TW: brief mention of sexual assault

My boyfriend likes to undress me in a nonsexual way, or at least that’s how it feels. Before we sleep, he sits at the end of the bed frame. I stand in front of him, laughing loud and uninhibited, raising my arms over my head. It feels seamless, him tugging at the end of my sweater and then shirt, layers peeling, tossed haphazardly on the floor. I undo the top button of my jeans—he pulls down the zipper. I rest my palms on his bare shoulders, warm and smooth, to balance as I step out of my pants, one leg at a time.

I don’t cross my arms over my chest as I would at the pool, hiding behind my towel until the final moment before quickly jumping into the water. I’ve never felt like I had to do that with him. He cups my thighs and presses his mouth into my lower stomach. A muffled “I love you” parts his lips, and it’s so easy to believe him, to say “I love you too.”

The first night we went home together was after a white-trashed theme party in Vancouver, where we grew up. He was wearing a wife beater; I had on a see-through tank top, a denim skirt that was closer in length to a belt, and cowboy boots. Not my usual get-up. It was my first summer after ending my previous three-year relationship in September, a week after arriving in New York as a freshman, and I decided I would try sleeping around. I would be spontaneous, something I’d never been good at.

We met the previous night at my friend’s birthday, standing in her yard around people I grew up with. I can’t remember what we talked about. Only that our friends who knew each other slipped away, and we didn’t mind. He was tan, having just returned from vacation, and had curly brown hair. He told me his name was Jager, like Mick Jagger, but without the extra g. We stood there for a while under the shade of the host’s old tree fort and discovered our siblings were good friends.

“I remember talking about you once to your brother, actually,” he said, looking at his shoes.

“Really? How’d you even know me?” I bite the inside of my mouth, attempting to abate a burning in my cheeks.

“Oh, I don’t know, from Megan and Charlotte.”

“And what’d you ask?”

“Just if you like to go out much, I haven’t seen you around.”

“So you’ve been looking for me.” I absentmindedly fiddled with the tab of my drink until it came loose.

“Maybe.”

The next night, we found ourselves at the same party. We made eyes, a nod to one another across a room full of denim and crop tops, but neither of us moved to greet the other. I continued to steal glances in his direction, the strobe lights coating him in orange and then blue. Why wasn’t he coming over here? I found my friend Alexa playing Honeycomb, moments away from drinking the shit cup, and pulled her into the bathroom—I needed a second opinion.

She sat in a half squat over the toilet. One arm braced against the tiled wall, the other nursing a White Claw. “This is so random, but I think I’m into Jager,” I said, dabbing my under eyes in the mirror.

“Oh my god, he’s so nice,” Alexa screeched and took another sip of her drink before pulling her overalls back over her shoulders. “I’ve never thought of the two of you together, but now that I’m thinking about it, I think it makes sense.”

“You think so? Should I go for it? Is he cute?”

“Absolutely, you need something fun,” she tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and patted me on the shoulder, sending me on my way. “It’ll be good for you.”

After spending the whole night grazing knees on a bruised leather couch, talking to each other about our favorite movies, what it’s been like leaving home, and mutuals, I asked if he wanted to leave.

“Yours or mine?” He asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Definitely yours. All my family is home.”

The Uber pulled over at a row of tightly knit houses only a short distance from the shoreline, and I noticed a river running through his backyard.

“No way,” I said, pointing to the rush of water, “I think that’s the same one that goes through my house.”

“So you’re only a street up?”

“Yeah,” I maneuvered out of the car, dirt crunching beneath my boots, and looked around. “I actually walk this road most mornings, right by your place.”

“What are the odds?”

“Well, pretty high. I live a few streets away from most of my friends.”

He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Still.”

I spent the night, and we left the window open, likely letting more warm air in than out.

The first time we had sex, it was hungry, his back wet to the touch, sheets on the floor, and clothes only partially off. Later that night, we took our time, slow and generous, hands in his hair, kisses down my neck. I fell asleep on his arm, legs intertwined beneath the covers.

Given that I was in a relationship throughout high school, I had only been with a few other people.

I met my only ex-boyfriend, Jacob, at a basketball game. I didn’t care for the sport; I volunteered to score keep for service hours, but, really, I was writing down the names of the players I thought were cute. I approached him once the game was over and gave him my Snapchat.

After hitting the six-month mark—what we thought was a reasonable amount of waiting—we did it for the first time. We both hadn’t had sex with anyone else, and when it happened, despite weeks of planning, the condom broke, and I spent $50 on a Plan B. It was awkward and unenjoyable, and really, only the former would give way during the three years we spent together.

We were young, learning as we went along. It’s difficult to change with someone, watching them try on different versions of themselves when you thought you knew who they were best. A lot happened to me in high school, most of which he couldn’t understand. But instead of explaining, I often shut him out.

We lived thirty minutes away from each other, and neither of us could drive yet, so if I wanted to, I could go weeks without seeing him—turning off my phone, silencing his repeated texts and calls.

