SHORT STORY: Sandra’s Memoirs


Why don’t men take no for an answer? Its almost as though a woman relinquishes all her personal rights in the presence of a man whom she considers a friend or a potential lover.


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Sunday, 28th April 2013

She sat on the bed with nothing but her pink tee shirt now slacked from the struggle she had just had with Fide. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wished now more than ever that she had a blunt close by to drag on (an act she had seen in too many movies, had never tried, but felt it would work like magic) and somehow forget the awkward sensations rippling through her body.

“I don’t want you to see me as one of those guys Sandra.” His voice was a bit hoarse.

“Don’t worry, I don’t.”

She sat up to put on her panties and jeans. In the bathroom, her eyes focused on her reflection in the mirror the whole time, her short bob now looked like a whirl wind had passed through it. There were casualties. She washed her lipstick smeared face and combed her hair down. She looked normal again, a good girl. She pushed a few strands away from her eyes. A lazy teardrop fell from her left eye. She slowly dabbed it up with a paper towel and walked back into the room. The house felt several sizes too small. The smell of Fide’s perfume lingering on her clothes and on her lips, just beneath her nose, made her nauseous. She wanted to leave, but she had promised not to make him feel bad earlier on, so she sat in the sitting room instead.

Why don’t men take no for an answer? Its almost as though a woman relinquishes all her personal rights in the presence of a man whom she considers a friend or a potential lover. Her cautious pleas of “no” at first are translated into screams of “no please get off of me. I don’t want this”.

Okay, maybe they never got violent. Maybe there was a silent conceding, lying perfectly still as he heaved from breathing, turning her face from side to side to avoid his soggy lips, counting the seconds, wishing tomorrow would come running, wondering if she could dress up quickly without saying a word and walk out the door straight home to avoid the awkward one word conversations that would follow after the ordeal.

She would end up sitting on the bed silently, reaching for her panties and jeans slowly and slipping them on without the slightest error, without the slightest thought paid to the fact that her thighs were sticky and they would get dry, without breathing too loud or making a sound. All in a bid to pay respects to beautiful friendship now lying on the bed amidst wrinkled sheets, dead.

“It’s animal instinct,” they say in self defense. “Once I get this way its super difficult to even listen to a word you are saying. We guys are wired this way, even your brother.”

Yet it is taboo to speak to one man and refer to him as all guys, because in his defense it’s inborn and what he does simply does not make him part of the statistics.

”Sandra, please I hate it when you refer to me as all guys, it’s a terrible stereotype.” Little does he know that all guys to a woman would be the ones she has been with and experienced the gore of disconnection over and over again, realizing that when you both sat down quietly to talk about your past relationships he wasn’t really listening, and when he was listening and staring so intently he was simply looking at your breasts, falling in a miserable heap of despair time after time when they do their bidding

“So what’s up? Are you still traveling tomorrow?”

As if nothing ever happened. As if she was the same friend she was six minutes ago. As if things could ever be the same again. The next best place to go would be the bathroom. It always felt like home: a place to be bare and unashamed of yourself, where you can look in the mirror and convince yourself that you are not to blame at all, and at the same time break down crying because sooner than later you accept that it is all your fault.

What are you doing in his house in the first place? You should be at your own place occupying yourself with other things that catch your attention and tickle your fancy. Other things, not people. Especially not people of the opposite sex, people or a person you laugh with, laugh at, a person you make jokes with, a person you discuss complicated things with, who actually listens and contributes and makes you laugh, who understands your sarcasm, who rebels against the failing systems just like you, and hopes to be part of the change this world desperately needs. A person you like simply because he is just like you—real.

He is your friend, or at least he used to be.


  1. Morris
    We might never know.

    I believe it’s going to take a guy who has regretted or who unwillingly had sex with someone to know what we feel when we do it, just because we don’t want things to get ugly.

    We don’t wanna find out how ugly they can become, because humans are gad-damn unpredictable.

    We all have animal insticts, there would be no ‘life’ if we couldn’t control them. What the hell is animal instincts anyways, like for real? We are humans, not animals.

  2. Morris
    , i like the new layout, but all i can see per page on my desktop are only three articles. 3 articles per page, is that the plan?

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