I Know Where You Live, Guest Post by Raki Kopernik

Content warning: this story contains being groped in public, stalking, being followed home, restraint, hands on the throat, force, knife play, offensive name calling, and fisting. All characters are consenting adults.

I’ll be on a crowded bus traveling south down MLK. At 6:15 pm, you will get on the bus, walk past me, make eye contact for a quick moment, then step behind me. I will be standing, holding the overhead bar. You’ll have to stand too. I won’t be able to see you, but I will feel you looking at me from behind, at my ass and the back of my neck. The bus will make a sudden stop and you’ll almost fall into me. One of your hands will land on my ass. I’ll feel it, but I won’t turn around. When you catch your step, you’ll stand closer to me, behind me. Your hand will stay on my ass and faintly rub up and down, creeping between my legs. I’ll feel the heat of your breath on the back of my bare neck. I won’t do anything. The bus will stop suddenly, again, and your hips will press into mine. You’ll stay there, reach your hand around to the front of my body, and rub my crotch, pressing your pelvis into my ass with the rhythm of the bus. A few people will notice. They will look, trying not to stare, but no one will do anything about it. I won’t make eye contact with any of them, embarrassed. Your breath will get hotter on my neck and you’ll whisper in my ear that you’re going to follow me when I get off the bus. The next stop will be mine and I will push you away, simultaneously pushing other people out of my way to get off the bus. You’ll barely make it off the bus behind me.

It will be already be dark out. I will walk fast toward my house. I’ll feel you behind me, turn to look, but I won’t see you. I’ll start running and I’ll hear you running behind me. I’ll turn but, again, I won’t see you. When I get home, the house will be dark and empty. I’ll forget to lock the door behind me. I will go upstairs and light candles to calm myself. I’ll hear a noise downstairs but will convince myself it’s the cat. I’ll look out the window toward the bed, away from the door and the stairway. I’ll see my reflection in the glass, rub my face and my eyes. Suddenly, your right hand will be pressed over my mouth. Your left hand will be tight around my chest. You’ll whisper in my ear not to move or make a sound. I will wince.

If you scream, you say, I will hurt you.

Then you will let go and push me hard onto the bed, belly down. Stay there, you’ll say, and I will not move, in fear and anticipation. I’ll hear you open your bag and rustle around in it quickly. You’ll straddle my ass and tie my hands together above my head, firm with a black nylon rope, then fasten the rope to the bed frame. With the brown bandana you wear around your neck, you will tie my mouth. Bite this, bitch, you’ll say. I’ll wince again.

Then you will flip me over onto my back. There will be a small hole in my shirt, just above the chest, and you will put your index finger into it and tug, making the hole bigger. You’ll put another finger in, then another until the hole is big enough for all of your fingers. In one quick motion, you’ll tear my shirt apart and pull my pants down around my knees. Your right hand will rest at my throat. You will spit into your left hand and reach it between my legs, forcing your fingers, two, three, then four, inside of me. I will be wet and you will call me a slut for it. I’ll scream into the bandana. You will keep moving your fingers in and out of me until I get so wet you think I might come, and then you’ll stop. Again, I will wince and you will shake your head, no, and smile. You’ll flip me back over onto my belly and pull me up onto my forearms and knees. Then you will slap my ass several times, hard and quick, leaving bright red welts.

You’ll place your fingers back between my legs and say, Damn, you’re dripping, you can’t get enough.

I’ll push my pussy into your hand but you’ll pull it away. You’ll put your hands on my ankles to hold me in place while you breath hot air onto my pussy from behind. I’ll feel your tongue barely lick. I will almost come.

You’ll take out your pocketknife and run it along my back, down between my legs. Are you afraid, you’ll ask. I’ll flinch in fear and want. The tip of the knife will press into my inner thigh, then up around my cunt and ass crack. It will scratch the surface of my skin without breaking it. You will run it back up my spine and around my tits, down my belly, and almost to my pussy again. My breath will quicken and you will laugh. You will, again, press its tip into my inner thigh and this time, a tiny drop of blood will surface. Oh, sorry, you’ll say, condescending, then slap my ass again. And again. I will feel the redness of the skin around my ass and thighs, burning. For a moment, nothing more will happen. We will just breathe, me on my knees, you behind me.

