Fuck You, Pay Me

 I was standing in the Hustlers store in Las Vegas when I felt a panic attack coming on. Here I was surrounded by sex toys that surpassed the limits of my imagination of what sex can feel like. Here were all these glittery pasties and thongs with tails on them, waiting to find the right customer. I saw $500 vibrators proudly on display next to 8 inch tall stripper heels and b0ndage equipment. I tentatively reached for a pair of bedazzled bikini bottoms and an iridescent bra top I planned to wear to a music festival that same day. I was too afraid to even look too long at anything else. I went with a scandalous but safe choice of attire. I brought my items to the cashier and when she asked me if I was one of the dancers the walls of my already fragile mental state came down and tears sprung to my eyes. I wish, I said earnestly. 

Men have been objectifying me for free since before I even grew the body parts that everyone warned me would make men come running. A vision came to my mind of my ex-boyfriend telling me he sometimes jacks off to photos of me as a little kid and this is what led to the panic, feeling like I could never escape the disturbing desires of abusive men. Was this outfit I bought for myself or someone else? I wondered if there ever would be a time where my body no longer belonged to the minds of those who want nothing to do with making me feel good and everything to do with their own fucked up version of pleasure. 

I snapped back to the moment and thanked the woman ringing me up for thinking I was hot enough to be a dancer. Baby, she said while looking me in the eye, You would make a thousand a night here. When I walked out into the hot desert sun I saw a group of guys stumble into the club next door. One of them looked at me and his jaw dropped. He said nothing and kept moving into the den of iniquity most people come to Vegas to experience. I respected the fact that he didn’t yell out Hey sexy, where are you going? A man who knows that beautiful women don’t move through the world for free gets a nod from me. Fuck you, pay me. 

• 
  

The first time I was raped by my ex-boyfriend was when I was a sophomore in college. I was tripping on acid and we were watching Rick and Morty while passing a bong back and forth. Out of nowhere he grabbed my face without saying a word and started making out with me, pushing me onto my back on his bed. My head was spinning from the weed. The dream-like haze of the psychedelics made it damn near impossible to form coherent thoughts about what I wanted from him. He was the first and only guy I had ever slept with, clearly I trusted him. Right? It doesn’t matter that it happened in the same park where we went to smoke cigarettes behind an abandoned business. He respected me. He cared about me. He loved me. Right? So why does it feel like every time he kisses me he’s slapping me in the face? This is too many thoughts to process while the folds of my brain are being turned inside out and twisted sideways from the acid. I opened my mouth so he could slide his tongue in and then opened my legs so he could do the same. While he was in me I did all of the things that bodies do when they’re full of desire. I needed to prove to him and myself it couldn’t be rape if my body was saying yes. It did not matter that my head was saying please, God, no. Go harder, I moaned. Faster. Deeper. Fuck yes. Just like that. If I say the things I know he wants to hear he will cum faster. It will all be over. Babygirl, this is just the beginning. 

• 
  

I carry trauma in my body. My hips are sore from all the years I spent wrapping my legs around his torso while he raped me. Slip it inside me after the pills kick in so I know what it’s like to feel everything and not be able to do anything about it. What would it look like if we met in the cafeteria? In the mall? What if we shared the tender moment when college is approaching and we’re ready to say goodbye to who we once were. I crave the pain of a broken heart mixed with the excitement of who and what is next to come. He stole that from me. He wanted me to cling tightly to him, so I did. What else is there besides him? He robbed me of feeling young and healthy and so beautifully unaware of all the ways men can introduce trauma into your life. With him, I settled for a simple hey do you have a lighter? I’m trying to light this spliff. I looked at him, flicked my lighter. I would burn it all to the fucking ground for him. And I did. Look where it got me. 

• 
  

Years later in New York, I snorted a gram of coke and unsuccessfully tried to start an OnlyFans. I googled how to become a stripper, which club is the best to dance at, what I should wear to my try out. In my coked out delirium, I made it my goal to become a stripper. It’s still a desire I have lingering in the back of my sober mind. Dancers are powerful, sexy. I imagined releasing my trauma into the club with every lap dance and having it absorbed by the men who might end up hurting me. I’ll take your ones, your 20’s, your hundreds, and in return all you will get is what I’m willing to offer. We’re all playing the same game, but this time it’s on my terms. Fuck you, pay me. Then add tax. I wasn’t ready to be a star at the club yet. My intentions were to use men the way that they had used me. Play dangerous games, win questionably empowering prizes. I couldn’t bring my trauma to the club. I need to heal outside of the male gaze. 

