#MeToo

Fictional Social Satire

Photo by Thiago Rebouças on Unsplash

*Nota bene: I oftentimes write autobiographically to varying degrees in my fiction. With this piece it is 100% fiction, purely made up out of my imagination. I was anxious to publish it which is usually a sign that I should publish it. I am not anti-women, a misogynist or against #MeToo or it’s general goals. I do criticize contemporary 4^th-wave feminism often. But this piece does not have a political or cultural “agenda.” I am not claiming at these incidents usually happen this way. I am not claiming anything at all in general. It is fiction. Satire. I have been writing more lately what I’ve begun calling “Woke Satire.” You can read one I did on race HERE.

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~

Kevin Lightly was nervous about his essay. It had been accepted by a major literary magazine—The Paris Review—and he was still processing the shock of that simple fact itself.

All his life he’d been one of those “small magazine” writers who got his work published in tiny little no-name lit mags and journals that no one really read. And yet The Paris Review had accepted his essay called, “Sordid Sex.”

The provocative title promised a lot, and he knew part of the appeal of the piece was the fact that it was titillating, aka juicy, deeply personal, aka would provide readers with the opportunity—which they loved, whether they admitted it to themselves or not—of driving by a metaphorical car crash of sorts, peeking behind the social façade and rubbernecking. Readers loved deeply personal essays, especially when it was this particularly thorny, controversial topic.

Kevin stood on his tiny, narrow balcony. He smoked a Paul Mall 100, the long, thin white cigarette discharging the gray, translucent smoke which billowed up above, curling out into the blue clear sky. It was noon, cold but sunny in mid-October in Manhattan. He lazily watched the people and the passing cars below him, five floors down, on East 68^th Street. He cleared his throat, thinking again about his problematic essay.

The essay was 3,500 words long. It was about a woman he’d dated when he was 23. Nearly a decade ago. He was 32 years old now. At that time—2017—he’d gone on a Tinder date with this woman named Irina. Irina had been 21. Originally from San Diego, she was pale white, couldn’t have been more than 105 pounds, and wore a short, tight skirt with a silk yellow billowy blouse on their date.

The date was at a restaurant in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, near where she lived. They ate expensive hipster burgers for $20 with salads and fries and then went to a nearby trendy bar. Irina did something in tech, he couldn’t remember what, and she had just graduated six months prior from NYU with a degree in Business Administration. Her family were all back in Southern California. He’d only been to California himself once, and it had been to San Francisco in 2014. He was a New Yorker through and through, though he’d been born and raised in Boston.

At the bar they sat on stools next to one another and he ordered them shots of whiskey and pints of cold, refreshing PBR. They smiled at each other and clinked their glasses together and Kevin tried as hard as he could not to stare at her short, revealing skirt or her thin, pale legs which were secretly driving him crazy. He’d been single for two years now, ever since his ex, Katie, and sex had been sporadic and infrequent at best.

After their second shots and starting their second pint, feeling warm and loose now, Kevin felt his loins stirring and he took a risk and gingerly placed his right palm on her left exposed pale thigh. He felt her muscle slightly spasm, and he looked at her, into her fierce green eyes, and said, “Is this OK?”

She smiled, her cheeks briefly glowing red, and she said, “Yes. I like it.”

They went back to their conversation, which was about Trump now. She was saying that she thought he was a fascist dictator.

Sensing his palm on her thigh suddenly wanting to yank back because of her political ignorance, he nevertheless kept his hand where it was and then said, “Trump is not a fascist nor a dictator. He is, however, a jackass.”

She squinted at him, narrowing her eyes. “He hates women.”

Taking a swig of his pint, knowing he needed to be careful here, Kevin said, setting the pint back on the sticky bar, “His campaign was literally run by a woman.”

“He hates gay people.”

He glanced over at her and said, “There’s no evidence for that. Show me the proof.”

She looked worried, concerned; her facial features were slowly beginning to morph into what might soon be interpreted as some form of anger. He knew the rope was sliding through his fingers. If he wasn’t careful he’d blow it.

“Are you a secret Trump supporter?” she nearly hissed.

He swallowed and sighed and paused, then he lifted his pint and slowly drained the last half. Wiping his lips and chin, he said, “What would you do if I were?”

Her eyes widened. “I’d step off this stool and leave this fucking instant.”

“Calm down,” he said, palms facing her in defense. “I didn’t vote for Trump. I hate that asshole. He’s a cultural clown. Truth is I didn’t vote for anyone. I was a Bernie guy.”

Rolling her pretty green eyes she said, “A Bernie Bro, great.”

“Better than a MAGA Trumper, right?”

