PLANTING THE SEEDS OF YOUR OWN DESTRUCTION

Haley Basil

You are planting the seeds of your own destruction. You know this. There is only one option when you are dating a man seven years older than you.

And he is the first man you’ve ever dated.

And you are queer.

He is not the best lover you’ve had, but you accept this as a side effect of straight sex. You did tell him one night in bed that you could not feel his tongue when he was going down on you, which made him question his whole sexual life. You take note of this: even thirty-year-olds are self-conscious.

He will not tell you how many lovers he’s had. This makes you shrink; he will only be your fourth.  No matter how old you get, you’ll still feel like a stupid overgrown virgin.

He will tell you how much he likes having you in his bed, late at night, with his arms wrapped around you. The next morning, he will call you annoying. You accept this; you are annoying. 

YOU ARE A PROFESSIONAL AT BREAKING YOUR OWN HEART

He will open the car door for you. And put on your jacket for you. And open doors for you.

He will pick up the check at restaurants. In fact, waitresses will never ask if you need separate checks. They will simply place one check in front of him every time you go out to eat. 

You will find it both rewarding and disturbing to be perceived as a couple. When you went out with women, waitresses would always ask if you wanted to split the check. You could be holding hands, alone, in a diner booth with a woman and the waitress would always ask if you wanted to split the check.

But now, in public, you are perceived.

This makes you uncomfortable. You remember getting spit on when you kissed a woman on the street. You remember having a bottle thrown at your head when you were holding a woman’s hand.

When he reaches for your hand on the street, you will shrink. It is so natural, so innate for him. But he doesn’t know he is speaking a foreign language to you.

You crave pain; he will open a door for societal acceptance.

So you will break your own heart instead.

FOUR YEARS AGO
You are the same age now as she was when you started dating her.  

Reading through your old journals, you’ll remember the pained self-consciousness of a twenty-year-old in love with a twenty-four year old. Your old words will make you laugh; you thought that twenty-four was so old. Now, at twenty-four, you’ll realize you feel the same as you did when you were twenty.

That’s not true, actually.

But you are the same age now as she was when she started hurting you.

It was a slow, methodical process. First, she crept into your heart. She made you feel things you had never felt. You felt seen and beautiful and intelligent. She touched you and your soul sang. She got you hooked. At first, it was such a beautiful mystery to fall in love with a woman.

Then, she slowly started sucking away the marrow from your bones until you couldn’t stand on your own.

She was afflicted.  And you thought you could help her, fix her. If you could just love her enough, she would get clean.

So, you started setting aside your needs for hers. She had immediate pain, yours was an ancient pain that was there before her and would remain after her.  If you set aside your needs now, then someday, one day, when she got better she would give you all the love you gave her right back.

It never came true.

But when she was high, she would be kind. When she was high, she would love you for an hour or so. 

But it would wear off quickly, as it does when you’ve been using since you were thirteen, and she would go back to being afflicted.

YOU ARE DESCENDED FROM WHORES

You are descended from raped women, sluts, and whores. Sadness is in your blood. It is not your trauma that you carry, but the trauma of your ancestors.

One night, your grandmother will be just drunk enough to tell you the story of her grandmother.

She will tell you of the old country. She will tell you that her grandmother was the most beautiful woman in all the town. She will tell you she was the maid in a very wealthy family’s home. She will tell you how she dutifully polished the silverware and cleaned the rooms. She will tell you how she cared for the children that weren’t hers. She will tell you how her beauty caught the eye of the man of the house. She will tell you what a dutiful servant she was. She will tell you that she dutifully bent over for him when he told her to do so. She will tell you that she dutifully carried his bastard.

She will tell you the last name of the man that raped your grandmother’s grandmother. It is a well known name to this day. 

You will cry, but your grandmother won’t know the real reason why.

Don’t cry, darling. This was a lifetime ago.

But you will cry. You cry a holy flood for the ancient pain that you carry from your grandmother’s grandmother.

You will wonder how to heal your ancestral trauma.

THE FIRST GOOD MAN

There has never been a good man in the history of the world before him. You are sure of this.

You lie in his bed, surveying the land that is his body.

He is unreasonably handsome. He has high cheekbones and deep eyes. He looks five years younger than he actually is. You especially love the wrinkles around his eyes, just deep enough to show his true age.

His skin is peppered with moles. Charming moles and freckles and dots that create a solar system on his skin. You connect the dots with your finger. He closes his eyes and hums in pleasure at your touch.

Spring is shyly approaching. The sun peeks through his half open blinds and warms your faces.

It is his birthday. You are so scared, waiting to fuck something up, waiting to do something wrong, waiting for him to hurt you. So you watch him, bracing yourself for impact.

You know I can see you thinking. You think I can’t, but I can.

You don’t know what to say.

You can tell me.

But you can’t. It wouldn’t do him any good to know anyway.

