I think about it a lot.
Not him, but the event.
Even calling it an ‘event’ makes my body writhe with cringe, makes my teeth feel like they might clatter together and crumble, pooling in my throat.
Picturing him disgusts me and so I would rather not try to do so. It makes me feel dirty in myself, which I know is not fair, but I cannot help how I feel.

Mutuality was not present that night. Eurgh. Calling it ‘that night’ makes it sound worse than it was, like I was raped or murdered. I wasn’t. It is not that simple and often isn’t. But the ‘event’ and ‘that night’ are necessary descriptors, for what else am I meant to call it? Why do I feel guilty adding weight to it through description?

Linguistic details aside, mutuality was not present. It was notably lacking.

I am lying. It was there at the start, at the very start. It was not notably lacking until-
Until the wash phased into grey, never reaching black but certainly grey and definitely not white.

Once it has happened that’s it. It cannot be undone. Confusion clouded my head and hazed my thoughts the following day. I explained the grey to my friends and to my delight they understood exactly what I meant. They could relay back to me my own experience and I did not feel crazy or like I was overreacting.

I do not wholly blame him, but I blame myself. I blame him for not stopping and for the nature of the event but not for the event itself. I blame myself for seducing him in the first place.

It’s funny because it wasn’t a moment that defined anything, myself included.
It was just a moment, clouded with grey but awash with other brighter tones.
But the grey remains, dull and clingy.

And whilst I cannot say exactly what dynamic was at play, I knew I was the weaker one out of us two.

You were old, and I felt like I’d succeeded in seducing you. But that was enough for me.
I didn’t need the rest.
I didn’t ask for the rest, the rest just happened to me.

With a sigh I acknowledge it was ‘just one of those things’.

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