tw: this piece contains descriptions of abuse and sexual assault When I was 23, I met someone. At the time, I was going through the harrowing process of taking the man that
sexually assaulted me to trial, and my life had become very small. Work and trial prep and therapy, sometimes. My housemate and his girlfriend invited me out to dinner one night at
a house in the neighborhood that touted itself as an “intentional community.” “Everyone’s queer, the food is mostly vegan, you’ll love it.” I put on a cute outfit and
went, mostly hanging out with my housemate and his girlfriend. Eventually, the risotto was ready, and everyone lined up to grab a plate. A small, blonde person stood behind me. She
had piercing blue eyes. She started making conversation with me. “I like your necklace,” she said, with a coy smile on her face. My necklace was a nameplate that read
“dyke” in blue script. She introduced herself to me, and I quickly learned she was the de facto leader of this community. In typical lesbian fashion, she ran it with her
ex-girlfriend. We started hooking up pretty soon after that. One day, close to the date of the trial, I sat her down and tried talking to her about how I might not be up for sex,
how I might disappear if things didn’t go the way of justice. She didn’t want to hear it, brushed me off, and told me I should talk to her current on-and-off again girlfriend
about it. I ignored the fact that I felt dismissed and continued fucking her. Months later, after we had turned our hookups into long, multi-day dates, I told her that I loved her.
She said it back. I was relieved. There were red flags, of course, there were red flags. I ignored them. I told myself that what I wanted, what I needed was to love and to feel
loved in the face of one of the most devastating things that had ever happened to me. I had been raped, and my rapist got off with a pretty mild plea deal. I felt unmoored, like I
couldn’t trust myself anymore. He was a friend. So, when I met this person, I was determined to be okay. I was going to be able to have sex and like it. I was going to be able to
have relationships and not feel so fucking undone. When the red flags came, I turned my cheek. One night, after dinner with her friends, we rode our bikes home. She kept loudly
making comments about my body that made me uncomfortable. I playfully said, “quit sexually harassing me” with a laugh. She grew cold and replied, “you are my girlfriend, I
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can say whatever I want about your body.” It didn’t take long for her to disapprove of my friends. They weren’t radical enough, weren’t queer enough. When I said no to her,
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