Consent is ****. Reality is not.

He picked me up from the Taco Bell, hot summer
day. Played music in the car, but denied me air. “It wastes gas.”
The man I gave my virginity to made me sweat it out on the way to do so.

His pasty torso was covered in unfinished tattoos,
a lifetime reminder of unfinished business. “Would you
like to see my rabbit?” he asked, and I thought that
rabbit was a euphemism for ***** but it wasn’t. He pulled
out a literal white rabbit, and placed it in my hands. The
soft fur burned with a sense of impending doom; of
the contract I’d foolishly signed in my mind. “His name is lucky.”

But I wasn’t. He ****** me hard against his
bed frame while I stared up at a reproduction of a Wicked
poster his fiancé had painted, but not before singing me
an original song- to make you cringe a little harder- off key.
I didn’t know how to give a *******, so I let him split me
in half.  And then I suited up in my crisp white shirt, slipped
on my black bow tie, and served people popcorn for seven hours.