We’d been drinking, that happy mid-afternoon buzz, midterms over when I’d just dropped the question casually in your lap; “what do you have to say to women that feel they went through a ‘phase’ ; were they genuinely homosexual whilst in that phase, or was their sexuality just a construct; were they choosing women, or rejecting men?” You’d made a face. Philosophy majors have all the answers and none of the conviction, it’s like blowing away fog.
After another two bottles of wine we’d coined a phrase; Schrödinger’s Dyke; that you didn’t know if you were in a “phase” or not until someone or something challenged you on it. We both agreed we were going to feminist hell, assuaging your guilty laughter with little put-downs of homophobic men having peeked out of their box and not liking what they saw. You were so secure in yourself.
Your girlfriend, the only militant femme on the entire eastern seaboard didn’t think it was so hilarious, Apparently after I left she dragged you into the restroom and went down on you till you gushed. “Insecure cunt trying to mark its territory” I’d said. "she’s just brittle. Scared.”
By the time finals had rolled around, you were playing her like a fiddle, I provided you the prompts you needed to turn her insecure possessiveness into a slavish, compulsive desire to please you, playing on her emotional neediness and codependency, you’d taken your lines from me, acting distant, detached, slightly pitying. I’d given you some stereotypes to play out, handing you thumb drives full of porn, apologizing for the fact it was all guy-on-girl, but you assured me that you could take the power elements and use them. You both played them out to the letter, you the demanding, ineffable mistress, her the desperate, anxious slave. Her resentment of me, and her means of quieting that by pleasing you became a game for you, spending more time with me, making her more jealous, using it to consolidate your control over her. You were an eager student.
Laughing at her latest desperate, contemptible effort to hold your attention, to reassert herself, how you’d crushed her effortlessly over a couple of bottles of wine, I filled your glass, then dropped my final little domino into place.
"Sometimes I wonder if you were just bored with boys, and now you’re getting bored with her. That all of this was you just seeking my approval on some level."
It had taken a while to get you to a point where I could say that without you getting angry. Tangentially questioning your sexuality was one thing. Directly stating it was a sham was entirely another. I’d watched you swirl your wine around in your glass, tipping the whole thing back, swallowing hard. I’d given you a ride home. You not talking, face pinched as you hashed out what I’d done to you. You were a smart girl, it was pretty obvious when you put it all together. We pulled up outside your building and I walked you to your door before you rounded on me:
"…for the last couple of months I haven’t been able to cum without thinking about men. I’ve been fucking myself to the thought of how much sucking cock in front of her would make her crazy. That you knew she’d do anything to keep me from "going straight". That I could make her fuck men while I watched."
You stared at me accusingly.
"You did this."
"Yes", I’d said.
You’d slapped me. Astoundingly hard. I’d chased the taste around my mouth, the coppery salty tang of blood. The rest was a mess of movement, my hand on your throat, trying to open the door, fight your way out of your clothes, a slew of cursing as you tried unbuckle my jeans whilst walking backwards. kissing, biting, cursing, hitting me, dragging me towards your bedroom.
She was as broken as you’d left her 4 hours ago, sitting on the bed. she didn’t even seem surprised; you’d been playing on this fear for so long it was almost a relief to see you do it, I think. You’d made her watch as you sucked my cock, devouring it hungrily, playing it up, bobbing your head, working hard. making yourself gag, talking to her all the time, telling her how she was right all along, wasn’t this what she wanted to see? She sniffed and sobbed, paralysed with fear and desire until you’d snapped your fingers and pointed, her crawling under you, lapping your cunt eagerly, hungrily, happy to be wanted.
The last thing you’d said as I took you, and then her, as she’d whimpered "I love you, Mistress" into your cunt over and over again stuck with me.
"I fucking hate you. Fuck me harder"