Disclaimer- Mild adult themes- a few paragraphs

Typh

Was just trying to write an example of how people these days can be incredibly two-faced, and am just wondering if people think this is a viable way of addressing a serious issue like sexual assault without trivialising it. I'm not good on minimalism at all to be honest, but I can assure you I'm not a budding sex offender. The syntax is probably way off, so apologies for that. First post here, but thought I'd give it a lash anyway. All the best,





‘Sex with you? Seriously? We’re friends though. Neither of us want to be left with an unpleasant taste in our mouth. Metaphor, not innuendo,’ he added hastily.
He couldn’t disguise his intrigue, his eyes widening at her abrupt suggestion. She couldn’t hide the fact that she found his shyness adorable. He sipped at the ice in his empty glass to buy time.
‘A meaningless exchange. We all have urges to sate, yeah?’
She did not have to sell the seduction further.

They didn’t hold hands as they left, nor did they speak. It was just an innocuous exchange of bodily fluids; everyone did it. Whatever feelings they experienced stopped at the skin. Or eight inches within, depending. It's why guys hunt vacuous, shallow sluts. You don't need or want depth when you have sex with a puddle. You stop inches inside it, and go no deeper. All emotion, all sentiment, stops at the skin.
She closed the door of what looked like abandoned office he had led her to, and whatever question she was about to voice on his choice of location was stifled immediately by his lips. Why was this building even on the campus? Within seconds he was holding her up against the wall, all tongue and teeth, nails digging like dull needles into his upper arm. She clasped her hands on either side of his head, pulling their mouths apart, ensuring that their eyes met, controlling his head by entangling her fingers in his hair.
'I don't let men misuse me. I'm not a toy. This is just meaningless, no-strings attached sex, yeah?'
There was a biting edge to her husky voice. A warning tone. Something clicked in the silence that followed. He nodded, and she watched as he considered her with sunken eyes.

She noticed something in his eyes; an intensity, a longing, and suddenly understood that this was much more than an innocent trade of bodies, if ever there was one. His mouth was slightly open, wet lips agape. Each inhalation, each heavy breath, pushed his chest against hers. A hollow look, as if he was staring through her. Hairs stood on end, and her body shuddered as it dawned on her that this was only an unemotional exchange for one of them. Time slowed. Suddenly everything felt heavier. The coldness of sobriety was seeping in. Her body was tiny in his hands and she could feel the hard edge of his body holding her tiny frame aloft.
For the first time she felt his weight, his sheer size, the callousness of his touch. She felt the hard edges of the bones under his skin. A wall of sinew and flesh and bone pushed her against another. Both walls unmoving, both cold against her skin. His hands clutched her hips in a way that forced her thighs above his waist. An internal monologue stammered in panicked tones. She was afraid to stop what she had initiated but it was no longer a matter of wilful denial.

When he bit her lower lip she noticed it for the first time, and it terrified her. His eyes had been open while he was kissing her, monitoring her expression. A monster wearing a mask of friendship had sat with her for months, had smiled and laughed with her, had watched and waited. Until it was no longer a threat. Until it was trusted. It kissed her neck, without mask, and addressed her with cold eyes. Without all the pretence she saw an ugliness that had been hidden away. She saw the malice in his facial expression hardening, their teeth clashing together as his kissing became increasingly harsh. She listened to the metallic tinkle of a belt-buckle being undone, and felt an open palm pushing into her midriff, holding her in place. He watched the movement of her eyes, hands moving elsewhere, her lower back pinned against the wall with his hips. We all sell something. Our bodies, our ideas, pills, promises. She tried to switch off, to suppress the idea that his sweat was an ink that stains everything it touches. To suppress the idea that her body no longer belonged to her.

