Never fuck with a writer. For we will quote tweet and blog post your life into infamy.
It’s tough out here these days. Games are talked, some are played. There are moments you think there’s a spark, even if it’s purely physical. You ignore your leanings; the need to be stretched out and scream a name or two winning out amidst common sense. This is how people get hurt, get played, get fucked in the wrong way.
A bit ago I was supposed to meet up with this guy I'd been chatting with for a few weeks. We were introduced for the sole purpose of fucking. In my work, my healing is paramount. Cobwebs are what they call them. The strands floating from just outside my pussy. Because I’ve placed myself on hold. To heal. To learn and unlearn. To research. To advocate. To speak my truth. Off rip, he wasn’t my type. But history showed my type tended to be men cut from cruel cloths and I figured - why not venture into new territory? We both knew what was up; mainly sexting as neither of us was looking for anything serious. Weeks go by. Nudes. Talks about hard and soft boundaries. Me expressing, without shame, exactly what I wanted to be done to me.
We scheduled the meetup date. The week finally comes. We’re talking cash shit about limits and face-sitting. It’s then I realize I’m not prepared. I have no supplies.
The Construction of a Heaux Bag
Shame and pleasure have gone hand-and-hand for too long, especially if you happen to have a vulva. The Walk of Shame is most times synonymous with a woman pumping it back to her car in last night’s heels wearing last night’s outfit. No thoughts toward the dude who’s most likely going to work in the same crusty underwear with whiffs of post-coitus rapture hanging from his sack. No thought at all. Because it’s normal. So here’s where the Heaux (Hoe) Bag comes in. Normally, it’s an innocuous bag that can be thrown in a car/Lyft/Uber at a moment’s notice of spontaneous peen. Doing my due diligence as a newbie in the game, I asked those whose opinions I care about on how to properly pack a Heaux Bag.
Oh, the help these comments wrought.
For starters, get you a bag small yet big enough to fit the following:
Next-day clothes (be it work, school, church, wherever you be going)
Sweats or loose-fitting clothing in case you arrived in your thotfit (lingerie)
Socks/sneakers/flip flops
extra towel (because let’s be quite honest: most men don’t change out their bedding on the reg so what makes you think he has spare towels? Cmon sis)
Nah you ain’t moving in. Don’t entertain that tired joke. You are, however, prepared for anything that may go awry or, in the very best of cases, perfectly as expected and you’re just gonna go about your day after. The gym is calling.
After a few trips to Target and a thorough rundown by my homies on the thread, I had constructed my first Heaux Bag. In it:
Condoms (male and female bc folk being playing)
Thotfit (in case this DMV winter wouldn’t allow a trenchcoat moment)
Lube (because, and I cannot stress this enough, SPIT IS NOT LUBE. It’s cold season. How dare you)
Toys (we love dual stimulation/edging ova here)
Toiletries: travel-sized, TSA approved everything. Body wash, face wash, body oil, face oil, perfume, deodorant, razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, vaginal and flushable wipes, body pouf, washcloth, pads (because rough and/or frequent sex has the tendency of knocking that flow right outta you), anything and everything you need to freshen up on the go.
Wallet
Taser (because folk be wildin and you can never be too safe. Sucks we have to take so many precautions but here we are)
I was ready. I got tested with the all-clear. I went to my fave sex shop to grab a couple more things when I shot over a quick text ahead of the meetup. I get a random text back that his belly is full of wine.
OK.
He’s gone off wine. Wine-tipsy. Red wine-drunk.
Red flag #1
“If I get a room will you come through?” I excitedly text yes. I’m thinking he means for tomorrow. Nope, he means tonight. I tell him I can't. I'm just leaving the store, I'm sweaty after the gym, etc. All of this is true, but even if I simply said I can't tonight, that should've been enough.
“If I get the room, you can shower.”
Nigga Logic™ states that this makes total sense. It, in fact, makes zero tf sense. I have no clothes to change into after said shower. I have no protection made of rubber nor electrodes. In the haze of wine intensity, he doesn't get the answer he wants. The conversation turns cold. He gets mad dismissive.
Red flag #2
My mother is an alcoholic. I’ve dealt with partners who’ve leaned on the bottle for safety; to loosen up tight situations yet still found themselves over their predetermined limits. Much like my mom, I was looked to as the safety net, the cut-off person, the one who could handle life nowhere near the bend and catch them once they fell. In doing this, I’ve learned complacency. Keeping my thoughts to myself. Understanding that this is just something they’re going through - this isn’t them. But also, don’t you dare speak of getting help. That goes too far. We’re just having fun. We’ll be okay. Over the past two years, I’ve done a lot of work to unlearn those thought patterns, those expectations. Done a lot of work to unlearn silence and enabling behavior. So when I feel it rising back, I now react differently. At that moment, I felt my old ways of responding begin to surface. I'm afraid I'm going to miss this opportunity. It's been nearly two years of no sexual activity and this can't be happening the night before. Here is where, in the past, I would have ignored my intuition/gut for the sake of keeping the peace. Swallow my hurt feelings to keep things cute.
I head home. Little to no communication from my end to his. I reach out to a friend. I’m spiraling.
“It’s not too late to get that room”
I reach my front door. I let it slam behind me. I sit softly on my couch as I’m afraid of moving too much. Of shaking old shit loose. Of saying yes because I’m afraid saying no could put me in danger. Because it had in the past. Because I’m still new on this level of my self-healing.
My friend sits with me on the phone. I’m asking what do I do. He asks me what do I want to do. I reach past the socialized me to get to the me that’s begging I choose differently.
"Are we still on for tomorrow?”, I ask the guy.
"It may happen"
Red flag #3
Going back on something because you didn't get your way a quick lay does not make. Again, the response is to try to smooth things over. My gut is screaming. "You remember how this feels. You know this all too well. Make a different choice". I didn't want to go anymore. I didn't want to be the peacekeeper, smile and have sex to prove I'm not too sensitive. I didn't want to do this anymore - ignore my gut to save feelings. My body reacts when I stand up for myself; it's foreign and scary.
"I can sit on the phone. You don't have to do this alone," my friend breaks through my questioning. I message one more time.
“Look I wasn’t ready tonight. I was prepared for tomorrow as we planned. Are we still on?”
“You need to be more straight-forward”
A light is activated. Something indeed shook loose. I block him. From my phone and Messenger. A fear comes over me; the irrational type that tells you the killer is just outside your door when, in actuality, there’s no one there. The type of fear that’s borne in trauma and festers. He doesn’t know where you live. You did the safe thing for you and he can be in his wine-soaked feelings. Still, I didn’t sleep well that night.
The following is true by all accounts:
Dick is abundant and of low value.
I deserve peen attached to someone worthy of my time and energy AND who holds my time as valuable because it is. And I don't have to explain why.
Sis (I’m sis) has been traumatized by aint-shit individuals and constantly relearning how to trust herself.
Someone reading this, in full ashen glory, will think this isn’t a big deal. As someone who’s been in full emotional and mental abuse recovery, it’s the fucking world.
