Andrew offered to make dinner for me at his place for our second date. On the drive to his new condo in Rogers Park, the Friday-afternoon traffic crawled down Western. Frustrated after sitting through two green lights without moving forward an inch, I pounded on the steering wheel and screamed at the top of my lungs. I screamed so long and so loudly that my voice sounded hoarse for the next two days. I didn’t want to go to Andrew’s house, but I’d made myself say yes, because saying no meant I subconsciously wanted to be alone. Andrew was a nice guy! I screamed at myself. Give him a chance! How could I claim to be desperately lonely and then decline a date with a nice, sober man?
After a tour of his bright, tasteful one-bedroom apartment, Andrew grilled two chicken breasts and emptied a bag of lettuce into a ceramic bowl after dousing it with Hidden Valley Ranch. I smiled at his earnest efforts, even though my stomach was churning with that no that longed to rise up and fly out of my mouth.
We sat on his couch, balancing our plates on our knees and making polite small talk about his work and my family in Texas. When I looked at him head-on, I couldn’t tell he had a mullet, but making conversation felt like bone grinding on bone—our words didn’t flow naturally. Neither of us was witty or charming. This wasn’t what I wanted: Dry-ass chicken breasts with a nice-enough guy whom I could barely talk to.
When we were done eating, I panicked. There was no more small talk inside me, so I scooted toward him and put my lips on his, hoping that kissing might spark something—something that might make me want to be there with him.
Andrew’s eyes widened in surprise and then excitement. He kissed me back. I turned into a mechanical doll with no heat, no heart. I wanted to go home and hated myself for it. I also hated myself for rejecting Andrew for dumb reasons like his haircut. No wonder I was alone; I was a bitch. The no pulsed in my gut, but I pushed it down. Here was a nice guy sitting right in front of me, and if I didn’t like him or wasn’t into him, that was my own fault.
“Do you have a condom?” I said. Maybe I could fuck my way out of this stuckness. Maybe sex would make me feel an attraction to him.
I still had on my sweater, bra, underwear, jeans, socks, and boots. Andrew’s red flannel shirt was tucked tightly into his belted jeans. His shoes were still tied. Moving from a chaste ninety-second make-out session to intercourse made as much sense as robbing the 7-Eleven on the corner. But between us, we lacked the skills or desire to slow down and figure out what the hell was actually happening.
There was no music. No mood lighting. Zero ambience, unless you counted the occasional wafts of charred chicken. Andrew pulled down his pants and slipped the condom on. I shimmied my jeans over my hips.
He moved on top of me. I bit my lower lip and stared at his ceiling. Poisonous thoughts ran through my head: This is all you get. You will never feel anything. You are broken. Faulty score. When I blinked, tears spilled out of both eyes. I held the sob back and composed the story I would tell in group: Look what I did. Do you get it now? This is serious.
Andrew struggled to get inside me. More stuckness. I tilted my hips to give him a better angle and speed things up. In three or four thrusts it was over. I felt nothing outside the thrum of self-hate. My breath never changed rhythm.
His phone rang as he was finishing up. Emergency at work. Andrew yanked his pants up. “Sorry, but I have to go.” I didn’t even know what his job was.
Back in my car, I dialed Dr. Rosen’s number. I told his answering machine about the chicken breasts, the no in my gut, the sex that I instigated. “I tried to tell you. Please hear me.”
Four days later in group: My eyes locked with Dr. Rosen’s. My fists were tight with rage. How many more guys did I have to fuck for him to take me seriously? What would it take to wipe that smirk off his face?
“You think I can’t see you.” Dr. Rosen said.
“Do you get that I’m in a lot of pain?”
“Christie, I get that you are in a lot of pain.”
“Can you help me?”
“Yes.”
“What do I need to do?”
“You’re doing it.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It hurts!” I banged my fists on the arms of the chair. “I hurt.”
“I know.”
“I never want to fuck like that again.”
“You never have to fuck like that again.”
“This isn’t enough.”
“Christie, it is enough.”
How could it possibly be enough? The night with Andrew was a disaster on every level, and it was my fault. Yet I was the one who had a high-powered therapist and five supportive group members supposedly steering my life in a better direction.
“What’s the point
