Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be

by Nichole Perkins

  When I wore my hair straight, it was thin and lifeless. Now it is thick and full, and when I lie down or press my head against a car headrest or the back of the couch, my hair flattens and stays that way until I pick it back out for volume. That means when I get up out of bed in the morning or after sex, my hair is pushed into all sorts of wild shapes. It’s not very pretty. In fact, sometimes it can be downright funny, and I don’t always want anyone to see me like that.

  Sometimes I post selfies while I’m wearing my bonnet, but I crop the picture so it’s not fully seen. When I receive deliveries, I quickly pull it off and fluff my hair, then put it back on as soon as I close the door. I want to normalize seeing women in their protective gear so people can understand that women still exist and deserve respect even when they’re “unpretty,” but it’s hard to let go.

  A couple of months back, I wore my bonnet while on a video call with my psychiatrist and she didn’t blink an eye. I’m learning how to be vulnerable and protected at the same time.

  Footnotes

  1 Pearl Cleage’s book Mad at Miles: A Black Woman’s Guide to Truth (1990) was one of the first works of criticism, if not the first, that grappled with what it means to admire the work of a violent, misogynistic man. It’s a subject that has come up constantly throughout my adulthood. Can we separate the art from the man, especially if that man leaves his desk/studio and performs heinous acts against women? Ms. Cleage has produced a wide range of work (essays, memoir, novels, poetry, and plays), which should be a part of everyone’s library. I love her.

  2 African American Review, vol. 27, no. 1, spring 1993.

  How to Build a Man-Made

  Tourist Attraction

  Cranberry pills.

  D-mannose powder.

  No red meat.

  Raw cranberry juice.

  Pineapple juice.

  Water.

  Water.

  Water.

  Men tell me that when I come, I taste like water. It can be sweet or salty or tangy or sharp, depending on the man, his vocabulary, where I am in my cycle, or if I had a steak that day. Sometimes they say it tastes clear. I like this description best. It is not a flavor; it’s an impression.

  A vision.

  When a man’s face is between my legs, when his mouth is doing particularly good work, when I start to hold my breath so I can hear every lap of his tongue, I imagine myself as a waterfall. I want to gush into his mouth. I want to catch him unaware, despite his full knowledge that I am a waterfall. I want to come in his mouth and make him pull away, gasping, before he brushes his hair back or wipes his face and moves back into me.

  So when someone tells me I taste clear, I wonder if I’ve sent the vision of my waterfall into him. Does that mean we’re connected? Should I think of houses with wraparound porches and matching rocking chairs when I start to come so that he tastes forever with me, too?

  No. No man can see into my head, even at such a moment when I feel free and violent, a crashing body of sensation that people approach in careful steps, unsure but wanting.

  Everyone loves a waterfall.

  Call It by Its Name

  It was at a party.

  Before the party, I would tell people I’d never suffered from sexual assault beyond the usual street harassment. I mean, of course, I’d felt threatened. I’m a woman. I’d had perverted men masturbate at me on the street and on the bus when I was a child. I’d been afraid to walk past a group of men on the sidewalk. But I’d never been attacked. I thought it meant I’d escaped serious violence. I thought this made me special.

  Henry had been to my place before. It had been just the two of us. We’d smoked some weed and had a few drinks, but there was nothing awkward or tense about his being there. We got high and watched television, and that was it. I never felt like I needed to be on guard with him, even after the flirting started.

  Let’s be clear: I was not interested. He wasn’t my physical type, but I liked him as a person, as a friend, so I didn’t do more to reject him. The innuendos he made were something I dismissed as what guys do. I watched When Harry Met Sally at least twice a year. I know there are some people who still debate whether straight men and women can be friends. Almost all of my guy friends would cast out a slick remark to see if I’d take the bait. Men always have to check the temperature of the relationship somehow. It was something I felt accustomed to and thought I knew how to handle.

