Hold Still

Jessica Hinds

Moche pottery, Ecuador 100-800 AD

Word Count 750

I called Rohan for the following reasons. He has the only penis I had ever actually enjoyed, and he was the only ex I was on friendly terms with. I didn't really want to sleep a man, but I had just broken up with my first-ever girlfriend and had zero experience one-night-standing women. The last time I fucked a woman, she didn't leave for three years. Men, on the other hand, I had been exchanging my body for a good meal, a place to sleep, a distraction since I was eighteen. Plus, I figured if I have sex with a man, I might understand now if I am a full lesbian, bi, or just gay for Madeline.

I didn't want to risk losing another friend to a drunken conversation about how ridiculous it is that I hadn't realized I wanted to sleep with women until I was 33 years old. I had made out with women, masturbated to women, watched primarily women on women's porn, but for some reason, I didn't think it meant I was gay until I met Madeline. So rather than walk to the last remaining lesbian bar in Brooklyn and attempt to navigate the lavender single scene for the first time in my life, I called Rohan. I love Rohan. We get along well. We both love Jonny Walker's whisky and reruns of Cheers. 

The night progressed like every night after our third date eight years ago. I arrive at his place, and he offers a compliment and a drink. I launch into a diatribe about work while smoking or wishing I hadn't given up smoking that week. He pops in a joke or two, usually at my expense, which I love because even though I am overly sensitive to criticism and mockery, I religiously appreciate a well-crafted joke. We sit across from each other and catch up until he stands and offers his hand to take me into the bedroom. 

While on all fours staring at the Ikea headboard, I realized I hate this. The action sobered me up. I hate this. I never want this to happen again. I begin to cry, which only makes Rohan thrust harder. But I hold still. 

***

Just hold still. 

My mother whispers in my ear. Her heavy hand comforting my shoulder, or was it keeping me there? Bowhunting happens twice a year. Bear. Deer. Elk. Caribou. Turkey. Pheasant. Duck and quail. Many shots are taken from about 70 yards. This black bear is 5 yards away. If this beast wanted, I could be its dinner within seconds. Black bears can reach speeds of up to 35 miles per hour. I can only draw a 12-pound bow. I am only five years old. My aluminum arrow would bounce off the beast's fur and clatter to the ground. 

Hold still. My body begins to tremble like the big earthquake last year. That broke the Bay Bridge. Isn't this exciting? Is this what excitement feels like? It is wise to match mother's mood. 

This is now exciting. When the heart races, and the body trembles, and every part of you is screaming ‘run away’ - Hold still.

We like this, we tell ourselves. Don't be a wuss. Don't be weak. You can be many things with mother but not weak. Not vulnerable. Not scared. I am not sure which creature here I am more afraid of. 

We will make this exciting. We will learn to love this. This is what strength is. This is what good is. This is what it means to be a woman; When your body tells you to run, you will Hold still. 

…

Rohan finishes flopping on his back. I continue to cry. I smile. I think to myself, I never have to do that ever again. It feels like a release. All at once, every sexual encounter with a man just flipped around in my memories. From this perspective, I could now see how uncomfortable I have always been having sex with men. How I had to be drunk, how they had to be ugly, how I would push it into pain. Some use a razor blade, I used cock. 

I tell Rohan I never want to have sex with a man again. He seems genuinely shocked. I asked him what he thought I was crying about. 

Because the sex was so good.

This was not the first time a man didn't stop fucking me when I started crying, but it will be the last. 

Jessica is an award-winning playwright and screenwriter writing and teaching in the West Village with Frida Catlo and Amelia MewHeart. As the founder of Meditative Writing, she is honored to work with award-winning showrunners, writers, producers, and recovering journalists to help TV, film, theatre, and prose writers suffer less and write more unique stories. She has an MFA in Writing from the New School for Drama and has studied creative nonfiction at City College of New York and Yale. For more information, please visit MeditativeWriting.org.