She’s always wondered if it’s meant to feel like this.
A constant struggle, a tug-of-war, continual pushing. Locked in an embrace, their mouths moving rhythmically, it is more a struggle for control than it is a romantic encounter.
Him pushing, she pushing back. To defend herself, her honor, her reputation. She knows he is a nice boy, but shouldn’t nice boys take the hints she gives? How many times must she move a hand away, or guide a mouth upward? This is supposed to be enjoyable; this is supposed to be a basic human pleasure, but instead it is a never ending game. Pushing and pushing. Sending signals that are either read and ignored or not even noticed.
And it’s not as though she condemns what he is trying to do. She just isn’t ready, she barely knows him really, and she barely knows herself. He keeps pushing but she pushes back just as hard. How can she let him into the secret recesses of her being if he hasn’t even been to the secret recesses of her mind?
But he keeps pushing, as if he doesn’t understand. She thinks men and women must see differently after all. Because he is continually pushing, his body rubbing on hers. She wonders why it has come to this. Is she no different than a scratching post for a cat? Is this her fate in life? Because it was decided that she is a woman, she is now doomed to a life of being an inanimate object, even if she feels like so much more. Even if he talks as if she is much more, even if he genuinely seemed to care much more. Because he seems to lose control and courtesy, and pushes on her, as if she was not really there at all, moving his hands and pushing his body away on her unwilling form.
She is there for him to rub and push and grind, and no matter how hard she pushes back, she knows that that will never change.