More Hookup Than I’d Planned For [MFM]

So I’d held off on posting this on the off chance that people I knew would find this account, but now I’m out of the relationship I was on a break from while it happened and, well…I no longer really care, I guess.

It’s been a year or so since I posted anything at all, so bare with me while I get back into the rhythm here. I should warn ahead of time that there are elements of nonconsensual sex in this story; the way I see it is that I made a terrible choice and things happened, none of which were as bad as they could have been, but I don’t want to trigger you; if you think that might be triggering, tap out now.

This happened back in February. At the time, my then-boyfriend and I were on a bit of a break. It was a bit of a manufactured fight, a little bit of drama that we would go through once in awhile; I would do something he wouldn’t like, the fight would escalate, he’d say something dumb, I’d tell him I needed a break, we’d get back together a few weeks later. Simple. Easy. Then after a week he’d start being apologetic, I’d string him along, I’d get back together with him pending certain conditions, rinse and repeat. We’d done this dance before, and I knew we’d be getting back together.

However, at the time of this incident, we had not officially reconnected. There was a tentative peace treaty but no signatures had been affixed to it and so in my mind, at that point, I was a single girl. I was 25, I had nobody expecting me home, and I will acknowledge that that night I went out to get some strange.

I went out with my friends. My friends and I all have this rule that’s supposed to be iron clad: if we go to a place together, we leave together. Nobody left behind. And yes, sure, this rule has been broken; a girl will run into a guy she knows, a girl will meet her boyfriend or another group. But the way I broke it was the situation the rule was specifically designed to combat.

See, we went to a club, and I was drinking. At the time Bacardi and Coke was my shit, and I had had several of these. I was feeling GOOD. I was dancing. I was oblivious to the world. On the dance floor me and this guy – his name, I found out as the night went on, was Miguel – were dancing in that way that animals dance when they’re trying to mate. The connection between us was purely sexual; I still only know his first name, I know what he looked like, I know that he was Puerto Rican and black and that I could feel him against me when I ground my ass on him, that he was into it, that there was a lot of him.

At some point he asked me to go home with him. Take the party elsewhere. And I know at first I said no, citing the rule…but my heart wasn’t in it. I didn’t want the rule. I wanted to fuck. I’d been with one guy in four years. I wanted to try something new, and everything about this – the raw sexual energy, the way he held my hips, the way he was in charge without asking me, the way he directed me, everything – was really working for me. I sent a text saying I’d catch up with them later. I turned off my phone. We left the club, we caught an Uber back to his place. We made out in the back seat. I felt his hands under my shirt, under my skirt. Between my legs. I was wet and worked up and I knew that this was just a one-time thing but I knew it was going to be an unforgettable one time.

He lived in half of a duplex about fifteen minutes away. I’m not sure where; I was distracted, I didn’t know where I was, and I was very drunk. We stumbled up the steps, into his upstairs flat. He was taller than me (I’m 5’3″ on a good day, he had at least a foot on me), stronger than me. I could feel his cock through his jeans; I’m not a size queen or anything, but this was bigger than I’d had before. I felt like a stereotype, the Latina being enamored with a large, black man. I knew things were a little out of control and at the same time I wanted to lose that control, I wanted whatever was going to happen to happen.

In situations like this, too, that was always my rule: what happens, happens. I put myself into that situation, I will deal with the consequences. If I don’t want bad things to happen, I shouldn’t go to the hotel rooms of strangers. I shouldn’t go home with people I don’t know. That was and is my mindset on these kinds of encounters; whether or not it’s right is a different conversation. That mindset is what I have now and had then. I remember sometimes soberly trying to calculate the worst case scenarios, and never one time did that happen. This time, though, my calibrations were off, I wasn’t accounting for everything, and my worst case scenario was actually wrong.

I remember that my clothes were in the living room. I remember following him into the bedroom naked, him fully clothed. Him laying down on the bed. Me opening his pants like a child opens a Christmas present, pulling him out. Putting him in my mouth. I remember it was a little forceful. I remember him pushing my head down on him and not being able to get him all the way down. Coughing a bit. Drooling. The red-eyed blurriness of a girl trying to fit something that doesn’t fit into a place that it shouldn’t go. I remember the taste and the smell, cocoa butter, his sweat, all of it being familiar and yet somehow foreign. I remember how he talked to me; not lovingly, not reverently, not approvingly. “Get it down, bitch. Don’t quit.”

At this point, though, this was what I was here for. I’d been under no illusions at the club that I was somehow special to him; we both knew why I was coming back. We were both objectifying each other; he was the primal embodiment of sexual energy, I was the good girl he wanted to corrupt. Names, identities, all of those things were irrelevant. In his presence that’s what I was. I was there to have my throat bruised and my face slapped a little. I was there to have my ass grabbed, here to have my tits fondled, here to receive whatever he gave me.

