Pink Flesh Vol. III
Photo by Cole Craib
In my lifetime, I have compromised many times for many reasons. I have compromised on what to eat for dinner, where to go drinking on a Friday night, when to wake up for brunch the next day. I’ve even compromised on my own name: I now write under “Willow Vimbainaishe Cioppa,” Willow being the name my mother gave me (after her best friend, William), and Vimbainaishe being the name my father gave me (meaning trust in God). No one on my paternal side even fathoms my name as Willow. In Zimbabwe, if I introduced myself as Willow, I believe they’d truly think they had the wrong child. So I’ve accepted that I have two names.
Recently, one of the people I’m seeing told me he doesn’t want a relationship and can’t give me more than he already is (eating takeout in his bed while watching Boondocks post-sex — not that I’m complaining!) I said, Okay, I’ll compromise, don’t go. We’ll just see each other less and I won’t get attached. I don’t love you, I just love fucking you.
He confessed that he is actively holding himself back from falling for me, and though it hurt, I ignored it because the reality of choosing to no longer have him in my life hurt me more, in the moment, than the knowledge that he is even able to hold himself back from loving me in the first place.
I am a pushover. I’ve compromised what I want and need because I don’t want to break up. I’ve compromised because I don’t want to be alone.
I’ve compromised for my own safety before. The first time I was assaulted, I wiped my tears and gave my rapist a blowjob so he would cum and leave. I was afraid of him. I was afraid he would get angry if I didn’t satisfy him. So I satisfied him and then I politely asked him to leave so I could throw up and throw out all my sheets.
I was raised to compromise. I come from a family where all of us live with some form of mental illness. While my uncle was having a mental breakdown and sleeping on our couch, I distinctly remember my mother telling me that I had to pull it together. I had to be the normal one. I couldn’t be fucked up while she was taking care of someone more fucked up. So I bartered. I swallowed it. I pretended that I was fine, that I didn’t want to kill myself, that I was taking my medication, that I was normal and pulled-together.
But how much can we sacrifice before we have nothing left of ourselves to give?
How many of us are used to compromising? Like, how many Black women have learned to let go of their femininity in exchange for their Blackness? How many of us have been told that our feminism takes up too much space in the fight for Black liberation?
Perhaps Thotumn is the time for us to drop the act and get what we want instead of compromising just to be left with the bare minimum.
Recently, on a dating app, I was confronted with the choice to either be honest or compromise for the millionth time in my life and enter into a sexual relationship with someone who vehemently didn’t want the same things as me. He asked, “What are you looking for?” and I was honest: “I’m quite open-minded, honestly. Could be something casual, but I also want to spend time with people who are open to more if the energy is right.
He told me he was just looking to have fun, nothing serious. I could feel myself itching to submit, to accept — I mean, I could always use another dick in my life, right? But I realized that I didn’t want to cave. I didn’t want to spend time with someone who was willing to repress the idea of having feelings for me for the sake of “fun.”
“I’m all about having a good time,” I said, “but if you aren’t open to anything else, we might not be a good match.”
I don’t just hook up with people once. I like doing shit and hanging out, even if we’re “not serious.” The reality is, sometimes people catch feelings, and I don’t want to avoid that.
To which he responded: “Exactly lol that’s why I don’t hang out after…It’s okay once in a while but, like, every other day…nah. Sorry.”
I didn’t compromise. Fucking without feeling is not my vibe at all. If I just want to fuck, I have people I can do that with, so it’s not what I’m looking for.
I am not just a body, a hole to fuck. I am a whole person.
I am proud of myself for speaking the truth. For not telling him, It’s okay, casual is fine, I don’t really need anything serious, anyways. I am slowly learning to speak what I want into existence from jump, even if it means letting go of some cuties on Hinge.
Willow Vimbainaishe Cioppa is an interdisciplinary artist and playwright based in Montreal, QC. They're work focuses on the nuances of sexuality, trauma, self-reflection, femininity, Blackness, and their undying love for rap music. Their life's work is the search of the perfect dep wine to drink while writing about ex lovers who have wronged them.