I didn’t like how I was feeling, being there on the bed with those men and agreeing with them, yet I was suspicious of that feeling–I worried that if I admitted I didn’t agree with what they were saying, then I would become the girl who needed to be fucked, and I didn’t want that. It seemed I wanted to be the girl who was fucked. The girl who would agree and who would let the hand slap her ass and laugh as the hand slapped her ass. I just wanted to be the girl who would agree. I thought that by agreeing, I would be permitted a kind of safety and privacy wherein I could secretly disagree with the men and hate the hand and hate myself for having agreed with them. It seemed I wanted to be turned against myself, and I was–I was so against myself that I could not help anybody else. I could not, in the silence after the laugh had become a slap had become a hand again on my ass again, I could not say, “No.” I could not speak because I would not let myself.
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