The Time I Lost Control. (M - 31; F - 24?) | 2016

Kinda sordid. Names changed, of course.

A bit about me first: 30s’. Black male. Professional. Nerdy, but most people assume I play football. Kinda kinky--mostly dominant.

“Marion” was a brunette from Texas, hell-bent on her own destruction by way of her sharp tongue and her taste for hard alcohol. We met on OKCupid through the “QuickMatch” feature. She had misleadingly unflattering profile photo and described herself as curvy (a word often abused by the overweight on dating sites). However, her other photos were reasonable, and one phrase stuck out promisingly in her profile: “I’m all for feminism, but I prefer a dominant man.”

I initially ignored the QuickMatch and quit the website for several weeks. When I returned, I decided to write her on a whim on a Thursday night. I won her over quickly with a wry 5 or 6 sentences. During our back and forth, she mentioned that she “loved a good story.” I sent her a couple of short, true stories I’d written and went to bed. I woke up to her demanding another. I responded How about over a drink?

She hadn’t replied until I sat down to dinner with a friend that Friday night, claiming her plans had fallen through. Was I free tonight? A few minutes later we’d made plans to meet at a local speakeasy.

Curvy was misleading if not inaccurate. She was petite, a slim 5’1 perky little tits. She had full lips and slightly hardened jaw--almost like a more delicately featured Hilary Swank. I hadn’t expected the stud in her lower lip. Her low-backed mini-dress revealed flowery text on the cream of her right shoulder blade--Sylvia Plath or some shit. It was simultaneously eye-rollingly melodramatic and sexy as fuck.

We hit it off immediately, though perhaps we shouldn’t have. She smoked constantly. She outdrank me, too. After a few rounds of whiskey, I suggested a local dance club, “The Cooler.” She grew annoying on the walk over--the kind of belligerent-negging drunk that girls get when they think they are being cute. “If we’re going to date,” she declared, “You’re going to have to wear cooler jeans.” When I told the door-girl at the Cooler that I’d be paying both our covers, she added smartly “You bet you are.” Embarrassing.

The club was hot and packed. Apparently it was a “black night,” which I hadn’t intended. She was just about the only white girl in the place, which meant all eyes were already on her. So it was extra-mortifying when, during a dance, she fell over, her legs kicking into the air. While she struggled to regain her feet, her blouse slid down to reveal her pierced nipples and a star tattoo. I grabbed her arm and pulled her off the floor, apologizing to the irate-looking black girl she’d almost knocked over. Great. Now I’m that guy.

Marion was adamant about her fall. “I didn’t fall because I was drunk. I fell because I hurt my knee running track.” I didn’t care. She had gone from a bit annoying to unbearable very quickly. I suggested we clear out when she invited herself over. Oh well, I remember thinking, at least tonight won’t be a total bust.

At my place, she made a curt announcement. “I’m not going to fuck you.” I was mildly disappointed, but hardly shocked. It was 2, we were drunk, and I was tired. And she hadn’t stopped being pretty grating. I wasn’t sure why she had bothered coming over though--I lived mere blocks from her place, and I just wanted her to go home.

Her drunk babble continued. I pretended to be interested in her stories about running track to impress her father for a while. Then I told her I was going to bed.

When we got to my room, she asked for something to wear. I gave her a set of boxers and a t-shirt. She slid into bed, and I put my arm around her paternally.

And that’s when things got weird.

“Why are you being such a fucking pussy,” she hissed at me. I felt something sour in my stomach.

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re such a fucking pussy,” adding “If you want something. Fucking take it.

I was suddenly on top of her, pinning her arms to the bed. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

She hissed at me. Literally hissed, “Yesssss,” then squirmed a a hand free, cursing at me again.

And that’s when she slapped me. Hard. I couldn’t remember being slapped before. No one has ever dared. I saw stars. I exploded.

I ripped her clothes off her body. I barely had the wherewithal to grab a condom out of my dresser drawer. And I fucked her. Brutally. I can’t remember all the names I called her or any of the bile she spit back. It was a blur. Whore. Cunt. Fuck you. I’m going to ruin you.

She screamed at my size (which is generally an issue), but I was merciless. She told me to stop. Then not to stop. And that I was too big. And that I was a horrible fuck. It was so fucked up.

It wasn’t until I tried to put it in her ass that I knew I’d found her limits. She quietly asked me not to, so I stopped—relieved I still had my head on straight enough to know she meant it this time. I collapsed, and the monster she’d released in me went quiet.

I pulled her close, and she started to cry.

I remember mumbling unintelligibles as we trailed off, “I warned you. Why did you do that? There are dark places...” I fell asleep holding her.

I was hung over and sore in the morning, my body bloody and covered in scratches. She suddenly felt soft and vulnerable. I winced at the state of my body and the memory of what I’d done to her.

When she woke up, she acted like nothing had happened. She hopped up and asked for her dress. In the most matter-of-fact tone, She said she’d had fun. “You should give me a call,” and then she walked out.