That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields by David Shields, Samantha Matthews Page A

one of the couches and started making really derogatory remarks, saying we were all going to do a Playboy photo shoot together. There was a gang-rape tone to the way these two guys were getting excited and talking about us: “Hey, ooh yeah, this is gonna be a fun shoot today” sort of remarks, that all-knowing “You like that, don’t you?” kind of laugh.
    Eli and I had come from a Spanish lunch, where each of us had had a couple glasses of wine. One of the guys started telling me he could smell alcohol on my breath and somehow found himself right behind me, rubbing my shoulders as if to prep me for his idea of how this photo shoot should go. I felt paralyzed; he made me feel like a prostitute who’d just shown up, and he was going to have his way with me. First he would put me down, to make me feel weak, vulnerable. I tried to go with the flow, as I do in these situations. If you react strongly, he might get violent, so better pretend a shoulder massage is totally normal when it’s not. I unparalyzed myself after a couple minutes of his shoulder-rubbing. His body was way too close to mine, and I moved across to the other side of the room, shaking, and sat silentlybehind the photographer. I left feeling like I’d been violated.
    Eli left horrified as well, but whenever we ran into him in the neighborhood, she didn’t seem to give it much importance and would just strike up a conversation with him, as though nothing had happened. Did I feel a violation that wasn’t there? Did his words and actions penetrate me and not her? I was incapable of looking at him and hated him. A rage seared up inside me for months for not having responded to him—for not having told him to get off me.
    Last week I went to a barbecue and there he was, the masseur. I immediately felt the space close in on me. I quietly pointed him out to William, who said, “Okay, relax, I was just talking to him and he seemed like a completely normal guy. You don’t have to talk to him, and you don’t have to be scared, either. I’m here. Also, people can change. This is your past talking here, sensing danger, the abuser, when there isn’t one.”
    Rather than ignoring him, after an hour or so, I went up and introduced myself again to him. He pretended he didn’t know who I was. I didn’t need to make things right with him. He should have been the one to do that. I needed to control the situation and make him human again, not a threat. Rather than holding my ground, I went to him.Just like I wanted to tell my brother everything was okay. To protect the abuser. That. Is. So. Fucked. Up.
    I can feel when I’m weak, and the loonies on the street sense it. I get approached, they talk to me, try to engage and get in there, to that soft, vulnerable place, fuck around with it, and I’m always shocked, even though I know it’s going to happen before it does. There is this sixth sense, this magnet to darkness, and I find myself frozen, terrified for my life, again and again and again. To be honest, this doesn’t happen so often anymore, but for most of my adult life, I’ve felt like burned on my forehead was a sign: INVADE HER—IT ’ S YOUR RIGHT .
    Sound of a gunshot… Forcing a smile, as “you are your thoughts and expressions”… Still here, though… Feeling much better now after starting in a flat place and pushing through… Don’t want to fizzle out toward the end…
    I saw Milo again today. For the last few months I haven’t picked up the phone when he calls, so he sent me an SMS: a smiley-face-and-tongue-hanging-out-of-the-mouth invite for a “girls’ night out!” I tried something new and responded unapologetically with “I’m on kid lockdown mode—can’t.” “Can’t you sell them?” heasked, to which I didn’t reply. So, you know, in accordance with my new tactics, I actually flagged