Eliza Clark

people always conflate beauty with goodness

The night is young, and I have so much cocaine in my bra.

No women is such a red flag for a shit party

I could do that, if I wanted, you know? I could train a camera on a man and look at him like a man looks at a woman; boys, too, could be objects of desire.

And then I’m in the taxi. Thinking, thinking: did I enjoy that? Did I even properly consent to that? Do I care? I haven’t been raped before. Well, I’ve never been raped raped: no bag over my head, no knife to my throat while I screamed and fought. Nothing traumatic. Even Will the other week, that was nothing. But it’s all the little shit. He wouldn’t switch; I passed out; I don’t remember it; he’s way older than me.

Do you like it rough? I think so. I think I must. Men are rough, aren’t they? Have I always had a taste for rough stuff, or did I acquire that?

Was it my idea to have him hurt me, or did he just let me think it was?

And that gets sewn into them young, doesn’t it? Violence. I’ve had to go to some fairly extreme measures to defend myself.

There’s a soft part of your brain. A place where you’re still just a child. Once someone’s poked the soft spot, the dent doesn’t go away. Like sticking your fingers in wet concrete.

I’m surprised boys like this still exist. Still this entitled, still this generic, still this wealth of privilege and connections filling a void where there should be talent.