After the twenty-four-year-old in California who wouldn’t stop when I moved his hands and pretended I was asleep, I gave in and justified it because my ass was the only thing I could trade for a place to stay; after I did use that word when he suggested renting me out to the Mexicans—it would be safe, he said, someone would be standing outside the door with a machete; after that thirty-year-old guy in brown polyester pants left my friend on the side of the road because she was throwing up and I did nothing; after running away before his hairy arms dragged me back to the blue El Dorado with the white top; after knowing there were nice guys and still choosing to run around with ones who weren’t; after the night on that smelly boat when they took turns on two girls--one fourteen, one twelve; after the ones who said they loved me but still couldn’t listen; after the nights drinking when I just didn’t care what happened; after the guy from the salsa bar when I was 26, the one my roommate asked me not to bring over because he scared her, the one who said nobody loved him and I knew it would make him angry but I didn’t respond, but I did say that word while I pushed him away--softly, so as not to make it worse--and knew it was my fault when he did it; after several years and a man who said he loved me; after learning that I could speak and be heard…sometimes; after watching The Accused five times in a row; after two kids and eleven years and knowing I am too old for simpish bullshit, I still don’t know how to use this word, and I hate myself for it.