Girl, the boys are watching porn, get out.
You need protection.
The mother of her friend drags her into the parental bedroom.
The girl sleeps on the floor.
And wonders about the images the happy boys look at in unison.
She can’t sleep because she has been extracted, mistrusted, taken out of a
Non-existent equation, a fearful thought.
No conception under this roof.
The girl asks herself what she has done wrong, why she was the one that had to go.
She turned her back away from the mother’s snoring and felt ashamed.
The girl learned that grimaces were part of the game.
That sex was a male narrative.
His domain, the starting point and ending celebration.
The female orgasm a tale untold.
A benumbing wave of continuous screams.
Her pleasure apparent: a moan, a sound, nothing to double-check.
She understands that her body must be available, accessible, enticing.
Her body a plundered territory.
Thought and act must separate.
The male narrative is silencing the shredded pores of her skin.
Lesson learned: she must be hyper-self-conscious.
Posing as if a camera was there. The male gaze heads for her discomfort.
There is no time for intimacy.
And she moans because that’s what she hears.
Her face a copied grimace. Her choreography clumsy.
She can’t dance to his tune.
She doesn’t listen to herself and replays the images in her head.
Doubts peruse her mind and she hopes that he’s pleased.
She did everything right.
‘Everything’ felt shallow.
It ended as it should. Her happiness not her own.
She is wiped off.
Her body an exquisitely taught liar.
Her voice a fake sound.