Eliza Clark

I can just cry a bit, talk like I’m daft, tease my hair up like a televangelist: the higher the hair, the closer to God, you know?

I burst into tears. It’s easy for me to cry when I’m tired, when I’m poorly, when my eyes are already streaming.

Flo once said she thought boys’ bums look like they’ve been shrunk in the wash, and I haven’t been able to un-see that since.

I try to stick with men I imagine I could physically overpower if push came to shove.

‘Go on, shoo,’ I say to the Star Wars boys. They scuttle back to the club, their obedience to being shooed like dogs, proving both their weakness and my alpha beta hypothesis. Beta male in any form fucks off when I tell him to.

The night is young, and I have so much cocaine in my bra.

No women is such a red flag for a shit party

I could do that, if I wanted, you know? I could train a camera on a man and look at him like a man looks at a woman; boys, too, could be objects of desire.

And then I’m in the taxi. Thinking, thinking: did I enjoy that? Did I even properly consent to that? Do I care? I haven’t been raped before. Well, I’ve never been raped raped: no bag over my head, no knife to my throat while I screamed and fought. Nothing traumatic. Even Will the other week, that was nothing. But it’s all the little shit. He wouldn’t switch; I passed out; I don’t remember it; he’s way older than me.

Do you like it rough? I think so. I think I must. Men are rough, aren’t they? Have I always had a taste for rough stuff, or did I acquire that?