“I orchestrated seedy sexual experiences with male friends who tried hard to reach some part of me that was human, men who told me I was wonderful, and I never spoke to them again. I tried to hook up with strangers and when they didn’t give me exactly what I wanted, I treated them cruelly. I once smacked a guy across the face for kissing me poorly in a Williamsburg bar bathroom. Eventually I hid out in gay bars on the Lower East Side: The Boiler Room, Urge, Cock, feeling I was safe there. I went with friends often, and once or twice by myself. We would dance, drink, touch the go-go boys on the bars, critique the porn projected on the walls. I wanted to be left alone, I didn’t want to connect, I didn’t want sex, I didn’t want to feel anything. Sometimes on the dance floor, men would grab my crotch earnestly searching for a penis under my dress, and I genuinely felt guilty that I didn’t have one for them to enjoy. I thought about killing myself. I thought about doing heroin. I thought about becoming a nun. I got texts from men I’d met in bars: “U WANNA FUCK?” at three, four and five in the morning. I never responded - but I felt invigorated: I was finally getting somewhere. I was finally worth something! I was an object of desire.”

Suzanne Richardson, Throw it Up. (via self-defeating)

Humbled to get quoted on the internet by young readers. Thanks for the love.

(Source: 12oz-mouse)

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