On the Docket: Tenured v. Jail Bait

I find myself again enduring ebb and flow of ideology, where steel-eyed laughing men in suits decide for me it was my fault he touched my thigh that night so earnestly, made me believe the softness in his words, his eyes, his hands meant I was safe at last.

Twice my age, but scruffy hot he seemed so calm, so zeroed in on my desire and pleasure, gobbling all my hopeful trust. He seemed familiar, father-like, drew giggles out of me like silk refilled my glass, and smiled.

Was wanting touch and safety in electric fog of breathless adoration all my fault?

I’d only known a cruelty before the furrowed brow, the angry fumbling hand, foul breath, insistent pressured acquiescence to their needs regardless of revulsion, where they bartered all my fear like jack-daws screeching over bread.

But he seemed gentle, funny, charming and articulate, and brought me to his party “just to show me off” and I was proud to be the object of his worthy praise this once.

But now the men in suits agree that he did nothing wrong, and so I slink away again to bear the burdens of misunderstanding what was what, so he can safely line his nest with sweet naiveté un-consequenced, beyond reproach, defended by a jury of his peers who definitely know this round is theirs.

-cassandra