She grinned mischievously and said, “You got me there.”

~

Half an hour later they were seated side by side at a table. They were making out deliciously, their heads turning back and forth, their warm moist tongues dancing. He reached his hand down again and placed it on her thigh, and then, gazing around them and confirming no one was watching, he began kissing her neck.

After a moment she said, “Let’s go to my place. It’s a five-block walk.”

~

Then they were entering her apartment building and passing the door man and were making out alone going up the elevator to the 12^th floor. They were kissing and fondling each other as she unlocked the door of her apartment. They awkwardly waddled in, crashing into her bedroom, throwing off clothes as they went. He’d briefly seen the glittering city lights of Manhattan across the East River out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

Inside her room they quickly got naked. They were both very excited and very ready. He slid inside of her, hard as brick. She moaned. He thrust at a relaxed but firm pace.

“Get rough,” she half-whispered, already out of breath.

He did what he always did, getting his palm around her pale, thin throat and squeezing. She seemed to like it at first, but then her cheeks began growing red and she looked scared so he removed his hand.

“Are you OK?” he said, breathing heavily on top of her.

“Hit me,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded and he slapped her mildly across the face a few times. He saw the red mark on her pale right cheek and then she was crying.

“Are you OK?” he said again, and when she didn’t respond he slowed down, pulled out, and sat back.

“Why did you stop?” she demanded.

“I’m worried that you’re not OK.”

She grimaced and then laughed and said, “I’ve never met a guy like you. You’re too sensitive. Don’t be such a sensitive pussy.”

He chuckled though he felt uneasy and he crawled back on top of her and slid it in and she said to get rough again and he choked her and then slapped her some more and then she came and, five minutes later, he came.

She rested her head on his chest after that and they lay there in strained, solipsistic silence, both of them breathing hard, her head lightly moving up and down with his rising and falling torso.

~

And then all these years later he’d decided—who knew exactly why—to write an essay about the experience and submit it, and, of all fucking places, The Paris Review had wanted it. And now it was coming out tomorrow. He’d changed all the names and some of the crucial details in the essay, but there was no question if she read it she’d know it was her. But: He doubted she read The Paris Review. She was a techie. He hadn’t seen one single book in her apartment.

He hadn’t worried about the content of his essay because it had all been consensual and they were adults and because she had been the one who asked him to put his hands on her. This was not uncommon: Many women he’d been with over the years had wanted to be choked, slapped, spat at, one woman even wanted him to punch her in the face (he had refused).

Feminists said this was “internalized misogyny” and was an obvious result of a sexist, patriarchal world. He didn’t know if he agreed with that or not. For him it was simple: He liked women and he liked sex and so he did what they asked him to do…for the most part. But with Irina he’d left that morning feeling a little ashamed and uncomfortable. Perhaps he should have refused her kink requests? Maybe; he really didn’t know. It wasn’t like these things ever got discussed beforehand. You met, you drank, you went to someone’s apartment.

~

The essay came out in The Paris Review the next morning. He couldn’t be more proud…and yet tiny alarm bells were also tolling somewhere deep down inside him. He tried to ignore the feeling. He walked to the Shakespeare & Co bookstore not far from him on 68^th and Lexington by Hunter College. There it was, prominently displayed in the window. He felt a pang of fear poke at him but tried to suppress it. He walked into the store, grabbed a copy, found his essay in the table of contents, flipped to it, and started reading. His first thought was, I am a damn fine writer. His second thought, though, was, This is not going to go well for me.

Just a base gut intuition.

~

Three days later, while Kevin was on one of his long solo walks around Central Park—he was circling the Sailboat Pond near 5^th Avenue and the mid-70s—his iPhone buzzed in his jeans pocket. He slid the phone out and saw that it was Edwin Richards, the editor who’d acquired the essay at The Paris Review. Were it not for Edwin the essay would not have been accepted and it wouldn’t have been nearly as strong. Together they’d trimmed the essay down from a meaty 5,000 words to a slim 3,500. They’d also taken out certain crucial details and had added in some more relevant ones.

“Hi Edwin, what’s up?” Kevin said, increasing his pace around the pond. A few dozen people were walking or lounging around. He heard traffic rushing nearby along 5^th Avenue. Birds squawked in the crisp fall cold. Massive trees rose up around the pond and sidewalk like organic cathedrals, their branches hovering ominously over the manmade small pond where people sometimes raced tiny remote-control sailboats.

“Bad news,” Edwin said. He sounded slightly out of breath. Kevin’s whole body tightened; his stomach clenched hard like a closed, belligerent fist.

“What is it?”

“Well,” Edwin started. He paused for a long while. “What are you doing right now? I mean are you home?”