It was just sex, she thought. Just ****ing. Keep saying it. Keep saying it. We’re just friends ****ing, like friends do. Her mind couldn’t sustain the lie to her body and the first tear streamed down her cheek despite the consoling echo. Her vision became clouded and she found herself blinking in quick succession to get the liquid out of her eyes. It was too late for her to know the true motives for this friendship. In a place without windows and without air, a place without light, she went limp in the arms of a monster, and shut her eyes until it was over. Just animals being animals. Just sex.

CaoimH_in

tongues searching for the souls in their chests

Cut, not poetic, doesn't develop anything, a useless, cumbersome appendage.

Her nails were digging like needles into his upper arm.

Cliche, develop more.

Or eight inches within, depending. It's why guys hunt vacuous, shallow sluts.

F---ing hideous, no real control of language, random coarseness. I really don't think it works.

His mouth was slightly open, wet lips parted like an animal panting.

Duality of man, yawn.

Both walls unmoving, unemotional, and cold against her skin.

Cut it, the passage flowed very well until this.

His hands clutched her hips in a way that forced her thighs above his waist. An internal monologue stammered in panicked tones. She was afraid to stop what she had initiated but it was no longer a matter of opinion on her part, of wilful denial.

Cut or re-write, cumbersome, badly developed, I feel.

It was almost taunting.

Cut, breaks up flow

'Until it was trusted. Now it had unmasked, and addressed her with cold eyes.'

Rewrite, possibly 'Until it was trusted, until it had unmasked and addressed her with cold eyes.' Repeating issues force in poetics, you could use one or two repeated words and symbolise a forceful penetration. I.e:

A bathrobe-covered form, in stasis, on dirty cream carpet; greying. She was panicked, weak and trapped in her chest. Being now dragged by those silvery-brunette strands; she reaches with her hands. Dragging as she was, the robe opens. A soft cockle of clothes, ruffled and half-removed by him, revealed her.
The night bayed outside; six plangent dogs barking. The scene seemed, or, the scene as it seemed fit, seemed to fit, verily, for it was not uncommon.
Next it was morning.

It held her pinned against a wall.

Cut and,

Without all the pretence she saw everything.

Change to something like:

Without this, this masquerade, she saw everything.

Perhaps use less pronouns during the act of rape itself; its hardly remembered in narrative more a haunting of texture and feeling. I think you could develop it better too.

Rape is cliche unless developed well, to be honest; it has to be one of the oldest topics of discussion around! Try instead to develop and inter-thread most, if not all, of your themes in it. This should be the climax of the story if it is going to be such a long episode.

Also, I'm not wholly convinced of your female character's believability.

But, you definitely show some glimpses of real development in the story, imo. Please continue!

Typh

Truth be told I feared similar things to what you've noted. I wanted to stave off jaded ideas of how writers go about developing a scene of sexual assault but most likely comfounded any original idea I had. I wanted the vulgar language to be external to the actual event, but looking over it for a third and fourth time it is exhausting to look into each introspective analysis of each and every movement of the two bodies, but I'm torn on that one.
What I fully agree with is the fact that words are stumbling over eachother in very tight passages so I'll look into that.

Admittedly I wrote it having omited much of the blue language so it's a bit of a confusion in and of itself. I'll think twice before attempting a metaphor from now actually, over concern of either being too extended or too offensively obvious. I'm not sure it gained, or maintained, a flow at all as it is. Maybe that's just how I'm used to writing, and it all becomes a bit disjointed when trying to set a scene. I'm obviously lacking conventional style when it comes to form, so it must have been a chore to read.

Thank you for the honesty dude, appreciate it.

Typh

Just something that I'm thankful for. Writing in this forum, even a short piece stripped of obscenity and laced with pronouns, has made me see that I'm not writing as myself. It feels inauthentic, and incredibly laboured, so I guess I just found out how difficult it is to write in a voice that's not yours. Anyone ever encounter that block where it becomes patently obvious that you were trying to write about something you're not, or about something you're blithely indifferent to? The words and ideas you're writing down just seem too contrived?

May as well put the question out there to people who like to write.