Deflowering
When I was seventeen, I moved to Denmark as an au pair. I lived with Louise, who was a good friend of my parents. Louise lived in a village with her family—a sailor who was often at sea, a three-year-old daughter, and a big dog. I went to a high school in town to work on my Danish and to have something to do during the day while the little girl was in preschool. It took me a long time to make friends with the kids in my class, because I refused to speak English with them.
In the end, I made friends with Anne, an unpopular girl who was obsessed with her ex and loved Linkin Park. She was fucking boring, but I had to start somewhere. Anne said we should go out together some evening. I was up for it, since the main reason I came to Demark was to drink beer and smoke cigarettes. Anne and I met at my place one evening and shotgunned a few cheap beers. There wasn’t really much of a bar scene in the village—one pub that we didn’t want to go to, and one bar where other teenagers went to party. There, we bumped into an Icelandic boy and some of his friends. They all looked like small-time criminals, with bleached hair and ripped jeans, dripping with sickly sweet aftershaves. This boy was the first Icelander I’d seen in two months. I chatted with him for a long time—I think his name was Steinn or Steinar. We didn’t have anything in common other than our language—no shared interests—but I was glad to be able to speak freely without feeling like I was stupid. His scummy companions kept buying us drinks, we did shots, and as the night wore on, Steinn Steinar asked if I wanted to do a line with him. I’d never tried anything like that, but I felt up for it in that moment, at that level of intoxication. We snorted something in the bathroom, he tried to kiss me, but I slipped out from under his arms and made a break for the dance floor. After that, there was only bass, noise, dance, touch, black, nothing.
The morning after, I woke up in my bed feeling like I’d been hit by a train. When I got up, the floor was covered in broken glass, but I rushed past it and made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. I puked and puked, with short pauses to lie down on the living room sofa, where I sweated and shook under a blanket. When Louise got out of bed, she teased me, said I’d been pretty wasted when I came home. I’d slammed the front door so loud the house shook, and I’d knocked over a couple of plants on my way up to my room. She noticed that I was bruised. I had deep scratches on one of my thighs, like I’d fallen and skinned my whole right side on the pavement. My body was covered in small cuts and bruises. Louise kept asking me what happened at the bar, and finally I gave in and told her that I thought I’d been raped. I left out the part where I’d taken drugs, instead saying that Steinn Steinar must have slipped me something.
We went to the emergency clinic, where I was examined, and based on the injuries, there was no doubt I’d been raped. I’d never slept with anyone before, and now my vagina was covered in contusions, torn. It was a wound. I was grateful that I hardly remembered anything. It’s still a blur—my head was hit or hit against something hard, and I saw Steinn Steinar wild against me in the bathroom, which was covered in graffiti. The nurse encouraged me to report the rape, but I didn’t want to, I knew it was my own fault. I shouldn’t have taken drugs. All I had to do was say “No, thanks,” and it never would have happened, I wouldn’t have lost my senses. My parents would feel really bad if they found out that I’d broken their trust, right when they’d let me move to a foreign country. It was bad enough that I had to call them and tell them about the rape.
At school on Monday, Anne came over to me and announced proudly that she’d gone home with one of Steinn’s sleazy friends and he was her new boyfriend. Then she asked teasingly about what happened between Steinn Steinar and me. I’d completely disappeared! I told her that Steinn had slipped me something and raped me and I’d gone to the hospital the day after. When Anne heard that, she laughed sloppily and said, “That makes no sense. He couldn’t have raped you. You were hitting on him so hard.”
Academia
Starting university was tougher than I expected. I’d always been a good student, and I’d never been challenged really, but now I felt overwhelmed when it came to these new assignments. I was barely getting by, with really bad grades, and all my essays came back to me marked up, comments screaming in red ink.
Fortunately, he’s been in university for a long time and knows how to do it all. He’s so clever, and he weaves together these smart, scholarly texts out of nothing. Sometimes he writes essays for me when he has the time. I’m doing much better.
Internet Friends II
We’re always together at his place. I’ve even started to hang out there when he isn’t home. It’s great because he lives so close to the university, and he knows where to find me. I know that he talks to other girls on the internet. Sometimes I spy on him and read over his shoulder to find out who he’s talking to. He can’t stand it. He’s very private; he doesn’t want me to use his computer unless he’s with me. He sometimes talks to the red-haired girl he fucked, but he insists that they’re just friends. I have male friends, and he says that I need to accept that he has female friends, too.
Prevention II
I went to the craft store on Skólavörðustígur and bought glass paint. For the past few weeks I’ve been collecting little jars that could make beautiful candleholders. I thought we could paint them together. It would be a nice change from watching films and having sex. I thought he would be excited about it, but he made a scene of plunking down into a chair at the kitchen table, where he sulked, taking one of the little jars in his big hands.
