We met at a birthday do in Dalston. A mutual friend had dragged me along because the guest list was thin and the wine was free. He was standing near the speakers looking like he would rather be anywhere else. I was in the same hoodie I wear most nights, glasses on, blue nails wrapped around a plastic cup. He came over and offered me a cigarette even though I do not smoke. I said no and we talked instead. He worked in marketing for some brand that sold trainers. I told him I wrote the threads that get people arguing in the comments before breakfast. He said he had seen a couple of them. That was enough to keep the conversation going past midnight.
The first few months felt easy. We went for walks along the canal. He cooked pasta that was actually edible. I stayed over at his place more nights than I planned. Sex started the way it usually does. Clothes off, lights low, him on top. He moved like he had practised the same routine for years. I came if I helped myself with my hand. He never offered to go lower. I did not ask at first. I told myself it would happen when we knew each other better.
It did not happen.
Eight months in I said it out loud. We were in his bed. I was on my back. He was between my legs doing the same thing he always did. I put my hand on his shoulder and asked if he was going to put his mouth on me. He stopped. Looked at me like I had suggested something filthy. Said it was unhygienic. Dirty. He did not fancy it. I waited for him to laugh. He did not. He meant every word.
I let it drop that night. We finished the usual way. He came. I went to the bathroom and sat on the closed lid of the toilet until the water ran hot. Then I used the shower head. The pressure was better than his hands had ever been. I came quickly and quietly so he would not hear. When I came back to bed he was already asleep.
That became the pattern. Sex stayed the same. Him on top or me on top for a change that never really changed anything. He finished. I waited until he was breathing steady then went to the bathroom. The shower head never said no. It never called anything dirty. I started timing it so I was done and dried before he even opened his eyes.
We moved in together after a year and a half. A flat in Hackney that cost too much and had a bathroom so small you could touch both walls if you stretched. Sunday mornings he made coffee and I was already in the shower. He never asked why I took so long. I never told him the water was doing the job he would not.
The resentment built in small layers. I would write a thread about how women deserve actual pleasure and then come home to a man who treated my body like an optional extra. I knew the contradiction. I just did not know how to fix it without blowing up the whole arrangement. Some nights I tried again. I would guide his head down. He would pull away and repeat the same sentence. Unhygienic. Not his thing. Why did I need that when we already had sex. I would say because I wanted it. He would shrug and roll over.
One night after too much wine I pushed harder. We were on the sofa. I told him I was tired of pretending it did not matter. He said I was making a big deal out of nothing. I said it was not nothing when I had to finish myself in the bathroom every time. He looked at me like I had insulted him. We shouted. Not for long. Just enough for the neighbours to hear. I slept on the sofa with my hoodie still on.
The next week I packed a bag while he was at work. Clothes, laptop, the charger for the vibrator I had started keeping in the drawer. I left a message that said it was over. He replied once asking if I was sure. I did not answer. I blocked the number that afternoon.
After that the shower felt different. Less like a secret I had to hide and more like the only consistent thing in the whole three years. I dated again. Some men lasted a few weeks. Some lasted a night. None of them lasted long enough to become another version of the same refusal. I kept the shower head. I still use it when I cannot be bothered with the rest.
I think about the way he said the word dirty. Like my body was something that needed to be avoided. It sits there with the other stories I do not tell at parties. Too slow. Too ordinary. Just a long stretch of being told no while I kept showing up anyway. I do not miss him. I miss the version of myself that thought it would change if I waited long enough. That version is gone. The shower is still there. It never complains. It never calls anything unhygienic. And that, hun, is the closest thing to reliable I had for three whole years.