The Man

God, he was so nervous. He'd tickle his girlfriend just to graze her chest. It had to seem accidental. Maybe that's harsh -- he was fourteen. She was fifteen. He wanted to do things, but he couldn't handle the vulnerability required to try. Leaning in for a kiss took months. The air between two people felt enormous. Every inch closer risked shoving her fifty metres away. Even kissing his confirmed girlfriend felt like walking a tightrope over humiliation.

She wasn't the one. But the next? No. Not her either. He did lose his virginity, though. She was younger. That made him feel like a man. He was the experienced one. He led -- up to a point. But once she grew into her own body, her confidence shrank his. He hated her for that. Like when you bully someone for weeks, then they finally take you up on one of your empty threats -- and suddenly you freeze, cry, and your ego's never looked smaller. She wasn't the one. After the breakup, it was like his virginity began to grow back.

Five years with no sex, technically. One-night stands, yes. But only drunk. Drunk enough that a soft performance was explainable. Mornings were hangovers, feigned migraines, excuses to get her out. There was always the promise of a second time, and sometimes they seemed genuinely keen -- but he never messaged them. If they saw him clearly, he blocked them. Better that way.

Then came Rebecca. The one who liked it rough. Whether she sensed something in him or was just naturally submissive, he didn't know. Didn't care. She was perfect. She said things like "Don't choke me," and he learned to hear the invitation. He loved it. He was always in control. He was the man. Something clicked. Something started growing again. She suggested toys. Whips. Cuffs. He didn't mind the ideas -- he didn't need them. He had her, and she wanted him to take control. Even with the curtains drawn and silence in the room, he was the man. He slapped her once. That was one of the transitions. Eventually, it became palm strikes. They both thought a palm wouldn't leave marks. It felt like they were still playing.

Then one morning, she ran from the bathroom laughing -- "Aw, for fuck's sake!" Her cheek was bruised, slightly swollen. Seeing it triggered something. His body reacted. He tried to ignore it, but he didn't forget. There were no more palm strikes after that. He started tearing up her back with his fingernails. Red lines. Then blood. She screamed -- "No!", "Stop!" -- but by now, it didn't register. Not clearly. He told himself she was performing. That's what they did, wasn't it? She wanted him to take control. He was taking it. The serious talks afterward -- eye contact, crying, apologies -- didn't matter. They felt like footnotes.

She didn't have friends. Not really. Too pretty. Girls didn't trust her. She said men were "just mates," but he made her stop talking to them anyway. Some she'd slept with. That was enough. She didn't push back much. That helped. They got together just before lockdown. By the time the bruises started, her job had gone fully remote. "Sorry, there's something wrong with my webcam," she'd say. Her bosses didn't care, as long as they could hear her. He became obsessed with getting to her during meetings. She'd scramble for the mute button with one hand, try to push him away with the other. It drove him mad -- in a good way.

She couldn't leave the house anymore. He didn't entertain the serious talks. The violence had leaked beyond intimacy by now. She feared him, properly. He liked that, too.

When his mum came to visit, he toned it down. Slow, controlled missionary. Still forced, but cleaner. She didn't fake enjoyment anymore. She'd stopped making sounds. He hated that -- the silence. The fear had hardened into something else. Not submission. Just... spite. That got to him. Not her resistance -- her indifference.

But he had to wait. The marks needed to fade. Mum was due any day. He started watching her eyes during sex, hoping something would snap. Hoping for tears, or a flinch. Anything real. But she just stared through him. Her eyes were broken.

The day before Mum arrived, something cracked. He paced the flat, clung to her in a needy cuddle, tried to hold onto the version of her he could dominate. She squirmed away. A flicker of liberty -- temporary, but visible. That was enough. The beatings returned. Harder. Wilder. Sweat in his eyes. Her face swelling again. The pleasure was gone. The rage wasn't.

The morning of the visit, it broke. The bruises didn't arouse him anymore. They mocked him. They reminded him she wasn't scared -- just finished. He couldn't stand that. Several blows to the head knocked her out. When she came to, she couldn't speak. Something was wrong. Her brain had joined her eyes. He panicked. Hit her again. He told himself it was instinct. He told himself she provoked it. He told himself nothing at all.

She was his ex now.

The doorbell rang.