She goes through the motions of prepping herself for the night; eye shadow named Deep Throat; mascara called Better Than Sex; Passion red lipstick; Very Sexy lace bra, matching thong; Fuck Me heels. She rides the train instead of taking a taxi. Girls pull their boyfriends in tighter, boys peel off her clothes with their eyes. Someone groped her ass; she gets off at the next stop. She walks the three blocks toward the bar where ladies drink for free before 11PM; three motorists offer her a ride; one teenage boy follows her for a block and a half before giving up and calling her a bitch. She gets past the bouncer who checks out her breasts instead of her ID, and she makes her way to the bar to wait for a friend. Texts ping pong back and forth; her friend is not coming. Another Long Island, please. The man next to her has taken notice notice. He offers a drink; a business card; a shot of tequila; some coke; a ride home. She mumbles yes. She is guided outside to a town car and the driver opens the door. He winks at her, but she’s too tired to feel special. The man from the bar rubs her leg; his fingers brush against her lace underwear. The driver tells her they’ve arrived, but she doesn’t remember telling him her address. She remembers a condom; she remembers a crooked smile; she remembers black sheets. She doesn’t remember where she is the next morning; she doesn’t remember the man older than her father pressed up against her; she doesn’t remember how many times he has had sex with her already. After he is done, he says he has to go to work, but he’ll call her later. She gathers her clothes, but she can’t remember where her underwear is. She walks out the door and then she remembers that she never gave the man her number. She decides that this will be one of the nights she will just have to regret. Just like the others.
*This was a piece I submitted for my university’s Sexual Respect initiative this past spring. It was selected for display in the gallery and I thought I would share it on here!