I remember the one time I tried to be honest with him, spending the afternoon in Deep Cove, the neighborhood where he lived, chocolate ice cream smudged across my face and pooling in my hands. At the time, he was my best friend, but in retrospect, he wasn’t the person I felt closest to; I couldn’t confide in him.

“There’s something I’ve never told you,” I said, wiping my hands on our beach towel.

“Yeah?” I can still see his hair falling into his eyes, the straight pieces on his forehead, and a t-shirt burn inching across his biceps.

“You always ask me why I’m mean to my dad,” I started picking at my fingernails, a nervous habit I still carry. “When I was younger, probably eight, I found emails between him and some woman on my iPad. You know how iCloud can do that, link everyone’s messages up,” I sighed, taking a beat. “Anyways, it was something like, ‘We’ll be together soon,’ and I showed it to my mom. She kicked him out, and he lived with my grandparents for a while and then went to rehab for some stuff, and I remember, this is random, but I remember that it was the first year I didn’t see him on his birthday. I didn’t call or text or anything. I think he was in rehab by then, and I hated him, and I kind of still do. You know, I feel like if I’m nice to him, he’s forgiven, just absolved of everything. Like none of that shit matters and he can be my dad and everyone else can think he’s a good dad and we can all be happy, so that’s why. That’s why I’m mean.”

I waited for him to say something, but he stayed quiet, scratching his forearm. I hadn’t told anyone before; my family and I barely talked about it.

I continued, “I’m not looking for a type of response, but aren’t you going to say something?”

“I don’t know, what do you want me to say?”

“Maybe that it sucks?”

“What, do you want me to not like your dad? I don’t get it.”

“Well, no, I don’t know. I just wanted you to stop thinking I’m a bitch and that I have my reasons.”

“I really don’t know what you want me to say. I mean, I like your dad, and I only know him now.”

I remember contorting my face, trying not to cry, even though I was stunned by his coldness. I wanted to tell him my dad didn’t even like him. Maybe that would stop him from defending his behavior, but it felt pointless. His parents were British; they never fought, and when they did, it was more of a passive-aggressive snort or eye-roll. It was probably unfair to expect him to understand; he didn’t know what it was like.

Either way, I resolved to strategically hide parts of myself, those he wouldn’t like and probably would’ve dismissed as he’d done in the past. During our final year together, I made up excuses—homework, family stuff, tired—and saw him less and less. When I talk about him now, I find it hard to remember the good, but there must have been reasons to stay because why else would I have kept trying to make it work?

I found a message in my notes app the other day from him that I thought I deleted, responding to my withdrawing from him:

“I know you really do love me, that isn’t the problem here. Love isn’t an issue. Quite frankly you aren’t trying hard enough. I have been explicit about what I need from you and I keep trying to convince myself you’ve been working on it but no changes seem to come.

“Honestly I think I just need to scare you into either telling me this isn’t gonna work or making some changes and putting the effort into us as much as you put into other things in your life.

“I feel like that is gonna get you mad, and that’s probably why I wrote it.

“I find myself just sitting there asking myself why are we together, why do I love this girl, cuz I do, so why would she do this? Surely I matter more than responding to an email right? Right?

“If you think i'm too dramatic and too much work please make that clear to me with your actions, I don’t rlly want to hear how dramatic I am anymore. I know I am, if im so bad why are you with me? I know I can’t be perfect but when you say things like ‘I don’t want to talk to you’ after I try and get your attention on FaceTime and get irritated when you don’t reply, something feels wrong. I struggle to get a read on you sometimes, mostly lately.

“I’ve never had the courage to pretty much threaten you like this, to tell you what needs to be done and the consequences you will face if you don’t.”

It hurts knowing how badly he was trying to reach me, how desperate he must have been, and that I frankly didn’t care. I thought he expected too much from me; I had reasons for holding back.

Once I got his message, though, I tried to be a better girlfriend, more tolerant. I gave him a second chance, but it still didn’t feel right, especially when it came to sex.

She sits with a straight back, palms resting between her legs on the stools, and says, “How about we start with your telling me a little bit about why you’re here?”

I eye the 3D-printed uteruses mounted in front of vagina poster-lined walls. “Um, my family doctor told me I should give this a try.”

“Okay, that’s great.” Sam, as she introduced herself in the reception of the pelvic floor clinic, makes a few clicks on her keyboard and adds, “Is there anything in particular that’s concerning you?”

“Well, yes,” I say, looking at the floor. “For almost a year and a half now sex has been really painful.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she moves away from her computer. “Would you be comfortable telling me how it hurts?”

Nothing about discussing my sex life with a stranger makes me comfortable, but Sam has a kind face.

“Yeah, um, it feels like physically impossible. Like my body is rejecting the act of having sex.” I put my hand in front of my face, making a small o-shape with my thumb and forefinger. “Like I become this tight and it really hurts … I’m sorry, I think that made no sense. I get awkward talking about this.”

