The Things We Hated Together.

It was the ugliest colour you can imagine, like a blue crayon had melted into an orange one and combined into an abomination that green should never be. I don't know why anyone would build themselves a house and paint it that colour. It struck me in the eyes whenever I walked in through the gate but I tried not to let it bother me because the house suited me well. It was far away from everything and everyone which is not to say I don't like people but people don't like me.

He didn't.

He really, really didn't like me. He threw a shoe at me outside the office of a representative that I was protesting along with several others. The shoe hit me right in the face. I picked it up and scanned the crowd for a man missing a single shoe. I only found one. I walked to him to return the shoe but more to question how he could feel such loyalty to a person that the mere act of questioning his powers made him so angry, he would throw a shoe. I asked him that.

"You can feel strongly enough to be in the streets," he said to me in a tone much calmer than I expected, "But I can't feel strongly enough to throw a shoe at a whore."

I was with him till the last bit. I could respect an equal-opportunity shoe-thrower but not an unnecessary bias against women that makes you feel that a woman who yells slogans in the street is a whore. I could have been, but that's no need to use that as a pejorative term. We don't do that with any other profession. If I say to someone that they're a fucking lawyer or doctor, that wouldn't be offensive at all because we can just respect those jobs on the face of it. We can respect men who throw shoes at whores but not the poor whores. I can't respect that.

"I could respect most of that," I told him.

"I can't respect any part of you," he said smacking me in the face with his shoe again.

It made me feel something I didn't know I could feel. A jolt of desire, pain and warmth. I can't respect a man like that but I don't respect myself enough not to fuck him.

"Come with me," I told him.

I don't know why he followed me but I suppose when you are not a woman you haven't spent a lifetime making sure never to go anywhere with anyone that you never just follow when told. You don't follow when you're always expecting to be dragged away by force. He followed me easily and it made sense, he'd already hit me twice in plain view of hundreds of people, what did he have to be afraid of? I took him to my car and opened the back door. I had parked at the back of a newly reconstructed and still unrented office space which was a two minute walk from mine. It was just easier. No one had discovered it by then. The only person there was the guard and he always stayed in the front.

"Please sit," I told him when I opened the door.

He would have been more resistant but on the way I had asked him questions about himself and told him who I was. He didn't quite grasp my intention while we were on the way to the lot but I think it became much clearer when I gave him a little nudge down onto the seat with his legs still hanging out onto the dirt. His dick was easy enough to fish out of his trousers and only slightly smaller than average, it didn't matter. I just wanted to suck it, I didn't really care how big what I sucked was. I just wanted the shoe-thrower's dick in me. I didn't want to talk about it. We didn't talk. We just pretended like that was something we just did all the time. Then we exchanged numbers and went out separate ways.

Over time I got to know him a little. He got to know me a little. He didn't like me much at all. He hated that I had short hair that I never combed. He hated  how I dressed. He hated everything I did. To be fair I didn't like him much either. He was exactly the kind of man who would throw a shoe at a person. He didn't believe in anyone's liberty but his own. He believed by virtue of the star he was born under, he was entitled to the rampant violence he did unto anyone. He chewed with his mouth open and he picked at his toenails while in conversation with people. Every about him was so easy to dislike.

But I liked how he treated me.

You could see it disgusted him when I touched his skin. He pushed my hands off him if I ever grabbed onto any part of his body while he fucked me. He spit while he fucked me, he didn't necessarily spit at me, but the reaction was so visceral to my touch that he may as well have. He only cared about putting his dick in me and yelling at me in a language that I didn't speak. I didn't need to speak it, I understood the sentiment. I understood how sick I made him, and still he came. He came all the way to my little, ugly house hours away from the city. He walked in through the gate and rang the doorbell to property he didn't even believe I should be able to own.

"That colour is so fucking ugly," he'd say when he entered.

After all, any two people can find something to agree on, even if that thing is the things they hate. In our case, it was mostly each other, and that awful, putrid shade of green. What an abomination to put into this world.