My girlfriends aren’t exactly thrilled with him. They’ve met him a few times, but it’s always ended badly. When he ran into Emma at Bakkus, this dive bar downtown, he punched her in the kidney to show her how effective it was as a self-defense move. She said that she had to lie on the floor until it stopped hurting. When he came home late that night, he was inconsolable. It was supposed to be a joke; he hadn’t realized that she would double over like that. He didn’t mean to hurt her.

Another night, when he bumped into Sigrún at Sirkus, he ended up making her cry. She sent me a text that night, saying she never wanted to see him again and she missed me. But she didn’t tell me what happened between them. I felt really guilty. I’ve been with him so much lately that I’ve completely ignored my own friends. But there are so many things I can’t tell them. If you talk about what happens within a relationship, everything gets tangled, and it’s easy for an outsider to judge—I don’t want them to write him off completely. They don’t know what it’s like to be as in love as I am now.

Butthole

Butthole

We were watching a film, cuddled up on the couch, when he first asked if he could—maybe, possibly, someday—fuck me in the ass. I thought at first that he was joking. Nobody wants to do that. Not really. I know that one of my friends did it, and she said it was disgusting. And I’ve heard that it’s pretty dangerous. Sigrún’s mom is a nurse, and she’s told her horror stories about teenage girls who come into the emergency room with torn sphincters because of rough anal. They have to wear diapers for the rest of their lives because they have no control over their bowel movements; the shit just spills out. I understand that gay men make do with their situation by penetrating each other, but straight men with healthy women in their beds—women who have vaginas, mouths, and hands—should really count their blessings.

Love

Love