• 
  

The longer I stayed with my ex, the more I figured out exactly what all those sex toys I saw in Vegas were for. I know more than I should about fetishes that are not mine. What would it be like if I wasn’t triggered by the question so what are you into in bed? What would it be like if I could brush off the misconception so many men seem to have about me being a freak in bed? What does it look like to own your body, to make others pay for it with love and affection. I began to figure it out with the last guy I was with. He told me I could relearn sex, and it almost seemed possible until I fell in love with him and he told me he didn’t have the same feelings. I went back to sending nudes to random men I matched with on Tinder. I’ll objectify myself first so you don’t have to. I’ll show you my trauma if you show me yours. 

• 
  

I think we were in 8th grade when we had a mandatory class on the dangers of sexting online. The whole point was, supposedly, teaching us how to stay safe. Sharing nude photos was too much of a risk. Those photos could be used against you, they said. They never taught us about all the other stuff we do that men will try and use against you. You said yes to this, which also means yes to everything else. We tried anal last week and you said you liked it. You promised me you would try this position, this sex toy, this new thing I saw on Pornhub, you can’t change your mind now. According to the class we took, the only part of your life that would remain unscathed after sending nude photos is your sex life. But we were private school girls. A sex life wasn’t ours to have. If we wanted to explore how we could comfortably express ourselves as sexual beings, one thing was made clear: Don’t violate the unspoken code of conduct created by men. Do what you said you were going to, don’t say no. Every time you said yes means every time we fuck you’re saying yes. Go harder. Faster. Yes. Just like that. You’re doing great. He’s almost done.

• 
  

The last time I fucked someone was when I was in Miami for a music festival. Old habits die hard, so I let him slide a hit of MDMA into my mouth. A couple hours later we were doing lines in his hotel room and drinking wine straight out of the bottle. I put on Charlotte de Witte and danced against him, my blonde hair sweeping his cheek, his hand on my ass. It’s consensual, that’s a start, but I’m not quite empowered the way I wanted to be during sex. He carried me over to the bed, flipped me on my back, and fucked me so hard from behind I started seeing stars. I am a pro at disassociating in bed, and maybe it was the molly, maybe it was the coke, maybe it’s because I was drunk, but I felt nothing but desire. Pure, raw, unfiltered desire. We fucked until 6AM and he bought me an Uber home. He texted me the next day with those magic words that no longer fill me with dread. Wanna go back to my place and fuck? Yeah. I do. I mean it with every fiber of my being. 

I like to fuck around and do drugs, I like to fuck around while on drugs. The good guys screw you, and the bad guys screw you. Might as well get high about it. When I got back to my dads apartment I realized he had stolen my rave hat with my entire pin collection on it. It’s better than all the things my ex-boyfriend took from me. Close, but no cigar. Only three orgasms. That will do. 

One of these days I will be sexually liberated. One day I will be brave enough to be the stripper of my dreams. One day I will get to a place where nobody fucks with me anymore. Until then, I’ll carry a memory I have where I went to a party at a strip club right before the pandemic shut everything down. As I got out of my Uber, the bouncer opened the door for me. I was wearing leather pants and a massive fur coat and studded choker. Are you one of the dancers? He asked me with a devilish smile. You look like one. I thought of my memories of pain during sex, of being objectified without my consent. I’ve paid my dues. Yes, I said with a wink. I came here just for you. Tell them what they want to hear and get what you want in return. He opened the door to the club for me and I thought of that guy in Vegas who looked but didn’t open his fucking mouth. In the club, we’re all playing the same game, but if I win my prize looks like walking out of the club with a Louis Vuitton bag full of 20’s that I’ll use to get that $500 vibrator I was once intimidated by all those years ago in Vegas. Pretty girls don’t move through the world for free. This is my body, my time, my pleasure, my money, my life. Fuck you, pay me. Y’all fucking owe me.