“I don’t want to talk about him right now.”
“I understand. Let’s go back a bit, shall we?”
Nodding, I clear my throat. “Okay.”
“Back on the topic of sex, sexual empowerment, is that what you called it?” He references a conversation we had the other day.
“Yes.”
“You said something about having all the money in the world, but you choose to use your platform for sexual empowerment.”
“My social media following.” Yesterday and the day before, I went on little rants mostly. Apparently Damon wants to hear more of my “I am woman, hear me roar” movement.
“That’s right.”
“How far back did you go when you looked through my social media posts?” I question him nearly comically, although it doesn’t reflect in my expression or tone.
“To the beginning, skimming,” he admits which is shocking. “I wanted to make sure I understood what you meant about using your platform for empowering women and sex positivity.”
“Being called a whore and slut for years will do it, I guess.” Those types of comments started the moment I wore my first bikini … I think I was fourteen. I know my dad was still alive, so I was young, just posing with friends at the beach.
“I did notice when you got engaged so did the amount of overt expression in your posts.”
“I like posting things that make women more comfortable with their bodies and sexuality. I always have but I had to be careful. I didn’t want to sound bitchy or judgy … I just wanted women to know it was okay to want sex. To have sex. To wear what they want and to say no if they didn’t want to do something. That it didn’t make them “less than” to want some activities.”
“Was your mother an active role or voice in that subject?”
My snort is exceptionally unladylike. “No. No, not at all. I don’t remember much about my mother except …”
“Except what?”
“Fighting.”
A cool breeze blows by and I emphasize, “They were always yelling.”
“You were young when your mother died, but you remember them fighting?”
“There are very few memories I have of her,” I tell him and moments flash in my mind. “In nearly all of them, she was fighting with my father.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened with your mother?”
“You know what happened.” My blood chills and the sun starts to set, dimming the natural light far too quickly.
“Are their deaths, the trial, their fighting something you think about often?”
Staring blankly at him, I wish I could speak as easily as I just have when talking about my upbringing.
“Do you remember how you felt during those harder times?” Suddenly the topic of sex no longer seems important. Damon watches me like he’s gotten to something he’d like to dig up.
The screaming is what I remember most. I’d wake up from them screaming at each other. “Scared, angry … like any child would be.” With another breeze blowing, I brush my hair from out of my face and cross my arms.
“Guarded?” Damon pokes fun and I tsk him. “It’s just cold.” My heart does a little tap in my chest that’s uneven. Yes. This conversation makes me very guarded and I wonder if Damon saw posts or comments that he shouldn’t have. Kam said they were all removed.
“Did it ever get physical?”
“Yes.” I nod, my throat going tight and dry. “I can still remember the sound of him slapping her so hard she fell to the ground.”
The tapping in my chest continues, intensifying and quickening when he asks, “Do you remember how old you were?”