[Ed. Note: This text contains descriptions of sexual assault.]
Emir, my cab driver, was due in six minutes, which I spent absently staring at the map on my phone. A little yellow car floated across the display, moving with the clunky, comforting graphics of a 90s video game. When Emir picked me up, he spoke in a choppy English that recalled the little yellow car movements on my screen, but he was kind and tried unsuccessfully to reassure me that not everyone in Sarajevo drove “like crazy.” I liked Emir; he had the calm demeanour of a wise old man. When I left the taxi, it took me a while to find the right house. I crossed a courtyard full of kids playing football, then passed a line of dumpsters and a yellow brick corner wall. “Do you live in fucking Narnia?” I texted him. Then I saw his shaved head pop out from behind a doorway, beckoning me inside.
The apartment was vast and spotless. His unspoken request to remove my shoes was indicated with a casual shrug: “You can take your shoes off if you want, the floor is clean.” I obliged. We popped open two beers and started making small talk, engaging in that awkward, textbook courtship ritual designed to put two people at ease before undressing. He was an artist, whatever that means, like most of the thirty-year-olds I happened to meet here.
After a couple of drinks and a long casual conversation, we started kissing. It was a bit awkward at first, with the boy diving his tongue into my mouth without much rhythm, but whatever. I am terrible at kissing myself; the action is generally too wet and requires a lot of coordination and intuition to anticipate the partner’s moves. We rolled onto the couch, and he asked if he could go inside me. “Do you have a condom?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Most guys do not. I fished one out of my bag, blew into it, and fumbled around trying to put it on him, but he lost his erection. “No big deal,” I reassured him, and, to reaffirm my positive attitude, I started sucking his dick. I did not like it, but I did it anyway with great enthusiasm because I am a people pleaser to the core. When he got hard again, I unwrapped a second condom.
“Turn around” he commanded, and obediently I complied. After a while, I lowered my head and observed the inverted scene from my position on all fours. It took me a moment to focus, but I realized that he had removed the condom without a word. I could not help but wonder if he had made me turn around on purpose to hide his action from me. A discordant note sounded within me, and I hesitated, unsure if I was losing my mind and distorting reality. Every violent man I have slept with has been a skilled architect of blame who manipulated me into feeling like an accomplice in his wrongdoi
ngs. The first boy I ever consented to sex with told me it was my fault he could not finish and locked me in a bathroom to fix the problem against my will. He was the first of many Ordinary Joes who believed my “no” was not a real “no”, who thought that sex was a card game where consent was a one-time use joker you played the moment you got naked. Anything after that, any change of heart, was unacceptable. You could not draw new cards or replay old ones because men made the rules.
I snapped around, my heart pounding. “Why did you take it off?” I demanded. “I didn’t,” he denied, but the evidence abandoned on the arm of the sofa was staring us in the face. “What’s that?” I hissed, pointing to the discarded condom. “I just took it off, don’t worry. I respect you,” he lied, but his condomless dick spoke louder than his words.
The situation seemed to have spiralled out of control. My head felt like a boulder, too heavy to lift. All I wanted to do was sleep; since childhood, napping had been my body’s defence against fear, anxiety, and despair. I was paralyzed, yearning to be swallowed by the couch. I longed to call Emir, my taxi driver, to rescue me and carry me home. I also wanted to smash the boy’s head against the wall.
I did not do any of those things and opted for the most unexpected course of action: coming. After half an hour of selective mutism on his balcony smoking nervously, I went back inside and allowed him to touch me until I came. I prefer to believe that was his way of apologizing. Why did an orgasm make me feel so dirty, so humiliated, and yet so fulfilled as if it were a fair reward for the violence I have endured?
My exhaustion became more physical, yet I dragged my feet to the bathroom and plunged my face under the cold water, hoping to dull the throbbing in my temples. The bathroom’s feminine touches betrayed the presence of another woman in this house. When I confronted him, he replied: “I have a girlfriend, it’s pretty obvious. But I don’t like to talk about my relationship, I’m a shy boy.” My head pounded harder, threatening to split open. I wanted to unscrew it and toss it into the Miljacka. I asked him to call me a taxi, even if it was not Emir.
The driver was gruff and barely acknowledged me. During the ride home, I found myself despising myself more than I despised the boy. I realized that self-blame is the greatest curse of womanhood. Rationally, I knew it was his fault, but nothing could alleviate my guilt or my loneliness. Am I the product of my past experiences or am I simply a bad feminist? As I handed the money to the grumpy taxi driver, I received a text message: “I was so confused and I wanted to have a friendly relationship with you, but now it’s late. If you can keep the secret, I would be very grateful.” It dawned on me then that I needed to learn to defend myself as ferociously as I would defend another. And maybe also remember that those good, self-proclaimed ‘shy boys’ are often the worst.
‘Stealthing’ is the act of removing a condom during sex without consent. It is widely recognized as a form of sexual assault or rape.