The thing I did not know was that Miguel had a roommate. There was not a tour of the apartment. There was not a lot of time for introduction. I was blurry, too; endorphins and alcohol made me numb to the world around me. I did not know that as I was trying to throat possibly the thickest cock I’ve ever encountered in the wild that two people were watching me, not one.

His roommate had come to the door at some point. I was on the bed, my ass was in the air. Naked. My ass was facing the door. Miguel had a big bed. He was leaning against the headboard. I was at the midpoint of the mattress. And at some point it was decided between the two of them that I didn’t have enough dick to handle. It was never discussed with me; I’d have said no, but I’m not sorry it happened, really. I remember the mattress shifting as the roommate, this man I’d never even seen, got in behind me. I remember moaning a complaint as he rubbed the head of his cock on the lips of my pussy. I remember Miguel’s hand on my head and I remember this stranger’s hands pulling my hips back, pulling me onto him. I remember him filling me, I remember knowing what was happening and not being able to get away, not being able to stop it, struggling and fighting briefly but then giving in as the two of them developed a rhythm, as a strange hand molested my clit, as my legs gave out, as I got fucked from behind with my mouth full of cock.

Once it had happened, once I hadn’t stopped it, once that barrier was broken, I gave in. There wasn’t any fight in me. It wasn’t even unpleasurable, really; it felt like why I was there in a sense. I surrendered to it. I let them switch positions. I let them take turns. I was out of my body at that point. I went with it. I allowed it. I opened my legs when I was told. I opened my mouth when I was told. I swallowed. I touched. I let them spank me and slap me if I did something wrong. I was just there for their private use, and I was there as long as they wanted me there.

The whole event lasted awhile. I don’t know times. There were breaks. I laid there naked, aching. We smoked pot. We went back to it. I was flipped over onto my back. Onto my stomach. I swallowed. They came in me. I was used in pretty much any way that I could be and while I wasn’t sure I liked it I also wasn’t sure that I didn’t. It felt inevitable. I later remembered the girl at the beginning of “Rules of Attraction” saying that “she always knew it would be this way” and I knew that that was me, that somehow I knew I’d always push things too far, put myself in that kind of situation. I didn’t blame them, I blamed me, and I didn’t try to stop anything.

When it was over they called me an Uber and sent me on my way. I had Miguel’s number in my phone, I had an address. He needed to be reminded of my name as I left, which felt fitting. I got home around 6. I slept some at home. My phone, once it was switched on, had texts from everyone. Missed voicemails, worried if I was okay or not. Furious texts about breaking the rule, about going home without them. About being dumb.

I’d like to say it ended there, that this was a one time thing, but that would be a lie and there’s no point in lying here. Something about the whole experience felt right somehow. Maybe it was a challenge, like I’d had my control taken from me and I wanted to recapture it; maybe it was an acknowledgment that I’d been conquered, somehow, and that my body was the spoils of that. That I was no longer mine; I was a possession somehow. That these men who’d used me, these men I hadn’t been able to fend off with my cute smile or my wry humor, they’d redefined me in some crucial way. But I continued to visit them for a few months. Always at night. Always with the same intent. Even after I’d gotten back with my boyfriend (who is not in the picture anymore), I would make sure I saw them. Text them on a Tuesday night, “Do you need me to come over?”, hoping they’d say yes, that I could get my fix. They didn’t always say yes, they didn’t always care to have me. The rejection stung more than anything, it was a rejection of my sexuality, of some core inner secret I had. And then always, spending the night, going to work the next day, smiling and answering phones like I hadn’t been railed for hours the night before, like sitting down wasn’t a challenge, like I hadn’t frantically taken a Plan B that morning to stave off a consequence I couldn’t undo.

There are no lessons to be gleaned from this; it was a thing that happened, a thing I allowed to happen that I shouldn’t have, but it’s just a thing. It’s not the defining moment in my life. I don’t recommend trying it at home. I don’t recommend trying to be me. I didn’t always feel good afterwards; I never felt bad, though. I was sometimes just numb. It quieted the voices in my head and it calmed me down and that in and of itself was a gift. I don’t claim to be a good girlfriend (nor does my ex-boyfriend think I was) and I don’t claim to be a good person. All I know is that that night I learned a low, primal, animal side of me existed and ran deep, and that if I am being honest with myself that’s a piece of me that is there whether I want it to be or not. It’s not a thing about me I can deny, and I think in the future I won’t try to.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/docy69/more_hookup_than_id_planned_for_mfm