it was never my fault.

on power dynamics.

i was fourteen when i first discovered emeraldchat.com. i was lonely and i listened to The Front Bottoms and i hated my mom. it's only in adulthood that i’ve realized that the men who lurked on the outskirts of that place didn't think i was mature or well-spoken for my age. they were pedophiles or something adjacent.

the man i remember most was age thirty-five. he read books that well-educated men read. he had a job as an english teacher and a live-in girlfriend of five years. he didn't plan on proposing any time soon, but never told me why. we only spoke when she was away on work trips. i dreamed of taking her place.

he always blurred his face in pictures or cropped it out entirely, but he was handsome, from what i could tell. i imagined him that way. his muscles were taut under creamy skin, ligaments pulled delicately over every joint, and he always had a hint of a beard. he was the type of man that wore mint aftershave and took his coffee black. i imagined him walking into class with a heavy book bag and sleepy eyes. his students were the same age as me. i dreamed of being in his class, sitting in the first row, overachieving with every single assignment, and doing everything i could to get him to notice me.

we had only been talking for two weeks when he confessed that he liked wearing women's lingerie. i stared in disbelief at my laptop screen. i had never heard of a man cross-dressing. my only knowledge came from poorly written fanfiction about Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson. i didn't know that it was an actual thing.

i offered consolation and told him that i would never judge him and i didn't. i was still a child. i hadn't learned that judgement was necessary when it came to protecting myself.

my cheeks flushed a bright red and i slammed my laptop shut when he sent the first picture. the lingerie was beautiful from what i can remember. he wore mostly soft pastels with intricate lacing and soft mesh. his naked body was always painfully visible underneath and it caused pressure in the pit of my stomach. it was the first time i noticed how soft men's bodies could be. the curves, the fat deposits, the swallow of hips.

it makes me want to vomit now.

i met a man like him again in college. he was my english professor. i recognized the outline of his body under the pretentious chelsea boots and awful cardigans he always wore. he would force us to listen to his shitty autofiction and manifestos in class. they were mainly about sleeping with women and i had this undeniable jealousy that caused me to grow rigid every time. but he liked me and i thought he saw me underneath my writing. i liked him back. he filled the weird gap that had been left by all of the men that liked me and liked little girls. and the men that liked me because they liked little girls.

i always came to his lectures early. i liked to watch him unpack his things. he had strong hands and he smiled at me, but not too much. not enough, sometimes.

i'd like you to come to my office after class.

the pressure i hadn't felt since i was fourteen crept back up again. he was painfully naked under his clothes. i swallowed hard and agreed.

his office was well-kept, but smaller than i imagined. he had a giant bookcase that reached the ceiling and two chairs in front of his mahogany desk. i watched intensely as he pulled one of the chairs next to his. my knees almost gave out as i sat beside him. i was close enough to smell his mint aftershave.

a million possibilities rushed through my mind. was he going to touch me? did i even want him to? was it wrong if i wanted him to touch me? what is it with my fascination with men in their thirties that love taking advantage of their power?

he never touched me. instead, he sat back in his chair and ran his eyes over my body. it was a quick up and down glance, but it still made my cheeks hot. i was undeniably naked under my clothes and we were acutely aware.

i wanted to meet with you because i'm disappointed in your writing. your poetry specifically. it's all surface-level bullshit. it's stuff you see on instagram. you could publish it if you wanted to. i feel like people would enjoy it, but it lacks depth.

he stared blankly at me.

my intense admiration for him had wedged itself between betrayal and disgust. how dare he look at me with those eyes in class and then hate my poetry? how dare he give me his most undivided attention? how dare he give me false hope? his manifestos are about fucking women and frying eggs and how soft their hair is. he probably also liked little girls. his favorite book was probably Lolita. and he might've been the guy that groomed me when i was fourteen.

i nodded silently and excused myself. i didn't write another poem for two years.

i thought that, maybe, this vow of silence would somehow dredge up something, anything, worth saying out of the trenches of my brain. the trawlers that dipped and swayed only pulled up the mangled bodies of all the people i could've been.

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As always, stay safe, stay warm, and stay kind.

Best regards,

Zoe.

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Also, I would like to give a special thanks to

Ennui_Go

for helping me edit this piece. You’re wonderful and so appreciated.