“No, I’m in the park, walking around the Sailboat Pond.”

“You might want to sit on a bench.”

Everything within Kevin in that moment contracted. He suddenly felt lightheaded.

He found an empty bench, faded, paint-peeling green, and sat down.

“Go ahead,” Kevin said. “I’m sitting.”

With a sigh, Edwin said, “As you know your essay came out three days ago. I’m sure you bought a copy?”

“Of course.”

There was a long, epic silence again and then Edwin cleared his throat and said, “Look, I love the piece. I mean…it’s a great essay. It’s all very unfortunate.”

Getting impatient, trying to maintain his composure, Kevin said, “No offence, Edwin, but can you cut to the chase here, please?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Here it goes.”

For a moment Kevin glanced up into the clear blue sky and saw a jet flying across, its trail of white like an aerial tail. He wished he were in that jet, way up in the atmosphere.

“Well,” Edwin began. “Turns out the girl you wrote about, Irina, now 30, isn’t much of a reader. She works remotely for Sales Force doing coding and data analysis, sometimes marketing and ads. She does, however, evidently have an older female friend named Patricia Holland who is nearly 40, a longtime New York native, and who teaches Creative Writing at CCNY. Patricia happened to pick up a copy of The Paris Review the day after your piece came out…

“Based on the candid descriptions of both Irina and her apartment and her age at the time and her job…she called her friend and they met and discussed it. Irina read the essay. She then called my boss and said that the piece was clearly based on her and she denied that it had happened the way you claimed. She said she never asked you to hit or choke her and that, actually, what truly happened was that you were pushy and aggressive the whole night, more or less pressured her into letting you into her apartment…” Here Edwin paused again and sighed loudly. Kevin pictured the editor feeling his forehead with his snakelike fingers. “Well, Kevin, here’s the thing, man: She says you beat her up, pushed her onto the bed with force, and raped her.”

“WHAT????!!!” Kevin yelled, not intending to, while standing upright as if facing the judge and jury and pleading innocence. “That is pure fabrication, Edwin, complete and total bullshit. Oh my God. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“She was very upset, I will say. After my boss spoke with her I personally talked with her as well. She threatened legal action. She said she wants to write a rebuttal to the piece which we will publish in the next review.”

“And you’re going to???”

With an edge of defensiveness Edwin said, “We have to, Kevin. We’re in an extremely delicate position here. You know as well as I do that #MeToo is sort of ‘over’ in theory…but remnants still remain and men—especially white straight men—are often still very much on the hooks. We’re a major literary institution; we’ve been around since the 1950s. We can’t afford, financially or culturally, to take this risk.”

Kevin sat down on the bench again. “So let me get this straight. You’re gonna publish a rebuttal to my essay, by Irina, in the next Paris Review.”

“That’s correct. Well. By Irina…and Patricia. Her friend, who has previous publishing credits, is going to write it working alongside Irina for the…facts.”

“This is so unfair, Edwin. The way I wrote it is exactly the way it happened. Exactly.”

Edwin said, “I believe you, for what it’s worth. It’s a tricky, complex situation. I feel for you. But my hands are tied. I can’t do anything. I don’t have any decision-making power with this case.”

“What am I gonna do?”

Kevin pictured Edwin shrugging. “Nothing. There isn’t anything you can do, pal. I’m sorry. I am truly, genuinely sorry.”

~

A month later the next Paris Review came out. He bought a copy and read the rebuttal piece. It was everything Edwin had said it would be. It shocked him and shook him to his very core. All of it was a lie. It felt like she’d knifed him in the back. He wanted to know why.

Kevin had emailed, texted and called Irina starting that day immediately after getting off the phone with Edwin. (The editor had been kind enough to send him her current contact info, including her address.) She did not answer. A week after the news, against his common sense and better judgment, knowing it would only make him look worse, he went to her apartment. She now lived in Fort Greene.

Another tenant happened to be walking out the double doors of the apartment complex and he held the door open for Kevin. He took the elevator and found 5D. It was 1pm on a Saturday. His nerves were frayed and his heart thudded loudly against his chest.

He knocked and he heard rustling in the apartment and then a voice mumbling something and the door was unlocked—the bolt pulled back from the slide—and she stood there, eyes wide, gawking at him.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Why did you do it?”

She repeated, “What the fuck are you DOING here??”

Lowering his voice to a thrumming, agitated whisper he said, “I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth. Why did you do it?”

“I could call the cops on you, asshole. This is stalking. It’s illegal.”

He frowned. “I just wanted a chance to hear your side.”

“Calling, texting and emailing like a crazy person is called stalking.”