So, you cry.

Shit, you think, I’m ruining his birthday.

But because he is the first good man in the history of the world, he pulls you close to him. There, in the spot between his chin and his shoulder, the spot that has just started to feel like home, you let go a little bit.

YOUR GOOGLE SEARCH HISTORY

Can swallowing cum give you a stomach ache

Do all lovers feel like they’re inventing something quote where from

Fatalism

Outfits for meeting your boyfriend’s parents

OUTFITS FOR MEETING YOUR BOYFRIEND’S PARENTS

You pull everything out of your closet and try it on. Skirt after skirt. Shirt after shirt. What will give off that you’re a nice girl, but not too formal, but not too slutty? That you’re fun and interesting and right for their son? You know you’re overthinking it but you’re on a bullet train and you can’t get off.

Finally, you settle on a bright blue skirt and a green top.

When your boyfriend sees you in it, he can’t stop remarking how beautiful you look.

You’re so pretty. So so pretty.

He tells you this outside of the restaurant you’re meeting his parents at. They haven’t arrived yet, so you pass the time by kissing in the parking lot. You feel good, excited, to meet the people who created this weirdo you’ve grown attached to.

Then, his phone buzzes. He’s in a group chat with his mother and father.

You glance over. You don’t mean to snoop. Truly, you don’t care what his text messages say. Or so you tell yourself.

We’re on our way!, the text from his mom reads.

Looking is just a reflex, you don’t think anything of it. But you see something. There, right above her text, is a paragraph from him.

You don’t see all of it. You realize you shouldn’t be looking and you turn away quickly. But you can’t forget what you saw.

There, in a blue text bubble, his words--

Just letting you guys know in case she brings it up…

… she is bisexual and I don’t want you to…

… so everyone is comfortable…

And his mother’s response--

Always good to have a heads up!

Confusion.

You had no intention of coming out to his parents. Though it unsettled you to be perceived as just another straight woman who’s fucking their son, you also thought it would be out of place to burst out with I’m queer! I’ve fucked women before, too! at the dinner table.

At first, your stomach drops. He doesn’t realize that he has just outed you to his parents. You have never met them before, and you don’t know if it is even safe to come out to them. Your ability to divulge or conceal that information is the one control you have over how the world treats you.

Then, you consider his kindness. He didn’t mean to hurt you, he meant to protect you. He did it because he cares about you.

But now your outfit feels wrong. It’s too bright, too colorful. Too queer. You should’ve chosen black or grey or brown or anything that would blend in.

But it’s too late now. His parents are on their way.

What is the right outfit to wear when being outed to your boyfriend’s parents?

ACTS OF LOVE

To be loved is to be consumed.

You know this.

Your first knowledge of this was Jesus’ body, his blood. Take of this and eat it, this is my body, which has been given up for you. Love through submission: a body willingly given up to be consumed. The ultimate act of love.

So you make yourself consumable.

Take of this and eat it, as you offer yourself to him every night. You’re basically living with him, and isn’t this what you always dreamed of anyway? Nights being held by someone and maybe even being loved, though he hasn’t said it to you yet, the L word, and even though it’s his bed, and even though it’s his sheets and his nightstand and his dresser and his posters, even though, even though, isn’t it better than being a hollow offering, an unconsumed thing?

This is my body, which has been given up for you, as you willingly become Object for him, just like you learned in Sunday school and can’t forget, no matter how hard you try. And he accepts, consumes you, fills you up, makes you whole. Like you always, always wanted. Like Jesus taught you to do.

And one night, he will take of your body, but you will give him your blood as well. He will notice before you do, the blood, and it will stop him in his tracks.

I just need to clean off, he says. He runs off to the bathroom, slamming the bedroom door, and when he comes back he’s no longer hard and no longer kissing you.

You squirm and writhe and try to kiss him, still overwhelmingly hungry for him.

But he turns away.

Can’t we…

And he gives you a look.

I thought you understood.

You search his face, trying to discover the hidden understanding.

I just don’t like it.

Your face burns hot with embarrassment. 

Your body is disgusting, bloody and disgusting and unconsumable.

But it’s not that much, you offer. Maybe we could…

It’s gross, it makes me uncomfortable. Do you want me to do something I don’t want to do?

You don’t. You’ve been made to do something you don’t want to do before. Of course you don’t want to make him do the same.

But his rejection of your body makes you shrink. He notices this.

Most guys I know feel this way, he offers sweetly, brushing your messed hair behind your ear.

So you lay there, in his bed, in his room, in his apartment, bleeding, unconsumable.

You love him.

You love him you love him you love him you love him you love him you love him you love him you love him you love him you love him you love him so much your heart might burst at the seams.

Your mouth tastes metallic. He looks at you. You smile. 

Your stomach growls. You get up out of his bed and put on your clothes and go to his refrigerator and open it.

It’s empty.