My Survived Attempt

“You like this,” He said, “you want this.”

The next day, I felt like a weight had been lifted off of me. This both/and continuum of surviving something dangerous and bonding with a man in dire straits. Who attempted to rape me.

I looked down, and he had exposed his penis. I consistently told him to stop pushing his strong arms on me, kept shaking my head back and forth to prevent him from kissing my lips. I did not want it.

But I hadn’t seen him in a year. He had these glowing eyes. His musicianship floored me, inspired me. His silent treatment stemming from the first assault attempt outside of a party and his subsequent new girlfriend… offended me. And now he was talking to me. Well, more than talking to me. Surprising me with his bare manhood. Euphemism aside, time did stop.

There are places to live. One such option is on the edge. When you are a woman, and when you are an artist, and when you are a performing musician, when you’ve been in various performance scenes since you were a teenager — little fazes you.

You get used to the addiction frenzies of your friends and collaborators, the bar people that do coke, the long absences of bipolar-adjacent performers, hearing that so-and-so broke up, or is pregnant, or they’re getting married, or cheated on their wife, or is starting a new band or moving to LA or hosting an album release party or can’t quite get a fanbase or they’re dealing with seasonal depression or yeah he’s a narcissist but wow he can play and you know, he’s going to get all the gigs anyway.

The dysfunction becomes white noise. So much undulation in the making of art. And the music doesn’t ever really end. Unless something is really messed up and royally screws with the vibe. But that’s a once in a decade occasion.

And you’re in this secret club. This support group for various mental afflictions that come with high creativity, musical obsessiveness. The achievement of minor and major mastery of an instrument, a voice, a style, a look, even. There’s no handshake, or initiation, there is simply a sitting next to during a break or a song that isn’t yours. Little is said. Sometimes it’s a “nice one.” Other times, it’s just a joke about a key signature. But there’s no fawning, no excess, no cold shouldering. It’s a recognition. It’s a sitting next to. And then it’s a look on stage. It’s that smile, sparkle in the eye, nod to go for another 4 bars. It’s where anything is possible. For a few minutes. Where nothing hurts anymore, where you can be anything in the world, where you are on top of it. Where you are superman.

I liken the stage to a time portal. A genderless space of being. There is only melody, collaboration, talking to each other back and forth in phrases and instruments.

But then, you are a woman. And you never really forget that. No one lets you forget that for very long. Maybe for a few songs when everyone’s in the moment. But then there’s the steps off stage and you get surrounded, or worse just looked at. You become human again. And for that space between stage and hard floor, you’re in a haze of adrenaline, of near transience, transcendence almost, where you are still in the song. And then it’s the nice ass, where are you working now, you’ve got a body don’t be afraid to use it, don’t be so serious on stage, smile more, how old are you now. Then it’s the standing too close, then it’s the I have an erection, then it’s the staring and not saying anything, nodding, you want a beer, and you smile and you laugh because sometimes the jokes are genuinely funny even if they’re at your expense and they’re laughing about your body or that you don’t have kids but we could give you them if you want them and then they make sure you don’t walk to your car alone. But then sometimes one will get you alone and…

“You want this, you like this, all women do…”