[ WP ] Write the letter that you always wanted to , but never did .

For the record, this is what you did. 
 
 It was Thursday, September 10, 2015. The air was heavy with mist because it had just rained, and as I rounded my corner I saw you standing outside the bodega. I didn ’ t even want to look at you because I was so disgusted at what I was learning about you from your associates on the street: the cheating, the prostitutes, the dust smoking, all the money you owed to your suppliers, the real reason you got jumped. 
 
 My apartment looked like a junkie lived there: The floor was dirty and the table was sprinkled with your angel dust-treated tobacco and crumbs of the weed you just bagged up. It was clear you were dusted all the time now. For the last four months I ’ d let you use my place to bag up your dime bags, shower and change clothes, and fuck me occasionally. Now I wanted you out but I had no idea how to do it. Your clothes sat in piles on the floor next to papers and pens and lighters—the detritus that made up your life. It had been there since your son ’ s mother sent it over in black garbage bags 5 days ago, when she found out you had a closet at my place that looked exactly like the one she had at hers in the Bronx. That was the same day I found out you two hadn ’ t actually broken up. You blamed me for all of it and raged at me incessantly. It turns out that beneath your charming, humble, gentle giant, Furious Styles-esque exterior, you were a Jekyll-and-Hyde, wifebeating sociopath. *That* was a rude awakening. 
 
 It was early, like 9:30. You came in and made a beeline for the bedroom, and in minutes I heard you snoring. I was exhausted so I turned off the light, curled up on the couch and tried to fall asleep. 
 
 “ What are you doing out here? Come to bed. ” 
 
 “ You must be joking. ” I told you a little about the shit I was learning. “ There is nothing between us anymore. ” 
 
 “ Nothing between us? Why you doing this, man? ” 
 
 How could you not see my disgust? The night before I ’ d learned that you beat your son ’ s mother, and your ex-girlfriend before that—as well as their children. I was horrified and vowed to never let you touch me again. I didn ’ t want to reward you for being an abuser. 
 
 “ Can ’ t you call up one of your little skanks and fuck them instead? ” I asked. 
 
 You turned the light on. “ Why won ’ t you come to bed? ” 
 
 “ Because of all the places you put your dick. ” 
 
 “ This is some bullllllllshit. ” You started taking my blanket off. “ Stop, ” I said, but you grabbed one of my arms and pulled me up. It barely felt like you were exerting any force. You weren ’ t angry; you were so calm it threw me. You were all business: This was yours, and you were taking it. I figured that if I faked you out long enough you ’ d fall asleep, and then your buddy—the one who told me to call him if I ever needed help getting you out because he sensed that you ’ d completely lost your mind—would be here in two days. Why make a scene? It would all be over soon. 
 
 “ Why you doing this, man? ” you kept saying, and I kept telling you, but you didn ’ t hear me. You made it seem like my not being in bed was ridiculous. I knew this would never end. Just two more days, I told myself. 
 
 “ This is some bullshit, ” you kept saying. 
 
 “ O.K., O.K.! ” I said as you led me by my arm. “ I ’ ll be right there. ” I ’ d go, I decided, but on my terms. I followed you into the bedroom. It was dark. You were already under the covers. By even being there, I ’ d already crossed a line in my mind, but it was just to shut you up. I knew you ’ d never leave me alone. *Just two more days. * 
 
 I get under the covers and take the blanket and wrap myself up like a burrito. We lay there for a second and I think you may be asleep. You press your thigh up against me and throw your leg over me and I ’ m like, “ No. ” I start restlessly shifting around to telegraph my annoyance. I lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. You face me and start tugging at my shorts. 
 
 “ Why are your shorts still on? ” you ask. 
 
 “ Stop it, ” I say, imagining that the sternness in my voice will stop you. You always joked that you'd never hurt me because I'm white, and they'd bury you under the jail. I guess that was your idea of humor, because you do n't seem to care about that now. 
 
 “ Why aren ’ t your shorts coming off? ” 
 
 “ Seriously, stop. ” I grab the waistband and hold on, but you wriggle them off like it ’ s nothing. Then we wrestle with my underwear, our hands getting tangled up in the waistband like we ’ re playing cat ’ s cradle. I bolt up out of bed— “ Whoa whoa whoa! ” —and back up against the wall. “ You want rape on your rap sheet, too? ” It ’ s my nervous attempt at a joke. 
 
 “ Hmph, ” you utter with a self-satisfied smirk. You ’ re right on top of me then, your full 6 feet 4 inches and 260 pounds pressing into me. But not menacingly or anything—you ’ re just there. Like a wall. 
 
 “ O.K., O.K.! ” I yell and spin around and lay down in bed. I don ’ t see any other choice. You get on top of me and try to stick your dick in. I can ’ t believe this—I ’ d longed for you to fuck me more than once a week all summer, and here you are, fucking when I want nothing more to do with you. 
 
