The Man

God, he was so nervous. He would tickle his girlfriend in order to touch her tits. It had to appear accidental. Maybe it is harsh; he was only fourteen, to be fair, her fifteen. He wanted to do things but wasn’t comfortable with the vulnerability required to try. Leaning in for a kiss took him months. The space of air between two people before a kiss appeared massive to him. The thought of creeping closer would propel his girlfriend fifty-odd metres away. Walking the tightrope of possible rejection to kiss his confirmed girlfriend. 

She wasn’t the one, but the next? No, not her, either. He did lose his virginity, though. She was younger, so he felt like a real man. He was the experienced one, so he led the way up until a point. Once she sexually matured, her confidence shrunk his, and he hated her for that. A bit like when you bully someone for weeks, and eventually, they take you up on one of your empty threats; you freeze, you cry, and your dick has never looked smaller. 

No, she wasn’t the one. His virginity began to grow back after the break up like a neglected umbilical cord. The tightrope got longer, and his antidepressants made his balance redundant. 

Five years went by with no sex. He had many one-night stands, but he ensured he drank enough that his soft penis was excused. In the morning? He pretended the hangover was so debilitating that she needed to leave. A promise of a second meeting floated in the air, and some girls seemed very keen, but he never messaged them. They knew him. Blocked.

Introducing Rebecca, the girl that liked it rough. Whether she sensed what he wanted or was, just naturally submissive twenty-four-seven is unknown. But she was perfect. She would say, “Don’t choke me,” as an invitation. He loved it. He was always in control, always the man! Something had awoken in him. 

The charade sometimes paused when Rebecca requested future ideas: whips, chains, handcuffs. At this point, he was supremely confident, and even with the curtains down, he was the man.

He had slapped her before. That was one of the first transitions. Now it was palm strikes. Both were under the illusion a palm wouldn’t leave a mark. The leash was removed. One morning he heard, “Aw, for fuck sake!”. She ran out of the bathroom laughing with a slightly swollen and bruised face. The sight of the beaten face spiked something in him. He felt his dick rise in his pants. No more palm strikes. 

He started to tear up her back with his fingernails. Every swipe tore new blood. The screams of “No!” and “Stop!” only added to the story. He was the man; he did whatever he wanted. The serious conversations that followed, the eye contact, the apologising, the hugs and the crying didn’t matter. It felt too good to him. 

She was an outcast. One of those girls with no female friends. Ultimately it came down to her looks. She was too attractive and naturally flirtatious- guilty until proven innocent. He had made her stop talking to her male friends also. She had fucked some of them, but still, she lacked the independence to fight the notion of friendships. 

She met him just before covid. By the time the beatings started, her job had been made permanently remote. “Sorry, there is something wrong with my webcam.” she would say. Her work didn’t care as long as they could hear her. He became obsessed with raping her whilst she was on a zoom call. The scrambling to reach the mute button drove him wild. She couldn’t leave the house by this point, and he no longer entertained the serious conversations. The abuse now extended beyond their sexual life, and she rightfully feared for her life. 

His Mum was due a visit, so things calmed down for a bit. Slow, safe, missionary rape. She would no longer pretend to enjoy it. Her fear had turned to spite. This got to him, but he could do nothing; the wounds had to heal unless he would be outed to mummy. He would stare into her eyes, hoping for an unavoidable physical actuality. Still, her resilience held firm; truth be told, he just wasn’t big enough. Her eyes were broken. 

It was the day before Mum was visiting. He would pace up and down the flat before clinging to her for a cuddle. She squirmed away with her temporary liberty shining through. The beatings returned as the pressure built, and the sweat reached his brows. 

The morning of the visit, things reached the point of no return. Her bruises were a noticeable reminder that lacked the sexual zeal that accompanied them prior. They, instead, brought out a rage that could not be controlled. Several blows to the head rendered her unconscious. When she woke, she couldn’t speak. Her brain had joined her eyes, and he began to panic. Clinched fist with one eye on her and one on the window, he flattened the memory. She was his ex now. 

The doorbell rang.