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What does consent taste like?

"Did you actually ask if I was okay with you kissing me?" he asked.
"I couldn't wait for your lips to touch mine," he added jokingly. Believe you me, I struggled to stop myself from tasting the Kahlua on his lips.

He had had "minted man", and I a "slippery nipple". These cocktail names were the perfect conversation starter and one would would add, a perfect recipe for rape thereafter. While my minted man preferred to spend time in the gin ministry, I found delight discovering what each of the folks in the whiskey ministry was up to. We headed home with the remaining sobriety to unlock the house. He was a tad bit tipsy to force himself on me, and with my loose summoned, anything was possible.

Intoxicated, we were now inside the ho. He asked me if I wanted to shower and pointed me to the bathroom as he fixed us a late-night snack.

Omlette? How do you like it? With cheese? How about some pepper? He called out.

Every step of the way, every spice decision, he asked.

"Add whatever you deem necessary" I shouted on top of my voice. In that instant, I was trading my free will, unbeknownst to me.

Now that he had fed me, I was ready to feed him too.

This athletic, 6'4 man, whose lips tasted like a cocktail of orgasms, mint, coffee etcetera was giving me an option to spend my night, away from his arms, in another room.

Was I not attractive? I wondered. Did my gorgeous body not catch his attention? I mean, I am a 6'2, slender-bodied, thin waisted, and curvaceous in all the right places, the thoughts lingered on. I had finished bathing, and thrown the thong back on. I had also left just enough water on my body before I joined him on the kitchen counter and started to eat some of the just-whipped omelette and his signature coffee. Holding the fork teasingly, I had asked if he wanted to taste some of his magic. That was my green light, to feed him or drop some of it on my skin and ask him to eat it off.

Except, he hadn't given in.

"Are you freezing?" he asked.

I responded embarrassingly with a muffled "Yes."

He rushed to his room and brought a robe that he wrapped around my body without looking longer than I would have preferred.

I hated him for being slow. How could he not see this form of flesh, carefully molded together, as though the artist's mission was to show off.

He was of Adam, but tamed. And I a seething Eve, an untamed one.

The next time I lay next to him, I told him we were not having sex, not that night. His manhood shrank and he held me, in his arms. We woke up 10 hours later and I was untouched.

I have been looking to taste consent off another man's lips. The last one kissed me like he was a starved child until my lower lip bruised.

Before him, I had encountered an animal in human form. His brain stopped working when his blood would flow to his manhood. If only he had bought lubricant, it never occurred to him that I was always bruised when he forced himself in me. But he was my "lover". When I mentioned to him that it hurt, he said my body would get used in a few months and right now he was orienting me. I shut down my brain everytime the act was upon us. I feigned interest, else, he would pound me harder, to make me 'feel' him or in this case, bruise me more. Foreplay was forbidden in the walls of his room, as was a heads up if and when we would have sex. As long as I was in his space, he was entitled to do with my body whatever and whenever he pleased.

I dreaded being in his presence, I dreaded being in my lover's presence. Staying away from him for 2 weeks felt like a win. Then he devised an alternative, that we would watch late-night movies at TJ, that way, it would be too late to go home to my house. When in fact, it was his chance to train my pussy and my brain to treat rape as normal.

Consent was in the arms of the man I kissed who rocked my body, unrushed I had to beg him to stop because if he hadn't, my body would have shut down. This body has gotten accustomed to being told what to do, now it doesn't know what a proper sexual encounter should feel like. It goes cold everytime, it experiences pure pleasure.

I have caught glimpses of consent in stories of other people, and in jaded memories at bars, because alcohol didn't make any man rape me. It was the sober one, the one who drank 4 liters of water daily to stay hydrated and sane.

The minted man and my slippery nipple, never made contact. But we want to blame intoxications, and shield animals masquerading as lovers in the day, turning into wolves when no one is looking.

Is this what consent tastes like?


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