“No, don’t worry, you’re doing great,” Sam smiles with all her teeth. “You said this started a year ago?”

“A year and a half, probably, like the beginning of second year.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty. I’m a senior next year.”

“How exciting!” She makes some more notes on her computer. “Is there anything that changed when it started hurting? A new partner?”

“Sort of, yeah. I have a boyfriend, but we had sex kind of for a while before we started dating. All of that was great, awesome, you know. But probably six months after knowing each other, when we started dating, sex started to feel like how I said before. I doubt it’s because we started dating, but something to consider, I don’t know.”

“Hmm and is the sex enjoyable? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Well, I was, yes before it started hurting. He’s really done nothing but make me feel safe, Jager, that’s his name.”

“Okay, good, that makes me so happy to hear,” her smile droops as she puts on more of a serious face. “I know this can be hard to talk about, so please only say what you’re comfortable with, but do you have any history of experiencing sexual assault?’

“Um, there was this time during freshman year, but I have a therapist, so I’ve worked through that and also sex was good with Jager after that, I felt totally okay,” I pause, recollecting my thoughts. “This may sound crazy, but I thought I hated sex before Jager, like it was something I’d never enjoy.”

“How so?”

“I was in a long relationship before him where it just felt like this chore, something I had to do before we could just spend time with each other. Like it was looming and I knew it had to happen so I would do it, get it out of the way.”

Sam is silent for a moment. “First of all, I’m sorry it felt that way, sex should not feel that way.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely something I’ve learned, especially with Jager. There’s no pressure, and we can just be together. It kind of felt like, before, with my ex, sex was everything, like there was no room for it not to happen. Even when I said I wasn’t feeling it he’d try again and when I got mad he would cry. And he’d be crying and I’d hold him, telling him it’s okay, but really wondering what just happened and why I was the one comforting him.”

“You know, sometimes when things happen to us, it takes a moment for our body to catch up and begin processing. Maybe now that you’re in a healthy, safe relationship, where you have the space to feel these things, you are.” She really looks me in the eyes, “I’m just sorry it’s happening now with someone you care about.”

The words strike me. I let the tears roll down my cheeks, unashamed, without wiping them, and nod. “I really think that makes sense.”

I woke up early after the first night I spent with Jager, carefully rolled off his arm, and looked around for my clothes. I found my skirt under the bed, two pairs of socks on the chair in the corner, and my shirt in a ball on the dresser.

“Hey,” he whispered, his cheek barely lifted off the pillow. “Where are you going?”

“Um, I thought I’d just walk home,” I said, pulling on my boots. “You know, because we live so close.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just thought I should leave. You probably have things to do.”

“You were just going to leave?” he sits up.

“I don’t know,” I turned towards the door, grasping at the door handle. “Is that not okay?”

He scratched his ear and ran a hand through his hair. “I just thought we’d get breakfast.”

“Oh, oh sure,” I said, pulling at the boots I had just put on.

“Is that okay? Do you have things to do?”

“No, no,” I said. “I have nothing to do.”

He got ready, and we walked to my house so I could change. An old couple passed us, stealing a glance and smiling to themselves.

“This is so embarrassing. I can’t believe I’m wearing this outfit in daylight.”

“Why?” He said, looking me up and down, “You look hot.”

I drove us to breakfast after putting on sweats and having an awkward run-in with my brother, Presley, who was friends with his brother. At Anchor, where we got food, we also sat next to two of our mutual friends, who greeted us with numerous questions like, “How do you guys know each other?” Nothing is ever discreet in the suburbs.

“This is really an awkward request,” Jager said, spooning eggs into his mouth. “But my mom is out with the car, and I kind of need to go to a funeral in an hour.”

“You want me to drive you to the funeral?” I laughed, which was definitely not the appropriate response.

“Yeah, sorry, I know that’s a lot to ask. No big deal if not.”

“No, yeah, I’ll drive you,” I took a sip of coffee and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. “I mean, sorry for your loss. I should’ve started with that.”

“Oh, no worries, thank you,” he took a bite out of his toast. “It’s for my friend’s younger brother.”

“That really sucks, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They kind of knew it was going to happen for a while—cancer,” He paused and started laughing at his plate, quiet then loud.

“What?” I couldn’t help laughing, too. “What about cancer is funny?”

“No, nothing, definitely nothing about cancer is funny,” He made a gesture, pointing at the two of us. “But, like, I just met you, and now you’re taking me to a funeral.”

I smiled. “I guess that is pretty funny.”

We went back to his place so that he could change into a dark suit. He looked really handsome like that, with his shirt tucked in and his hair slicked back.

I stood before him, his eyes facing down at me, and did his tie for him, wrapping the wide end twice around the small side. I went to a private school.

After a quiet drive, I dropped him off at the church, accepting that I’d never see him again—that I’d be okay if I didn't. I had a nice time, and it could be enough.

But he called me later that day, and I picked up on the first ring.

March 21, 2025