He wasn’t dexterous enough to use the fine brushes I’d bought for the occasion. The paints ran and smudged together, and his jar became, in the end, a green-gray muddy color, as if a three-year-old child had been painting. He pushed the ugly jar away and heaved a sigh of resignation, washed his hands, and walked off with the computer folded under his arm. I stayed behind, painting jar after jar in gorgeous colors and shapes. If he takes one of his online girls home with him, maybe they’ll notice these intricately painted tealights, and they’ll have the decency to fuck off.
Limits I
He keeps asking me about anal sex. I just say that I don’t understand why he wants it so much. Then he gets this dreamy look on his face and says he can’t even describe how good it feels. So tight and unique—something totally different. In the end, I gave in.
It wasn’t good or bad, just uncomfortable, and I was so stressed the entire time. I worried that his penis might be like a plunger and when he took it out of me, shit would just empty all over the bed. But that didn’t happen. When he was finished, he was so euphoric that I couldn’t do anything other than feel happy along with him. I want him to believe I’m the best in bed.
Limits II
He’s started to do it regularly—ride me in the ass. Once, he went from there straight into my pussy. I asked him to stop, asked him if I could just get a washcloth. I pictured his penis, the little clots of fecal matter that clung to it as it slid into my vagina. It was like an extreme version of wiping in the wrong direction. But he was so horny and so hungry for me that he couldn’t stop before he got off.
Birthday
I went to my friend Sigrún’s birthday party. He didn’t want to come along. “It’s your friend’s birthday, I don’t see why I have to go.” I’m not his girlfriend; I don’t have any right to drag him to some girly party. I’m never invited on the rare occasion that he actually goes out with his friends. I only exist to him when it’s just us two.
It was a pretty big party; Sigrún and Emma live together in an apartment building on the west side of town—and the party was a big hit. I had a couple of cocktails and was in a really good mood until I saw her. The Ex was in Sigrún’s class in high school and she’d come with a few of her friends. She greeted me, and I responded as coldly as I could and then ignored her aggressively. The Ex wasn’t there for very long, anyway; Sigrún and I are much closer than those two. I refilled my glass again and again, and the wine open
ed the floodgates. Tears, forcing themselves to the surface, uncontrollable. I closed myself in a bedroom and started to cry and cry and cry and cry. I couldn’t stop, even though I knew I was acting like an idiot. A little while later, all the guests left, and I didn’t know whether I was the reason or if they’d just gone downtown.
I stepped outside and met the girls, who were gathering up bottles and cans. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t explain anything. I could only say sorry and cry convulsively. I stayed with Emma, and she wrapped her arms around me until I wore myself out. Near morning, I crept out of bed. He would’ve lost it if I hadn’t come back to his place, and I wanted to be sure that nobody else was in his bed.
Bad
I think I’m losing my mind. I’ve been so crazy that I haven’t seen the writing on the wall. He’s never going to be my boyfriend, especially if I act like this. But I can’t control myself—I’m always crying, always sensitive, always horrible. The last time I gave him a blow job, I powered through it until he ejaculated, and then I ran to the bathroom and retched and vomited. I collapsed on the floor and lay there among the pubic hairs and piss stains and cried. I was ashamed for being so pathetic. I beat my head against the toilet, feeling like an animal that had locked its own cage.
I looked at my ugly face in the mirror and tried to wipe away the tears, calm the swelling. I fumbled for my makeup bag to freshen up. But instead, I fished out the red pocketknife, untucked a sharp blade, and cut a few scratches on the inside of my thigh. I don’t know why. I’d never done anything like that before. But I watched the blood bead and run down my thigh toward my knee, and for a little while, I felt better. The cut let out the pressure in my head—I wasn’t going to explode, I had stopped crying. Everything bad had been gathered together into this little scratch—just a normal wound. It served me right, felt right.
Equation
The very best thing for me would be to end it with him and to stop being such a psycho. But I can’t stay away from him for very long. I can’t lose him. I love him with every cell in my body and I would waste away without him. Whether I stay or go, I’ll still be crazy. It all adds up to the same thing.
Vanity II
I’ve started cutting myself regularly. I always use the red pocketknife, making scratches on my forearms and thighs. I do it when I’m bad in bed or when I’m just bad. He thinks the scratches are disgusting; they’re all over me, and when he sees them, he just shakes his head. “Why are the beautiful ones always crazy?”
I don’t have an answer. I’m just damaged goods, but it made me happy that he called me beautiful.
Wedding
One of his childhood friends is going to get married in Selfoss, and he invited me to come with him. It’s the first time that I’ll meet any of his friends, apart from his roommate and his hopeless pickup artist pal. The ceremony was beautiful, everyone at the reception drunk on love. His friends thought I was really great, and one even said to him in astonishment, “Where have you been hiding this one?” We drank and danced, he twirled me in a circle on the dance floor and kissed me in front of everyone. He’s usually so private; he never does anything like that.
