hand ran from one hip, around the small of my back, to the other hip. You looked at the man sitting in the chair to my left and–despite the chair to my right being empty–spoke quietly to him, "She's mine. Please move." The man looked confused; he shifted and left without fight. You sat, your loom slightly more intimidating than I anticipated. I twisted the base of my new glass of wine, my drunk quadrupling when I made eye contact.
You were sharp, dark. Something about you begged me to turn back, revoke consent, tell you there had to be a safe word. Was it your size? The dark lenses of your eyes that swallowed up the light overhead? The smell that told me you bathed in cologne to mask that you haven't bathed for two days–saving your salt-sweat taste just for me? Was it your touch that caught fire to my skin underneath my clothes?
I started it. I messaged you; I reached out. The u-turn signs started long ago, but I just couldn't stop from playing
with fire. The internet was my pair of fire gloves, my extinguisher, but now all of that was gone. I had actually made among the stupidest decisions of my life. Now I was playing with fire and my hair was down, done, and ready to catch.
"Good evening." The words came out quieter than I intended. I swallowed and extended my hand, "Lolita. Nice to meet you."
Your gaze fell down to my hand in–what is that, displeasure? disgust? Your hand wrapped around mine and crushed it beneath your minimal power, unable to get in even the slightest counter-squeeze. My shoulders caved inward slightly in pain.
"You're not as big and bad as you pretend to be." Your arm rested on the back of the chair, your leg resting on a cross bar, you threw back one shot like water. For most, sitting on elevated bar stools makes you appear unintimidating, juvenile; for you, however, it made the chair look like a throne unworthy of carrying you. I rolled my eyes and concocted my comeback, but there wasn't one. I gave you an expression of "I know", but no words.
You had to be as calculating as me. You came an hour late knowing I'd be inebriated, less careful, less "big and bad". I came half an hour early for the same reasons. You studied me, from my frizzed, endless curls (how you preferred them), to my floor-length, nude dress–another very deliberate choice: no panties, because it makes the dress fall awkwardly, and my exposed arm with the tattoo you hate. Your expectations didn't need to be said for tonight, they've been engraved into my mind over the past year, and that dress
pissed you off.
"We should get going. You're too wound up." You stepped off of your throne and finished the second shot. I downed half the glass and fumbled for my card. You placed a $100 bill down and placed your hand over my fumbling hands in my purse.
I asked you to let me pay, trying to prematurely soften the blow of backing out. You leaned in, knowing my thoughts, and chuckled, "If you make this more difficult than it needs to be, I'll cut you up into little bits and feed you to raccoons when I'm done with you."
I close my eyes and focus on your rough fingers on top of my hands. I feel nauseous and moronic. How could I have allowed this to happen? Wasn't I intelligent? Was it not my intelligence that drove me to actually fucking do it? Now I'm here, walking out of a bar with someone I don't know, screaming 'Try me, world, I fucking dare you!'. I could have run; I could have called the police. I turned around to run back into the bar; I told you I had to use the restroom.
While I sat in the single restroom, I grounded myself. It was a game; it's all a game. You're not going to kill me or cut me up into little pieces. It's a power play and you don't want an actress, but you want a good player.
I get such a headache when I go out to drink–the music penetrates every vein, every pulse is like a sledgehammer against the base of my skull. I close my eyes and shuffle through my purse again, searching for my Triptan or Adderall. I roll open a prescription bottle and down a pill, waiting for either headache relief or zombie-mode.
I know you told me not to take anything, but I felt like I was dying. I look at the bottle and see Zomig. I'm clear, you'll have no clue.
I walk back outside and you're not there. I couldn't have been in the bathroom for more than five minutes. You fled? I peaked around thoroughly, I texted you, nothing. Game over.
Confused and irritated, I started walking back home. I couldn't decide if I was happy I hadn't been beaten and raped or if I was seriously disappointed. As I climbed my two flights of stairs to my third story apartment, I stared downward to orient myself. I lost balance or tripped over my dress
or did it on purpose or something. I fell upward on the last step, with a brief gasp and catching myself to now be on all fours, my stare met with a pair of dress shoes.
My gaze climbed up your legs, crotch, chest, to your eyes; your look befuddled me once more, whether it was irritation or pleasure. Your foot moved over my left hand like a mechanical crane. Once over my hand, it snapped downward before I had the sense to move it; instantaneously my hand was crushed between the jaws of your foot and the cement floor below it.
You squatted slowly, your knee bent at my head; the bones of my fingers felt like they were snapping below your weight. You bent over me to my purse, pulled out my prescription bottles, emptied them, and counted. "When'd you take the Zomig." There was no upspeak in it, no question.
Your weight on my hand was truth serum, "Just now. Ten minutes ago, at the bar." I couldn't figure out how you knew. When had you counted them? Where? How? As your foot left my hand, you gripped the end of my hair like a leash and led me to my door. My palm was bloody from the cement, but the top of my hand is what inhibited me from using it.
I winced in pain and held my hand like a wounded animal, trying to indicate I couldn't crawl without all four limbs. Your frustration peaked as you held the door open for me (How'd you get a key?) and shoved me against my ass with your foot. Like an animal.
"Bathroom. Now." I looked up questioningly, but your face was clear this time: questions are for children and students. Commands are for whores and animals.
I managed my way through the apartment, straight back to the master bathroom. You didn't follow me, but went rustling around in the kitchen. I was sitting against the wall, staring into space when you came back in.
"I like you on all fours. Well three." You chuckled and nudged my thigh with your foot and I obliged without hesitation. You pushed me to the toilet; I knew what was next.
Your hand gripped my hair and yanked it upward to meet you towering above me, "Don't you know we've only just started?"