  I’d respond to Henry’s boldness via chat with an “lol” or a smiley face, hoping my lukewarm response was deterrent enough. I also didn’t hide the fact that I was interested in his friend Will. I went out of my way to talk about how much I wanted Will, even going so far as to ask Henry to help me talk to him.

  In moments of loneliness and self-doubt, I admit I talked a little shit to Henry. I’d explain why exes were so eager to get back in my pants or throw a flirtatious remark, quickly returning to vague comments when I sensed I’d said too much. I was concerned that he’d report back to Will and ruin my chances. I didn’t want either of them to think I could be passed around like a blunt. I knew who I wanted, and it was clear to all of us. At least, I thought it was clear.

  Because I speak so freely about sex and want to make sure my friends enjoy themselves, I would share favorite porn clips with them, male and female, including Henry. Sometimes he’d try to get a response from me. When we’d talk on the phone, he’d say certain dirty phrases he knew I liked just to see how I’d react. I gave in a couple of times, telling him I liked his husky voice, before I pulled back, again worried he’d share my slipups with Will.

  A few months after I turned twenty-six, some friends were hosting a party at their house. Henry wasn’t there at first, but Will was. We shared a chair at the dining table. Everyone saw us. I can still remember how warm he was against my back, his hand at my waist. In the kitchen, by the bar, I flashed a recent scar on my belly to everyone around, and Will paid careful attention. I wanted him to touch me.

  When Henry arrived, he and a woman managed to find themselves next to each other throughout the night, but he kept an eye on me. I didn’t think much of it. A couple of other guys were watching me, too. It was a house full of beautiful women. The men were watching us all.

  I was going upstairs to use the restroom when Henry stopped me. I was drunk and didn’t stop the kiss he gave me, but I pulled away before he wanted it to end. I didn’t want anyone to see us, and I didn’t want him to think anything was going to happen. I’d painted myself into a corner, though, because I’d never flat out told him his flirting made me uncomfortable. I should’ve been more explicit, but I didn’t know how to tell him to stop without losing him completely as a friend.

  For too long, I’d been relying on the hope that he’d recognize my lack of enthusiasm at his advances and give up.

  The party went on until the police came to shut it down. As Will was leaving with his ride, he gave me his home address, which several people overheard. Everyone knew Will and I were building something. Everyone knew.

  I was spending the night at the hosts’ house, on the sofa in the living room. No matter how badly I wanted to go home with Will, I didn’t have a sure way of getting back, and I was far too drunk and high to make it over there. I didn’t even change clothes before I stumbled to the couch and passed out.

  Henry claimed he was too drunk to drive home.

  I woke up to find him pulling down my jeans and kissing me, telling me he wanted to eat me out. My arms and legs were noodles, my head heavy. He went down on me, then tried to fuck me, but I managed to squirm away. He put his dick in my mouth, but I turned my head, so he put his face between my legs again. The room rocked back and forth, and I was afraid I’d throw up. I try my best to avoid vomiting. To me, it signals a loss of control.

  He later told me I had an orgasm. I’m not sure if I did. I think he stroked himself to a finish, but I don’t remember. I woke up clothed, sunlight weakly breaking through the curtains to tap against my skull. Henry was gone.<
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  I didn’t like what had happened, but I had no words for it. Henry was my friend. I’d flirted with him, and we had kissed. He was a good guy, fun and generous. No one would believe me if I said something nonconsensual had happened. I was the woman who talked about sex all the time. I made it a point to go after who I wanted. No one would believe that anyone would take sex from me when I was so openminded about giving it away.

  Right?

  So I tried to keep it cool, to get out in front of it. I told the party hosts that Henry and I had fooled around on their couch but that I was so drunk I didn’t really remember anything. That was mostly true. I stayed friends with Henry. We’re still friends of a sort. He continued to flirt and remind me of that night like it had been consensual. Even after I had an established relationship with Will, Henry would drop reminders—only to me.