As night approached, we took a bus with his friends back to Reykjavik. On the way, he kissed me and, for the first time, said that he loved me. He said it again and again, I love you, I love you. When we arrived in town, I was pretty tired and much too drunk, so I went straight to his place. He went to Kaffibarinn with his friends. I woke up alone the next morning. He came home around noon and jumped straight into the shower.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
The Sticking Place
Even though everything is better now, I still feel like I’m unraveling. He loves me, finally, but I’ve lost my footing and I can’t enjoy it. His girls get in the way. He sometimes talks to the red-haired girl on the internet and I think it’s weird. But he says it’s none of my business what he does on the internet, and she’s only his friend.
I try to be good in bed, but when I get it wrong, I hurt myself in some way. Once, he was having anal sex with me and I started to cry. I was so ashamed for being such a baby that when he finished, I beat my head on the headboard with all my strength, leaving a huge bump. I’m covered in scratches. The other day he grabbed my forearm—there was a trickle of blood—and barked, “Stop this! You’re just doing it for attention. It’s all an act.”
Maybe he was trying to snap me out of it, but I went back into the bathroom, locked myself in, and cut a few deep lines into my arm so that the blood poured all over the place. The scars will be nasty after this one.
Blue Balls
Things aren’t always good between us, but we still have sex. At least once a day, usually more. He has to fuck all the time; otherwise he gets pissy. I want him to thrive.
The Ex V
I met a few of my friends from high school at Ölstofan, a pub downtown, on a cold evening in autumn. It’d been a long time since I’d gone out to meet friends unless it was some big occasion. I’ve become so socially anxious and shy. He gets jealous when I meet my friends, and I’m afraid I’ll give away how crazy I’ve become, so it’s just easier for both of us if I stay at home with him.
There were four of us, and we were in the middle of a conversation when The Ex walked into the pub with a friend. They walked up to the bar, and The Ex spotted me, nodded in my direction as she ordered a beer. Rage flared up inside of me. Why didn’t she just fuck off when she saw that I was here with my friends? There are plenty of bars in Reykjavik; I was here first. I told the girls about the phone call—when The Ex spread the latest gossip she’d heard about me.
My friends all said the same thing—it was a bitch move to make light of the assault. I told them how hurt I was that he hadn’t defended me, and then my friend Unnur shot straight up and said, “I’ll avenge you.” She went up to the bar and ordered a large glass of ice water. I watched anxiously as she crept up behind The Ex, who’d taken a seat at a table near us. Unnur stopped, looked at me. I nodded in approval, and then she slowly poured ice water over The Ex’s head, streams of water running down her hair, under her sweater, and down her back. The Ex jumped up and gasped. Unnur sat back down at our table, where we were giggling like idiots. I was so grateful that she’d taken up the sword to defend my honor, and I could feel my gladness all the way down to my Viking DNA.
The Ex stormed over to us. She was dripping wet, her mascara running and smeared. She glared at me. “I did not deserve that,” she said. And she stormed back out into the cold night with her friend.
Woman Warrior
I thought he’d be mad about the water incident, but he seemed to feel some sly joy because I’d started a fight over him. He’d already told me how unfortunate he thought it was that I wasn’t more competitive. When I told him for the thousandth time that I didn’t want to go out with him for a run, he said, “You’re really fine, but if you were a bit more of a fighter and bothered to exercise, you’d be a perfect ten.”
Up to now, I’ve never been very interested in competition or sports, and I’ve never had any need or interest in beating or being better than others. But I’m not going to lose to her, no fucking chance.
Words
He’s a master at turning my words against me. He remembers everything better than I do—he just takes the most uncharacteristic things I’ve said out of context and frames them in an unfla
ttering way. When we fight, he bombards me with my own words. Then I feel like a girl who’s cut off her arms and handed them to him in complete trust. Now he’s using my own lifeless limbs to hurt me.
Lessons from History
A few days ago he suggested that it might be nice if we started to bake together. The scent of cakes and fresh pastries overpowers the grime, the dust, the sour rags that have saturated the basement apartment. He doesn’t know how to bake, and while I work my way through a recipe, he hangs out on the computer in the living room. I have definite doubts about this baking experiment. I’m terrified I’ll get fat from eating all this cake. He thinks fat girls are repulsive.
When he was a teenager, he was with a girl for a few years. He was taken with her from the very beginning, but as soon as she started to gain weight, he lost his appetite for her.
Cycle
Sometimes, we boil over. I explode about something or crumble into a pile of self-pity. We bare our teeth, I threaten to leave forever, I sob, he comforts me, we fuck and fall asleep. The next day, we’re silent until the world has realigned. Then life goes on, as life always goes on.
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