Visiting Heinrich: Argument, Snarking, Theatrics & Questionable Manhandling

   This is the continuation of my visit to see Heinrich.  I’d just shown up at his house with a potted plant and then hid in the bathroom to avoid awkwardness. 

   I was talking–probably more like jabbering, as I was nervous and self-conscious and he was standing there with an intense, morose look on his face–when he suddenly leaned in, grabbed my upper arms, and kissed me.

      Now, I don’t know the scientific name for this particular dude makeout-tactic, but I’m sure that every woman reading this will know exactly what I’m talking about.  In my mind, I think of it as The Swoop Kiss: you are engaged in dialogue, or watching something nearby, and a guy rushes in and plants one on you.  I think men think it’s dashing or something.  You see it a lot in movies. 

         It irritated me.  It made me a little angry because he was forcing a reaction, and, well, what am I supposed to do with this…?  If I kiss him back, it’s going to be interpreted as approval or encouragement of the behavior.  If I stop him, it’s taken as a rejection.  Why should I be put on the spot like this, and worry about hurting his feelings when he’s the one antagonizing the situation?

        And here’s something else: I hate it when men interrupt me or talk over me.  It’s a pet peeve of mine…a sore spot, actually.  It got to the point where I started calling men on it in seminar.  

       I pulled my head back.  My arms were held stiffly at my sides.

      “Heinrich, come on,” I said. 

      He stopped and looked down at me.  I didn’t have my shoes on, so he was taller than I was.  He was still holding my upper arms.

      “What…?   What, hmm?”  he asked, but apparently it was a rhetorical question, because he didn’t wait for me to answer.  Instead, he kissed me again.

       I did something I’ve never done before: I bit his mouth.  I did it without thinking, and I did it fast.  I gave him quite a nip. I was surprised at myself.

        He stepped back and raised one of his hands to his mouth.  His forehead was all bunched up, surprised.  “Margo!  What was that?”

        “You know better than that.  What’s the matter with you?”

      “Ah! So you do not like for me to kiss you.  Yes?  You do not like me, when I am gentle to you.  You only like it when I hurt you.  That is what I am useful for, yes?”

         Oh, well, call the poor man a WHAAAMBULANCE!  I thought.

         “Of course!  Of course!  What else are you good for, Heinrich?”  I yelled at him.  

          …and, in doing so, I made an error.  His grasp of English is very good, and while he understands the spoken word quite well, he doesn’t always “get” sarcasm.  He doesn’t recognize it.

          So, I guess he took me seriously.  

          There was a little snarky back-and-forth.  I pointed out that his lip was red and slightly swollen where I bit him.  I said that it looked really butch and he ought to tell all the people at work that he got in a fight with a geriatric Jewish French professor.  He shot back that that if I’d traveled all this way to enjoy his sexual expertise I’d done myself a disservice by not telling him that and giving him the time to think up something really special.  

            Oh, I know, I know all about it, I am a professional, after all, I said in a jeering tone of voice, yeah, not my proudest moment, I cringe remembering it now, so unbecoming of me: I don’t know how many times I had to explain to clients who rolled in off the street that there was no way I could execute some 3-ring circus of a session if I only had five minutes to plan it out and get ready! 

             I was actually hurt, but I didn’t want to show it, and I was angry, too, and upset and surprised that things had gotten ugly.  I’d never seen Heinrich in a temper before is when he had the Friend-Zone Meltdown on Skype, so this was a new experience.  I know that friends have fights sometimes, but I’d never had one with him before.  

         I should have called time out, and sat down in another room.  I should have said, we are getting off to a bad start here, let’s start over.  But I didn’t, and he didn’t either.  I wonder why?

       “Well, Margo, if that is what you want of me, I will do my best,” he said.  He was smiling, but it was a bitter smile, like the smile you have when you tell your neighbor that OF COURSE you don’t mind if their son practices the drums in the garage every Sunday morning. 

           “I have no doubt of it!  When did you have in mind?  I have to say, when I got here, you didn’t seem too keen on dinner,” I said.

         And with that, he grabbed me, turned me around, and threw me over his desk.

         Now, I have had sex, and been beaten, on a few desks in my day.  Very handy pieces of furniture, desks.  I’m a fan.

          However, I had never been treated to the full, operatic surface-clearing gesture that always accompanies these scenes in cinema.  You know, where the papers flutter and the books fall off the edge and the guy shoves the phone off the desk to make room.

          Heinrich swiped over a pile of catalogs and a jar full of pens, which went flying, and knocked over the desk lamp.  I tried to catch it, but by the time I saw it start to fall, it was too late: it went right over the edge.  I heard something break (that shit looked expensive, too.  Isn’t it amazing how expensive lamps are?), and then the light binked a few times and went out.

         “Oh shit!” I said.

           And then I laughed. 

          You never, ever want to laugh at a man in a tense sexual situation.  Men don’t take it well, as the ghosts of many murdered girlfriends and sex workers could easily tell you.  I was laughing at  the murdered lamp, but he didn’t know that.  He thought that I could have been laughing at anything

            He grabbed my hair in his fist and got between my knees and gave my head a little shake.  “Is this better for you?  You like this, yes?”

        His face was up close to mine.  I was a bit taller than him, because I was sitting (mostly) on the desk.  

        “Do not bite me again,” he said, and pulled my hair back.  He had an impressive handful.  It hurt.  I didn’t care at all. 

        “Go ahead and try it.  Try it and see!”

         It was pretty interesting, watching Heinrich do the calculus in his head for that decision.  I’m not sure what I would have done it his position.  Quite a risk, there, either way.  He almost went for it.  His face came in, and I’m sure it wasn’t a feint…but then he thought better of it, and pulled back.

        “Think I’d bite your mouth off?”
         He swore under his breath, reached across his body with his left hand, grabbed my arm, and and flipped me over.  I fell off the desk a little and got my feet on the floor.  I’d have bruises on the backs and front of my thighs the next day, from where the edge of the desk dug into my flesh.  He didn’t let go of my hair.

         “What should I do with that mouth?  Should I put a cage on it, like an angry dog?”

           “There’s nothing to bite facing this direction,” I told him.  

           The situation was fucked up and ridiculous, and the interesting thing was that I was not afraid, even though everything had the potential to be dangerous for me…dangerous for both of us, really.  We were pushing each other instead of communicating, I had no idea what he was thinking, whatever the hell was happening could not even be called a spontaneous BDSM scene.  It was the sort of situation where people could do and say things they don’t mean and really regret later.  

           …and I wasn’t scared.  I’d felt considerably more anxious when I was hiding in his bathroom. 

           CONCLUSION TOMORROW.  I want to be sure he’s comfortable with it.

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