  He’d tell me how my stomach trembled as I came, and I’d wonder if that was when I almost threw up. I never confronted him about what happened, but when he’d try to flirt, my rejection was strong. He’d ask me why I never let sex between us happen again, and I’d brush the night off or say the moment had passed. I just couldn’t bring myself to come out and say that it was something I never wanted. I felt trapped by niceness, by my misinterpreted reputation, by a man not knowing that flirting wasn’t enough of a reason for him to start peeling the jeans off an unconscious woman.

  Shame and embarrassment made me avoid the subject of that night completely. I was a statistic, and a clichéd one at that: drunk girl at a party. I thought I had been safe.

  I’d been able to keep him from penetrating me, so I told myself maybe what he’d done wasn’t worth the confrontation. There was no bruising, no attack, no physical violence that left any marks behind. That night must not have been so bad if I wanted to put it behind me and keep him as a friend, right?

  That’s how I excused myself from confronting it, with him or myself. Until ten years later. I was at a holiday party in my hometown. Another party, more drunkenness. I told the story about my noodle legs and Henry, and my friend Lee was horrified. Seeing the look on her face as I lightly recounted what I could remember, I was suddenly hit by the severity of the events. I blurted out, “Oh my God, that was rape,” then began to laugh with hysterical panic. I had never said it, never named it. It took Lee’s look of horror to understand that what had happened wasn’t my fault.

  Henry took advantage of my intoxicated state, of my inability to hurt his feelings. I’d clung to my own guilt and fear of slut-shaming, but this epiphany broke the load from me.

  Since then, I’ve told three other friends—two of them women. It felt like I was testing the words on my tongue each time. With one friend, I didn’t name Henry. I didn’t want to change her opinion of him. Protecting him felt like protecting myself, I suppose. I don’t want to try to explain why I kept him in my life. After the realization that it was rape, I felt too foolish to go to him and say, “Ten years ago, you raped me, and I can’t be friends with you anymore.”

  I should have. I should have stopped his flirting as soon as it started. I should have been clearer with my boundaries. I should have gone home with Will to keep myself safe. I didn’t do any of the right things, and it fucks with me. It feels like a slap in the face of my sex positivity, of my feminism. I’m wiser now. I know what happened. I should confront him and stop trying to save myself from the shame of it all. I should be stronger.

  He recently said he was sorry to me. Not specifically for what happened that night, but he admitted he’d been wrong. Wrong to flirt and try to pressure me into sex all these years. I accepted the apology but still didn’t bring up what I now know was rape. I still feel like I have to protect us both. I still feel like I would be blamed for flirting, for drinking, for possibly having an orgasm during the assault, for not confronting him sooner, for letting his unwanted innuendos go on for so long.

  I’d been so worried about losing his friendship, but time is winning there. We aren’t as close as we used to be. He’s married now and building his business. We remain in contact, but mainly via social media and a few quick text messages. We share each other’s accomplishments through retweets and likes. I think he’s recently begun therapy, which is what led to his apology.

  Once in a while, a large group of us used to travel for a gathering, usually to a house party for someone’s birthday or wedding. Henry would often be there, but not Will. Will detached himself from the group after our messy breakup. The irony is too thick to cut. The one I wanted all those years ago turned into a ghost, and it’s the unwanted one who haunts me.

  Would Henry understand why it was rape? Would he understand that even with the lack of violence, there was still force, that he took a decision from me? I don’t think I will ever talk to him about it. I know what happened. Henry violated a trust. He did something wrong. And what he did has a name, even if I must whisper it.