He stood back, looking both ways down the long hallway. They were alone. Sighing, he said, with genuine emotion in his voice, “Look. This is devastating to me. Can you just give me five minutes? Can you just explain why you did it?”

Irina ogled him hard with her fierce green eyes.

She opened her door widely and said, “Five minutes. But when you leave I don’t ever want to hear from you again. Alright?”

He nodded.

She let him in and closed the door, sliding the deadbolt home.

He sat on the couch, his ass on the edge of the cushion, and she sat on a chair across from him.

“Why did you do it?” he said, gazing at her with his blue eyes, surprising himself by feeling tears brewing. She averted her gaze for a moment and then faced him again and said, “Because you people have had too much power for too damn long.”

“What ‘people’? What do you mean?”

She grimaced. “You know what I’m saying. White men. White straight men. It’s time someone taught you all a lesson.”

“But I didn’t do any of the stuff you claimed I did.”

She stared at him. “You hit me. You slapped me. You choked me.”

He squinted at her. “Irina. C’mon. You and I both know you told me to do those things. If anyone was in control that night it was you, not me.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s our time now. Women need more power. You’re just like every other white straight man: You think women owe you their bodies. We don’t.”

“So it’s collective punishment? I’m just a political abstraction, a symbol of evil white historical male domination and power?”

She grinned sardonically at him. “Now you’re getting it.”

“That is truly dishonest and cruel,” he said.

“The history of women’s suffering at the hands of men has been ‘dishonest and cruel.’ What’s your point?”

There was a silence for a good ten seconds or so and they stared at each other and didn’t speak.

Then Irina said, “That’s five minutes.”

He stood up and walked to the door. She slid the bolt back and he stepped out into the hallway. He turned around. He was silently crying.

“Have a nice life,” Irina said to him.

Then she shut the door and bolted it.

~

Within a week everyone in the NYC literary world knew about the scandal. He’d been called a “typical Straight White Male” and a “disgusting, reprehensible monster” and there had been a “clear and obvious power imbalance between the two” and “Kevin Lightly is lucky Irina doesn’t take legal action.”

He started getting phone calls, emails, from local news outlets, literary mags and journals, etc. Edwin did not call. No one at The Paris Review defended him. He was totally on his own. He was finished as a writer, that was clear. One day he broke his lease and left New York. He moved back to Boston, something he never thought he’d do. He never dated because he no longer trusted women. Whenever he thought of what happened he got embarrassingly emotional. It was hard not to feel like a victim.

But he started freelance writing under a pseudonym and hung out with old friends in Boston and, slowly, he started to put a life of sorts back together.

One day, walking towards the Boston Public Library, he got a call from an NYC number he didn’t recognize. He picked it up. It was Edwin. They exchanged polite chitchat for a minute. He asked Kevin where he’d gone and what he was doing now.

And then Edwin knocked him sideways saying, “She recanted it. All of it.”

“What?”

He laughed. “Yeah. She wrote a second essay and she was totally honest and said you were great that night and you only did what she wanted you to do. She admitted she made up the whole thing. The #MeToo people and the #BelieveAllWomen people are incensed, livid, flying with public outrage.”

Kevin was stunned. He had stopped walking. People surged around him. He felt an array of emotions but he didn’t know what to think.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Jesus, I’m glad.”

“Do you want to write another essay for The Paris Review detailing this part of the experience? Fleeing New York, being banished from the literary world in NYC, the emotional toll, all of that?”

“I don’t know what I want to do, Edwin. I mean, I left New York. Broke my lease. Gave up my apartment in Lenox fucking Hill. I don’t think I can go back like this, with my tail between my legs. I’d feel pathetic.”

“I understand, of course,” Edwin said sympathetically. “Hey, Boston’s a great city. Love that town. Maybe I’ll drive up one day and we’ll get lunch. Maybe this whole thing could turn into a book…think you have a memoir in you?”

Kevin said, barely audible, “Thanks for the call, Edwin. I appreciate that. I’m gonna go now. I need to process this. I’ll be in touch.”

“You take it easy, now, you hear me, pal?”

“I will.”

Kevin hung up.

For a whole minute or so Kevin just stood there, like a statue. At last he started moving, but he passed the library. He couldn’t think. He needed to walk and think. He didn’t know what he would do next, write an article or a book or neither. He didn’t know how he felt or what he wanted. In that moment he didn’t even understand who he was in the world.

He kept walking that way, a zombie staggering down the streets, passing people in a daze, the sun beaming down, the cold assaulting him, and he thought to himself, This is the end of the world.

But then he quickly understood that he’d of course write the memoir.

And he would be brutally, searingly honest.