[I want to preface this entry with a word to any readers whose heritage is Native American. The experiences I describe below are a true account, and my narrative of them is as objective as I can make it. My interpretation of the meaning of the events is naturally filtered by my own cultural lens, but also by my professional role, one that has to a degree sensitized me to the history, realities, and sensitivities of Native Americans. I assure you that my contemplation on the nature of the experience derives not from crude stereotyping or assumption but from my observations and from a spiritual sense inherent to myself that I find difficult to describe but that I can only swear to be genuine.]

I once hooked up a few times with a Top who was a nice guy, but when he fucked me, a strange sort of change came over him. He was, as it happened, a Lakota, and each time he started dicking me down he would suddenly become very aggressive, grab me by my neck from behind with one hand and grab a handful of my hair with the other and force my head down flat sideways on the bed, my torso stetched out so that my pelvis was ground under him for deepest possible penetration.

Then he would lean over and start saying angry, harsh words in my ear in Lakota, but which I couldn’t understand, and he would punctuate each phrase by spitting on me - on my back, on my ass, on the back of my neck. After some of this, he would then fuck me savagely until he came, then yank my head back by my hair as he let me go.

The next moment he was exactly the same as before we had started, almost as though a different person had walked into the room (naked).

I realize this sounds spacey and all New Age and shit, (never mind race stereotyping) but I always felt as though that guy wasn’t actually the one fucking me. It felt as though the person fucking me was full of rage, and these fuckings were actually rapes counted as coup for far worse wrongs done to helpless people generations ago. It was the spitting - something I really don’t like anyway - the hate and ferocity embodied in each blast, each one bursting through tight lips like a knife blade into my naked back as he stabbed me repeatedly lower down, that told me this wasn’t about sex.

Lying there under the domination of his hands, listening to those unfamiliar, berating words spat at me, followed by the smack of his saliva, feeling cruel force ravage my body and then triumphantly fill me with itself - I could not escape the thought that this man must be channelling the spirits of some warrior of the First Peoples come to claim justice for his people from mine.

Not long ago I took one of the AncestryDNA tests to find out where my people came from. I’m basically 100% British Isles. No wonder I ended up the target ass for his justice fucking. And do you know what? I’m okay with that. My ancestors did horrible, horrible things to people, rape included. Maybe I’m nuts and this is all in my head, but if raping my ass can give a few of those poor souls their rest, then let them rape me. The bill is overdue.

I just wish they wouldn’t spit.