I Fought the Law
"I fought the law and the law won"
What an iconic phrase. A classic tale all in one sentence. Not to mention a great hook to an even greater song. I fought the Law is most known from its cover performed by the Bobby Fuller Four. If its name doesn't ring a bell, listening to the song surely will. It's one of those tunes from the sixties your sure you've never heard of until you play it and realize you've listened to it at least a dozen times on a radio station you never had the choice of tuning to. Even the most introverted zoomer has heard this song at some supermarket. Nobody can forget this jam no matter how buried in their memory it is. As much as music snobs such as myself can resent pop music for its often vapid simplicity, simple songs that transcend their time have a special charm to them. I Fought the Law is one of those songs. Its most famous line elicits many layers, from a statement of defeat to a humorous one liner of a story that explains itself all too well. Typical lyrics about breaking rocks, "robbin with a six gun", and missing their girl tie in with the central mantra of the song. They further express a feeling loss in the context of imprisonment. It's a catchy song about man down on his luck, a tune most would dance to despite its subject matter. I Fought the Law may also be a partial foreshadowing of Bobby Fullers life, or rather his mysterious death which many theorize was a hit by the mob. Regardless of the song's interpretations, it's a timeless tune that everybody has heard somewhere.
My Pride
Pride is a relatively new friend of mine, I must admit, one I am still getting to know.
Over the years, I've met and become familiar with many emotions.
Sadness and numbness have been here a very, very long time.
Euphoria comes and goes like a popular roommate who spends most of their time out with others rather than sticking around to hang with me.
Perhaps they aren't a fan of my other friends.
Anyway... Pride is new, yet old to me and I'll explain why.
Pride was someone I had seen in the past, many times.
I do remember my desperation when I was younger to see him in my parents' eyes.
All I ever wanted was even the slightest glimpse of her.
It felt like love, to me, I think was the problem.
Because confusing Pride with Love had me running to find it wherever I could.
Places I'm not proud of but places I thought I needed.
In the process, I still am not quite sure what Love looks like, now, not quite yet.
Emotions in general are quite a blur.
Eventually, I learnt that desperate struggle to find Pride hiding behind my parents' eyes or the eyes of men was... Utterly useless.
It wasn't enough, not anymore.
Not when I didn't know them in truth, not when I had never felt pride by and in myself.
I learnt to separate Pride and Love, one from the other.
And I found that she was a part of me, just buried quite deep and hard to bring out of her shell, like most of my other emotions.
I've learnt that they like to come out when I'm writing something new, not when I've gotten a good grade my parents enjoy.
That is their pride and certainly not mine, not anymore.
Seeing him from anyone else's eyes just doesn't feel as real.
It reminds me of a time when I was searching for her, not knowing she was within all along.
One of my favourite memories together was when he popped up for quite a bit as I decided that I was going to love my body instead of fighting it for not being "perfect enough", all those years ago.
It brings a smile to my face every time I remember how long they stayed with me, held my hand, told me with full certainty that everything would be okay.
Pride might not be Love, not by a long shot but she is eager to help me find it and I'm grateful to them for that.
He and I don't see each other often.
But each time we do, I welcome them in like an old friend.
I'm glad to know them at all and I can't wait for its next visit.
white lies
// explicit //
i faked my first, and second, and all my orgasms with my high school boyfriend.
i remember making the conscious decision, on a winter night in my mother's empty apartment, that i was going to fake it. i had never orgasmed in my life, but i'd read enough e fantasy books and watched half-performative twitter clips that i thought i could.
the irony is a few weeks later, as i discussed it with my best friend in a deserted mall cafeteria, is i found out i may have actually finished. i didn't know what an orgasm felt like. she, in all her wisdom, explained it didn't feel like all it was chalked up to be. i knew that, obviously, but i didn't know what to expect.
anyways. the day after i faked an orgasm with my boyfriend, i faked another. he was proud. thought he took care of me.
i wanted to cry. i had never lied to him before. i fell asleep on his chest, and he held me, even though i hadn't taken care of him.
when i went home, i didn't know how to feel. the internet said i should tell him. that i should self-experiment to see what i like. but i had just gotten on anti-depressants and had barely any sex drive. question forums and blog posts were no help. if you tell him, it'll break your trust. if you don't, you're living with a lie. it's ok, some people said, just don't do it again. i fell down holes of the glamorization of porn and how it gave people unrealistic expectations. how there's an orgasm gap. how men are typically entitled in the bedroom. how it's so fucking common for women to fake their orgasms, because there's such a heavy societal strain on "finishing".
i cried on my mother's bed that day. she wanted to know what was wrong. i didn't tell her.
i told my boyfriend i might've had pcd. or something like that. because it didn't feel like a regular depression episode. the headspace was different. i didn't know if it was the guilt of faking it. i wasn't raised catholic. i didn't care marriage was seen as a precursor to sex. i didn't care we didn't have sex and only did stuff a hop skip jump away from it.
was i crying to mourn my childhood? maybe. i don't think so. growing up isn't tied to innocence. when you're a girl, the world sexualizes you before you even know what that means.
i internally decided i wouldn't tell my boyfriend i faked. i would just never do it again.
until valentine's day rolled around. it was supposed to be special, right? until he admitted he felt insecure in bed when i didn't come. until my anti-depressant dose made it near impossible to feel anything, including sexual attraction. until he wouldn't stop unless i "reached the goal", within safeword proximity.
so yeah. i never lied to him about anything else. not about his ugly graphic tees, or his lacklustre texting style, or how he was obsessed with his girl best friend. but in bed, every time.
