“Just?”

He patted the rumpled bedcovers next to him on the hotel bed, a challenge hovering around his wolfish smile. He assumed I’d slip in next to him as he lounged there, a taupe jumble of unbuttoned uniform, dirty blond flattop and bulging muscles, but I am not that easily caught. Instead, I curled primly in the easy chair by the TV and chattered furiously, hungrily soaking up the attention after the forced isolation of a long road trip. It wasn’t until he brought up the subject of his psycho-bitch ex-girlfriends that I hopped timidly onto the corner of the bedspread furthest from him, unwitting prey reaching for the bait. My mouth watered for juicy stories of badly behaving Barbie divas enough to overcome the insistent warning in my brain that it was a trap.

I saw it coming a split second before my face crashed into his. His tattooed bicep bulged as his stubby fingers clamped down on mine, which he’d been gently admiring moments before. Alarm bells blared wildly as he dragged me to him, mashing my lips and teeth and tongue into a rusty-tasting pulp. He grinned as I jerked away, spluttering and protesting. He looked at me like I was crazy. “It’s just kissing!”

When I replay that scene in my head, I slap him, scold him sharply and tell him to keep his hands and lips to himself. I coolly inform him of how grossly he overstepped his boundaries before picking up my jacket and walking out. I tell him compassionately that while he’s nice guy, I’m not interested in anything more than friendship, and even ‘just kissing’ is out of the question. In short, I do everything but what I actually did, which was bleat pitifully about moving too fast and purse my lips with each successive oral invasion. I did tell him no, I think. I’m pretty sure I said something about not knowing him long enough and I am almost certain I said ‘stop’ at least once. But mostly I laughed it off, unwilling to stick up for myself, afraid of being labeled a bitch or a psycho.