“Sorry, baby, but … it’s your fault!”

Every time he says it, he says it with the most charming grin/chuckle/shoulder shrug. The kind that made me fall in love with him.

I’m running late for work because we had sex this morning.

“Sorry, baby, but … it’s your fault!”

He says I’m just so delicious, he can’t resist me, he has to have me. And most of the time it feels great to hear him say that. Picture a smokin’ hot and hot blooded South American man pressing into your back, biting your neck and whispering ..delicia.. If that’s the kind of thing you’re in to, you know what I’m talking about. But I digress.

I want to talk about the time he didn’t say it. He didn’t need to say it because it was understood. Sorry, baby, but … it’s your fault. 

I bailed on real work with half a dozen of my students today. We said a collective fuck it and took an ‘excursion’ to the pub to enjoy the sun on our skin and a pint or two in our bloodstreams. I asked him to join us. He did. For an hour or two we sat, my skin turning pink (okay, red) under the rare blazing sunshine and we laughed and talked and taught each other curse words in other languages. And when everyone decided to call it a day, he proposed one more, just the two of us. To which I responded:

Oh, I thought maybe we should go back to my house and have sex.

He agreed, enthusiastically. We did. It lasted too long. I realized about 10 minutes in that I was too drunk, too hungry, and too sun-baked to really enjoy it, but for all of the previously listed reasons, I didn’t say anything. Figured he was kinda drunk too so how long would it really last? Longer than I expected. Longer than I wanted. And after he finally finished I collapsed face-first onto the bed while he excused himself to the loo. On his return, he immediately started to get dressed.

Why are you getting dressed? I have to go home. *laughing* What?! I have to go home now, H. What? Why? I feel like going home. …Seriously? What the fuck? We can talk about it tomorrow. …Yeah. Maybe. …Okay. Use your key. Let yourself out. 

I began to cry (stupid fucking tear ducts, wouldja ever feck off) and that brought him right back upstairs to my bedside.

Look. H. I saw you today with your students and your behavior, and their behavior. Those people wanted to be with you, wanted to kiss you, and I’m very angry now because of it. 

Sorry, baby, but … it’s your fault, he didn’t say. But he didn’t have to say it. It was there, right underneath the words he did say. He blamed me for what he perceived to be other people desiring me. He blamed me for being desired. Supposedly. He blames me for his desire. In his mind, it’s my fault he wants me, it’s my fault he loves me, as if I’m a witch casting a spell on him.

So I let him come into my house. Come into my bed. Come into me. I let him pull my hair and call me cachorrinha (‘little dog’ in Portugese), let him, let him, let him …

… and it’s my fault?



When I was a teenager my mother hung a picture of a swimsuit model on the fridge. She said she loved the swimsuit and she wanted to buy something similar but she also wanted to look as good as the lady in the picture.

I felt like she was watching me from her place there on our refrigerator, judging me when I opened the fridge door to get a Diet Coke, glaring down at me from her pedestal while I opened my Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.

So one night, in a midnight snack-fueled fit of rage, I took a Sharpie to the picture and wrote: THIS IS AN UNREALISTIC EXPECTATION! YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL THE WAY YOU ARE!

The next day my stepdad reprimanded me and told me I had made my mother cry; she had just loved the swimsuit and wanted something to picture herself in. She wanted to picture herself as happy and satisfied as the model looked on that glossy page.

Mixed feelings from that experience still linger, even so many years later.