I will hear you close the knife and put it back into your pocket. The bed will creak as you get up. You’ll start to walk away. When I no longer hear your steps I will think you’re almost gone, but suddenly, you will thrust your fingers into my pussy and fuck me hard and quick, from behind; three fingers, then four, then your knuckles, then your whole fist. I’ll scream into the bandana. I will be swollen and damp, yet still you will tear me open and it will hurt. Your fingers will move back and forth inside of me. I’ll scream into the bandana again and again. I’ll bite it, feeling like my teeth might break. I’ll pull my wrists at the rope, I’ll push my hips into your hand, I’ll writhe.

You like that, you’ll say. Yeah, I bet you do, bitch.

Your hand will quicken until I gush and collapse onto the bed. You’ll laugh, then smack my ass once more, for luck, you’ll say. You’ll untie the rope and the bandana and leave me in a pile on the bed as you walk away, down the stairs. I’ll hear you run the water in the kitchen sink and drink, then slam the door as you leave to catch the bus home.

When I’m sure you’re gone, I will wipe my pussy on a towel and get dressed quickly. Then I will go downstairs, drink a glass of water, and slam the door behind me as I run to catch the number 6 bus, the one you take to get home. I know where you live.

Holding Back

I’m restraining myself. Holding back. In so many ways that feel so unnatural, like stopping an object already in motion, changing trajectories when the path is already clearly cut in front of me.

A runner in a crouch waiting for the gun to go off.

A horse behind the racetrack doors, hoofing at the ground.

Even my friends are commenting on it lately. “You’re really restraining yourself here, aren’tcha,” my buddy from Seattle commented last week. He’s not used to seeing the emotions so heavy in me without the extensive expression.

“She’s just … I have such … I think I …” I swallowed, started again. Can’t finish those sentences. “Ilikeherlots.”

He laughed. “I can tell!”

It’s hard, I continued. Scary. Frightening when my body remembers what happened last time these emotions ran through me, what happened the last time I thought I could be with someone, last time I saw the future stretch out in front of me, paths parallel and touching and intertwining. I know how that ends. My brain knows that is still possible and wants it to be possible and aches for it to be possible and pretends like I can operate from a place where I still believe that is possible, but my body stops me cold. No, no, danger, danger. Don’t feel this, don’t like it, don’t fall, don’t.

Especially when my instinct is my chest broken open, heart wide and deep wine red, bursting, fingers spread wide, arms spread wide, head thrown back and laughing, five-points spread, everything aligned.

But part of me thinks, I know better now. I can’t do that, yet.

So instead I say, “I’m holding back. I can feel myself holding back.”

Kristen wrote to me yesterday: “The thought occurred to me that you might not be able to open up to the extent that you want to with me, that I might have to be “heart practice” or something, but that you wouldn’t ever get all the way there.”

But that’s not it. I know I can open up how I want to. I’ve done it before and it feels like my natural instinct here, like I am fighting against it constantly. I can do it. It’s just not time yet for me to unleash what I know I’m capable of, the full expression of the feelings I am already feeling.

I looked yesterday, I have ten emails to her in my drafts folder, from heartsore ramblings about missing her to links that I think she should read to poems I haven’t finished to lists of what I want to do to her. Instead, all I say is, “I’m holding back.”

But what that means is this: desire. I can’t say I want to hold your heart on my tongue, poised, sweet and succulent, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I am catching the first train to your house right after work and I know I’ll have to turn right around and go back home in order to get any actual sleep tonight but I have to, I have to, see you, even just for a few minutes, to see the light behind the blue of your eyes and smell your skin and taste your mouth, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I’m ready, I can hold you, bring it on, so I say I’m holding back.

But I aim for that expression of these feelings. And every week, every month that goes by [we just passed the four months on the 13th, officially the longest since], every weekend of deeper exploration of each other, I get closer. There is a softening around my heart. There is more confidence in my own space, more healing of the old wounds still weaving and seeping.

I can’t not hold back right now. But I’m also moving forward with lightning speed, thick walls cracking and falling into rubble, shaking sometimes with fear but looking it all right in the face, eyes wide open, wide open.