  Bones, Depression, and Me

  After staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out if I could will myself to die, I would close my eyes and try to imagine a total blackness. Instead, I would always see images of my mother’s face, crying uncontrollably as she went through my belongings to give away. At the time, I would say Los Angeles tried to kill me, but it wasn’t really the city. I loved LA. I hope to live there again. But I’d moved there with no real plan, to escape a bad breakup, then got into another relationship too much like the one I was escaping. Both left me with emotional trauma I didn’t take time to unpack. I was over thirty, single, and fat, and could barely make ends meet. All of these depression triggers could’ve happened anywhere, and I later realized they had, but I knew then I needed to leave Los Angeles or else I would die there, one way or another. Seeing my mother’s face each time I tried to meditate myself to death seemed like a sign I needed to go home.

  But before I could do that, I had a writers’ retreat I wanted to attend in Napa Valley. Somehow, I’d convinced myself to give grad school another try, and I’d enrolled in the University of Southern California’s then Master of Professional Writing Program. I had an emphasis in poetry. One of my professors also coordinated the poetry division of a weeklong writers’ retreat in St. Helena, California. She strongly encouraged me to apply, so I did—with financial aid. My major logistical problem was that I’d already ended my lease with the lady who rented me a room and I couldn’t extend it. I needed someplace to stay for the few weeks until the retreat. I felt like I’d already used up all the goodwill I had with my LA friends, so I asked some friends in Las Vegas if I could stay with them, and they welcomed me with open arms.

  I put a bunch of my shit in storage and took a bus to Vegas. DL, my friend with the Chicago house parties, and his wife, Chandler, had moved to Sin City and had a gorgeous three-story town house. I slept in a guest room on the third floor with an en suite bathroom. But it was in the second-floor living room where I found major comfort in their Netflix account. All of my DVDs were in storage, so I couldn’t do my seasonal binge of Frasier. DL was really into having an entertainment system, so their television was as wide as I was tall. Every day I plopped myself on the floor, with my back against the couch, and watched Bones until they came home from work.

  I’d never seen Bones before. A commercial or two had popped up and I’d heard people make jokes about how addictive the show was, but I’d never felt compelled to tune in. Until I was depressed in Nevada. I grew up on Perry Mason and Columbo reruns, and Murder, She Wrote. The swooning lady in red atop a grave in the opening credits of PBS’s Mystery! series (now simply Masterpiece Theatre) always got me hyped. Murder mysteries and procedurals are my happy place, so I figured I’d put Bones on as background noise for my reading, but soon I found myself entranced.

  Temperance Brennan (Emily Deschanel), also known as Bones, is a forensic anthropologist who doesn’t let emotions get in the way of facts. She’s so focused on evidence and logic she has no sense of pop culture or interpersonal social cues, and she does not believe in God. Seele
y Booth (David Boreanaz) is an FBI special agent who wears a belt buckle with a rooster that says COCKY on it and colorful striped socks. An Army Rangers veteran, he loves his country and his Roman Catholic religion, but approaches all cases with warmth and empathy. When Booth comes across a crime scene with skeletal remains, he brings Brennan on the case. She and her team of competent, wacky scientists do all the cool forensic stuff with technology, gadgets, science, and art to identify the victim and find out how they died; then she and Booth investigate the living to find out why they killed. She’s emotionless. He’s a charmer. She’s evidence-based. He relies on his gut. She’s a pretty woman. He’s a good-looking man. Will they…? Won’t they…?

  Inject it into my veins.

  One day, I hit PLAY on season one, episode one. Then I blinked, and season two was about to start. Somehow I had ripped through twenty-two episodes of a show I’d intended to only halfway pay attention to. Each episode follows a neat formula: a cold open with remains in various stages of grossness; Brennan and her team identify the victim; Brennan and Booth go question surviving family members, coworkers, friends, and/or lovers; the scientists discover how the victim died; Brennan and Booth banter; everyone tries to teach Brennan how to be a human; they solve the case, then grab drinks at a bar or pie at a diner; and we wait for the next episode to see if our two leads will ever see each other naked. The show hardly ever strays from its formula, unless a serial killer shows up to stretch their crimes over a season or more.