I did not have sex with a man for the first time in Israel. Instead, I had sex for the first time in a hot tub in Berkeley. That man who was basically still a child asked, and I hesitated but I was really turned on so I said yes. It hurt. He tried another angle. That didn’t hurt, but instead felt like nothing at all.

He did that for a few minutes while I watched the wall and squeezed my eyes shut and wished I was a ghost. I wished I was pretty so I could be the girl the boy I loved was fucking right then, on the other side of the country. I waited for him to re-emerge in my life and I waited for him to forgive me and I waited for him to move like he said he would and my heart turned to blisters and the scabs over the pus did not cover the stink.

I worked in Stockton for a while, for no reason. I turned down my dream job for no reason really, just depression or general misery, turning my rage back on myself like I was taught to. After I knew he’d blocked my number I texted him and texted him, frantically, a lost girl in a big bad world that, turns out, really does hate me.

Girls learn hate, instinctively. I hated him but I trusted him anyway, even though he made my stomach muscle back into a fist. I blamed myself for not telling him all the things I wanted to tell him, then, and forgot all the reasons why I didn’t. He really liked thin girls. Liked the way they hesitated then surrendered to him like they were supposed to do. Liked the way he could stay unslept underfed skinny himself but still hold their wrists down if he wanted to. Liked how they looked up at him under long…