 I ’ m bone dry. I guess my body can ’ t lie. “ Get the lube, ” you say. I sit up and open my nightstand drawer, even though it ’ s closer to you. “ Put it on, ” you say, and I slather it on you and me, and when I ’ m done I lay back and stare up at you and say, “ I hate you. ” 
 
 “ Shut the fuck up, ” you say. You said “ shut up ” once in awhile when we had sex, kinda muttered it, and it was hot. You also used to say “ don ’ t move ” when we ’ d fuck in missionary and I ’ d go crazy and hook my legs over your shoulders and move myself up and down on your cock, remember? I used to find it hot that you put me in my place. But now you say it over and over, both phrases, one after the other, and it ’ s not hot. 
 
 “ Shut the fuck up. ” “ Don ’ t move. ” “ Shut the fuck up. ” “ Don ’ t move. ” 
 
 I do something I may never forgive myself for: I consider trying to enjoy it. I remember how hot it was when we first started fucking, how you ’ d move in and out of me and our eyes would meet and we could n't believe we were feeling something so good at the same time. I try to hold onto that memory now, but you ’ re grunting with that dead look in your eyes and bloody drool on your lip and you smell like rust and salt and sunshine and sweat. I know you hate me for ruining your two-women-on-each-side-of-the-bridge fantasy, and that fucking me is about asserting your control. 
 
 I keep drying up and you make me re-slather us with lube. After 15 minutes you lose your erection. You sit up and ask me why you can ’ t get hard, and I say I don ’ t know. You hop off and slam the door behind you. 
 
 My phone ’ s vibrating. Your son ’ s mother is texting me that you texted her that you miss her and you ’ re coming up there and did she want ice cream from the store. I actually feel rejected, which makes me feel ashamed. I didn ’ t want to have sex with you, so how can I possibly feel rejected?! But my brain hasn ’ t caught up with what happened yet. 
 
 I follow you out of the bedroom. “ Where are you going? ” 
 
 “ To the store. ” 
 
 “ In the BRONX? ” You didn ’ t ask how I knew that. 
 
 “ I ’ m in a lot of fucking pain, ” you say and rub your knee. I must have kicked it when I was fighting you off, “ when you were raping me, ” I say. I was surprised I said the “ r ” word, because this is n't something I would've called the cops about. I knew if I ’ d had a choice, I would *not* have had sex with you that night, but I don ’ t feel “ raped ” in the Afterschool Special sense of the word. The word “ rape ” conjures images of a sudden attack by a stranger. Maybe what happened between us was “ gray rape, ” which is what they call encounters like ours where consent isn ’ t given but the girl is dating the guy and she isn ’ t struggling because she trusts him and doesn ’ t quite believe what ’ s happening. She ’ s not scratching and clawing because she ’ s in utter disbelief. No one pulled me off the street and bent me over and raped me in an alley. But our sex was not consensual. Whatever you call it, it was WRONG. I don ’ t need a jury to tell me that you don ’ t give a fuck about my free will. 
 
 `` YO. ” Your eyes got really wide. “ I did NOT rape you. man. You have to be really careful what you say, it could get misinterpreted by someone and I could get charged. ” It sounded like you had some experience with this. 
 
 “ You can ’ t go up to the Bronx, ” I say. I ’ m not going to let you force yourself on her, too. What you don ’ t want to say is that you want to finish having sex. And finish you did. Without even washing off your dick. If they made Fabreze for vaginas, I ’ d stick a whole can up there. 
 
 “ Bye, honey! ” I yelled sarcastically once you slammed my front door. I vowed you ’ d never set foot in my apartment again. The next day was Friday, September 11. I called your buddy and told him tonight was the night. I imagined he ’ d retrieve my keys and take your stuff, but he did a lot more than that. He and his buddies gave you the reckoning you deserved for acting like The Douchebag of Harlem. After he relieved you of your iPhone, your bread and my house keys, everyone took a whack at you until you stood in the street wearing nothing but your boxers. When he told me to come to my living room window and watch, I said no because I couldn ’ t bring myself to look. 
 
 The next morning, when I walked outside and reached the corner and you weren ’ t there, I thought, Good. In less than 12 hours I ’ d gotten justice, and I didn ’ t even have to call the police. There would be no uncomfortable run-ins. And the best part was that I didn ’ t even have to ask for justice. The streets took care of it. 
 
 Seven weeks later you ’ d be back at Rikers, where you ’ ve been for the last two months because she finally had enough of you abusing her in an apartment you never paid a cent to live in. A few weeks later, when one of your street buddies told me about that girl you cornered in a bathroom who said she felt raped, and how she was crying afterward, I realized that it wasn ’ t all in my head. 
 
 This really happened.
