Everything stems from this: vengeance is to revenge as lust is to love. This is her story of lust, but is my story of vengeance. Spoken together they are a twisted tale of punishment, pain, and retribution. You see, love and revenge live among people, but lust and vengeance are relegated to archetypes; one-dimensional shadows. In the land of archetypes nobody is truly seen and barbarity rules. Where there is no face, there are no stakes. Where vengeance meets lust is a godless land, and that where our paths collided.
I’m all too familiar with my archetype. I’m flattened into it time and time again. The tiny tattooed femme, which to the masculine reads as, “she must be a fucking freak in bed.” Maybe I am, but it’ll cost you.
I knew of her before I ever knew her. I knew her friends called her Daddy and that she was rarely ever single. She moved from one gorgeous femme to the next like frogger. She always came out on the other side unscathed, and I imagined all the wreckage left behind her. I hated it.
I had been in rooms when she walked in, and I saw the heads turn. Everyone noticed her. Ignorance would say it is her hair that pulls them in like puppets on strings, but I am wise. Her hair has nothing to do with it. She commands attention. She drips of masculinity. She is the pinnacle of big dyke energy and everyone wants a taste. Her masculinity at one time would have been my object of my affection, but now it was the mark of my vengeance. Trauma new and old alike had taught me something sinister about masculinity; it exists in a state of perpetual taking; taking spaces, taking bodies, taking time, and taking me. And I wanted to take it, and I didn’t want just a piece. I wanted the whole damn pie. So you see, the butches wanted to be her, the femmes wanted to fuck her, and I wanted something different altogether. I wanted to emasculate her.
I blew off our first date. I told her I slept through my alarm after brunching too hard with my friends. The truth is I never set one to begin with. I had no desire to get to know her in the daylight. She wasn’t a person to me, she was just mark; the masculine takedown.
When I finally met up with her hours late I gave her my big puppy dog eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry,” in her ear as I pressed my body into hers. I know how to play my part. She ate it up. And promptly demanded a lap dance to make up for my bad behavior. She leaned right into her part too.
She took me home that night. She stripped me slowly as she told me how disappointed she was. Soon my flesh was on display. She twisted my thong around my frail wrists, cuffing me. I braced myself. I knew what was coming. For weeks we had taunted in text. She was going to beat me. And she was convinced she was going to break me. Every girl had caved under her hand. I wouldn’t give her the pleasure.
As her hand cracked into my porcelain skin over and over again I focused on the noise. Have you ever heard cells shattering? It is louder than you think. I visualized the sound waves erupting from the cracks in my skin as little screams. Their cries bounced over her stark white walls begging for escape. Alone they were a small sound, but synchronized they were a deafening army. I was dripping. I could have drowned them all into silence.
With one hand pressed against my neck she shoved her other down my throat. I choked but I never let my eyes break from hers. When she eased up on windpipe I filled my lungs with air like a newborn. As I swallowed the universe between our faces she pried my mouth open and twisted her head slowly about like trained snake. She was inspecting me. All at once I was thrown into reverse back to a childhood memory of Little Shop of Horrors. I was her patient and she was the sadistic dentist. I couldn’t see her then, I just saw him. I was only called back to reality when I heard an unusual sound I couldn’t place. My conscious rose and my eyes opened to see her head tilted back above me. Suddenly her body was moving towards me like a like an asteroid on a path of destruction. She spit down my open throat and our matter collided. Her world and mine crashed together and life began.
She disgusted me. She excited me. She wanted to ruin me and I wanted to ruin her too. We were lawless; straddled between the gate of heaven and hell. We could have tipped either way, so I turned around. I didn’t want to see her. I’ve always maintained that doggy is my favorite position, it isn’t. It is just the easiest way to have sex without intimacy. And intimacy is saved for few. She wasn’t one of them.
While still on all fours, I turned my head to look back at her. She was sprawled across the bed with beads of sweat rolling down her flesh. I could feel her heavy breathing through the palms of my hands still pressed into the mattress. She looked helpless, wrecked, and beaten. I had exhausted her without single mark on her body. I was the one left standing. My eyes slowly scanned her, up and down. I wanted to remember every second of this next moment.
I looked her straight in the eyes and said, “Is that all you’ve got?”
I saw her face change and I could feel every ounce of that big dyke energy draining from her body, as if I had just gutted her. I loved every second of it. Tell me, who is the sadist now? Her or me? Did I enjoy the way she beat me, spit on me, and degraded me, or was it all just an elaborate performance so I could flip the script? I’ll never tell. And it’s not important. All you need to know is this: I have more big dyke energy in a single stiletto than she has in her entire body.