He’ll be home any minute so she has to do her hair. Curled and set, brushed out neatly before being shaped around her face so it looks like it was effortless. She selects her best outfit, one she knows he’ll find appealing. Emphasising her curves just enough but not too much. Making her look like an angel. Nails are polished. Legs already smooth – earlier that day she ran herself a bath and her skin is now powder-soft, like new-fallen snow. Bathed and moisturised and shaven and plucked and perfect. Man, I’m so glad I’m not a 1950s housewife!

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When I was young I used to get really pissed off at family events when older relatives would coo “ooh, haven’t you GROWN!”. Yes, Auntie Karen, of COURSE I’ve grown. I was a toddler last time you saw me and now I can read and write and reach the kitchen knives! But now that I’m an adult myself, I understand why grown-ups used to say this. Occasionally someone (or something) will drift out of your life, then return years later in a form so entirely different you simply have to remark upon it. Exclaim: “wow! What the fuck?! How have you changed so much when I am essentially still the same person?!” Let’s talk about the Hot Octopuss Pulse Queen.

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CN: stealthing/rape, brief mention of domestic violence.

[Part 1 of this post is here]

On my way from his place to the tube, I stick my headphones in and whack on some loud, jaunty tunes. Force of habit. There’s an upbeat soundtrack playing to the blood thumping in my ears. Walking to the station after getting stealthed I remember thinking that I should probably be crying. I should be sad. I should be feeling used and hurt and frightened and small. But I’m not, not right now. I’ll definitely feel all those things in the coming days, but right now if I have to label it the thing I am feeling is ‘rage.’ I’m not ‘sad’, I am incensed. I have a lot of thoughts about what happened, but the one that’s clearest in my mind is that I will tell this story.

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CN: rape

I wanted to sit down this morning and write something horny about the hot guy I shagged the other day. And I will, I promise. But unfortunately, around the same time I shagged that hot guy, I got raped. And while this delicious brand of calm, white-hot rage still flows through my veins, that’s the only story I’m interested in telling.

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