A Good Clean Towel

  
I was drunk and desperate leading to impaired judgment and lowered expectations. He had been cruising me for years. Alarm bells rung every other time thanks to his standing-in-shadows staring. All I wanted was some rough, throw-me-around sex. The kind with bruises, bites, and pulled hair. My alarms ringing meant potential violence. Tonight, I stalked him.

The back ally of Powerhouse with its dim lights and smoke-laden air provided enough cover to try him out. He threw me against the wall and bit my neck. I moaned excited by the prospect of unintended consequences. He unzipped my pants assuming permission freely given. The tequila swirled in my head. Permission was gone that night replaced instead with instinct, need, and power. Momentarily, it was exactly what I wanted: escape beyond the boundaries of borders and control.

I followed him out of the bar to his car parked in the alley. He threw me against the rust and continued his forceful passion. I succumbed letting him push me into the messy car strewn with used napkins, bits of food, and stacks of text books. The smell inside was the first moment of recognition that something might be amiss. I opened the window, and we drove to his Alamo Square apartment.

The stench of rotting meals reached my nostrils as he opened his apartment door. I pretended it was the smell of stale tequila on my breath and entered dreaming only of the bed and hopeful for fisticuffs. I found both. The sex was disruptive-to-neighbors hard and loud and messy. The kind that requires a shower and clean towel. I only got the shower.

I stumbled towards the bathroom guided by a small path of empty floor. Magazines, journals, more scientific text books, clothes, empty chip bags were strewn beside the path. The dizziness of booze and sexual release made navigation amongst these obstacles nearly impossible. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the grimy bathroom and turned on the shower. The glaring florescent light amplified the dirt and mess and specks of toothpaste on the mirror and walls. More alarm bells were silenced by the pitter patter of water hitting my scalp and running down my back. He joined me in the shower for more sex and bruises.

The water turned off, it was time for the clean towel. Instead, he rummaged through the crisp, crunchy, crusty towels on the floor.

"This is the best I have," he said as he handed me a towel that once was white and now was a leopard print of coffee, cum, and piss-yellow stains. It was molded into the shape of discarded hope. I tried to dry myself, but the towel was so hard I only spread filth over my clean body.

The sheets crunched as I laid down. I put everything - the smells, the textures, the ache from the bruise on my arm, the dreams of more - from my head and fell asleep to him sitting up staring at me. I was woken up by his loud snoring and put my clothes back on. Quietly, I tried to exit. The alcohol worn off, the place was even a bigger mess. This night of uncontrolled, violent release was the only night we'd share. While not a neat freak, I needed a clean towel.

He woke up as I was opening the door. He wanted to see me again, to be animalistic again, to share a relationship. I only smiled and left.

He continued stalking me, but this time it was no longer kept to the shadows and alleys and back rooms. It was open and hostile filled with longing stares that lasted past the point of comfort and to the point of invasion and uninvited touches all over my body. At first I was polite smiling and accepting his advances but clearly defining boundaries by stepping backwards and pushing hands away. He didn't understand these subtle signals, so I moved to a more direct approach: telling him to "fuck off", my default phrase for assholes.  That didn't work either. He heard it more as a challenge, so his advances became even more intense.

Finally, one Sunday afternoon at The Eagle, I had enough. He had been following me for hours, and the packed Beer Bust provided cover and excuses for his staring and "accidental" fondling as he tried to squeeze by me. On one pass, he tried to start a conversation. It was my opening.

"Stop fucking stalking me. I will never sleep with you again. You couldn't even offer me a clean towel. Go away and leave me alone! You have no chance in hell. You're filthy!"

He finally moved on.

And I still have a very deep appreciation for clean towels.

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