I remember the moment I met her. Her eyes turned on me, two dark orbs full of amusement at my sharp and witty comment that I clearly do not remember. At the time, her hair was two colors, the front blond and the back black. It was a short pixie cut, and that, whether it be fortunately or unfortunately, made me instantly think she was in the very least gay. That I was fine with. What I didn’t expect was her reaction.
She turned on me, teeth flashing in an amused smile, very much Cheshire. Instantly, I did not get her name. But she seemed interested in being my friend at least because from thence forth she continued to talk to me until we split off into the orientation groups that were pre-determined by colors we had been assigned. Still, when I saw her as our two teams met face to face, there was something about her look that drew me in and made me think something or another was up within her mind.
After the games, as we all dispersed, she came upon me again. Her name was beautiful and rang church bells in my ears: Anastasia. It was then that we exchanged numbers and immediately as we parted, Anastasia texted me. At the time I was not much of a texter, so I attempted to end the conversations. But she pushed and pushed to the point where I said, “See you later,” and that was the end of one texting conversation.
Later on, when I thought of friends that I may have made, I thought of Anastasia. She had continued to text me and I figured why not invite her to where I was to hang out. Little did I know, she had planned to flirt me to death. Uncomfortable with my own sexuality, I did not know how to properly respond. Nerves took over, and I pulled away wishing to be rid of this new experience that forced me to be who I truly was, but because of my family would rather not be.
I saw her at breakfast when I went, and slowly I stopped going. When I saw her during times we all talked on relationships we had, all I could speak of were times when I was with a male. So that was the impression that finally drove her away. Quickly thereafter, I stopped talking with Stacy – her nickname – and we drifted apart until we inevitably were brought together by other friends I had made.
It was in the BC (Booth/Centennial) lounge where we met again. My friend, Amber, had become one to confide in over a boy, who shall not be named, so I spent an awful lot of time going back to her dorm with her to cry and then later to dinner with her and her friends. Stacy happened to be one of them on a certain day and time. We talked like normal people, nothing really abnormal between two friends.
At dinner, we sat across from one another, or in such a way that footsy became a thing. Normal footsy is pushing each other away, just playing around. Our footsy was that of a flirtatious manner where we would entwine our legs and sit there with them holding one another. I didn’t think much of it, finding it cozy and nice to be close to someone physically. Not a single thought of it becoming more crossed my mind. I never expected her to start trying to hold my hand. That was a boundary that surprised me as I had never just gone around holding another girl’s hand. So when she first tried, I kept unwinding my fingers from her. Eventually, I didn’t care. She was breaking me, bit by bit.
Stacy began to get worse with the intimate details. She coaxed me into her room, and I’d like to think I still had my own free will at that point. That was before I lost it. I can’t remember why or how I ended up there, but we had a battle of me leaving and saying goodnight. Her hand pulled me back and forth; I allowed her words to work as a rope around me, taking me back to where she sat on her bed. Her eyes mocked me, teasing me, seducing me. Her eyebrows twitched, she repeated “what” after me when she made her small murmurs that I could not hear, knowing it drove me insane and kept me coming back for more.
I kissed her. After over an hour of us going back and forth, I couldn’t take it. I had to because part of me knew she wouldn’t. And I kissed her, and it was amazing. My mind left the world behind as her tongue brushed mine, her arms and hands reaching for me, pulling me on top of her. My hands wove into her short, now completely black, hair. And I pulled away breathless, embarrassed, not knowing fully what I had just done to myself. I left, satisfied.
It happened again, and again. The night where she got me to turn out the light was one of the most amazing. I kept saying I was leaving, goodnight, gone. She pulled me over her, onto the bed, told me to stop lying, and commenced to kiss me, suck on my stomach, and drive me insane before pushing me away and having me exit. Other nights, she attempted to convince me to stay in bed with her, to sleep next to her in comfort. I said no to this every single time, except once.
We parted for thanksgiving break. Texting was minor and we snapchatted our way through life, adding in an “I miss you” every once in a while. She said it more often than I, for I was reluctant to say it. However, even before thanksgiving break, I had been kissing her as a part of daily routine, holding her hand whenever she liked. At this point, whether or not she knew it, I was her toy to play with. I had been sucked into a game. And over thanksgiving break, the abuse continued, making me wonder and question if this would be something that I could ever want.
Stacy had warned me to not gain feelings for her. She wasn’t the type to feel often, and she didn’t want me to feel anything. I tried, truly I did. But the game twisted my brain into a pretzel, and I truly was not thinking straight. Logic was gone from me. I am ashamed to say I gained something deep within me.
Coming back from break, it all continued much to her surprise. However, as Stacy told me, she did not mind that I waltzed right into BC and kissed her. For me, at that point, it had become a natural routine as I enjoyed kissing her, even if it was just a light peck to say hello.
Things grew more intense. Even though she repeated her warning, I still got caught in a fishnet. We continued to kiss, to get closer in more intimate ways beyond kissing. The fear in the back of my mind became my feelings, not wanting to lose her as a person in my life to something so stupid. My feelings were stupid and unwanted. But her game kept me within the bounds to keep gaining and gaining. It was dangerous and I could feel it in my bones that I would be hurt eventually.
I finally stayed over on a night when her roommate was gone. It didn’t take much convincing as I knew it would feel nice to sleep beside her. Never before had I felt so close. We did things together, she showed me different ways of being with someone in bed. She held me in her sleep, crushing me to her. Her body was soft and warm.
The very week after I lost her to them. It was sudden and out of the blue. I knew I would get hurt, but I didn’t think it would be like this. And now I have to hide how hurt I am so that I don’t lose her, something I always do. I contain my feelings of hurt, my feelings of longing, my feelings of pain and loss all for someone who clearly does not give a flying fuck if I’m sad or not. Even with her apology, it is all empty. I feel so empty. I do this to myself. But I can’t be mad at her. She warned me and I fucked it up. It’s all my fault. She insists it wasn’t a game. Wasn’t it? I won’t fight her on it. There is no point. It’s over. I lost, but I won’t show it. I can’t show it. This is me. I give up my happiness for others because others need to be happy. This is the way it is, always.
It’s what I do.