“Did you…bring your gun here?”
The sun has started poking through my bedroom curtains, and I’m looking around at the decimated scenery of my bedroom floor. And that’s when I saw it. That’s when I looked over and noticed. I saw his back pack, lying on my bedroom floor, strewn among the panties and what not. But I know what his back pack contains, and I know that as we lie here, in naked, post coital repose, there is a gun in this room.
“What…are we gonna have a shoot out or something?” I ask, feeling only okay with the fact that his arms too short to reach twenty feet across my room to grab his gun.
But I’m a responsible gun owner. I have my gun. My gun is in this room. It’s not loaded. The clip’s not even in it. But it’s here, like I like it, and that makes me feel safe.
“Well, I have to go home eventually,” he responds as I’m clasped in his arms.
He’s dangerous. He’s naked, and he’s dangerous, with his gun in his bag in my room while we lie there.
I’ve been sweating all night with him on top of me, and I didn’t realize until now that his gun was here. Of course, my gun has been here the whole time, so maybe it’s hypocritical of me to feel miffed that he brought his gun to a casual sex session. But is it? This is my house, where I live, where I feel safe, and he brought his gun. He brought his gun so he could get naked and fuck me. When I am the least threatening person he could encounter.
But I get it. I’m supposed to get it. I’m supposed to be okay with this kind of mentality. I’m supposed to condone this. I, as a woman with a gun, should be the first person to be okay with this guy and his gun in my room at 5 am.
And I am. I’m okay with this. It’s just that there’s….there’s a sadness to us lying here in the dankness of my room, still fucked up, and guns everywhere. The violence of the moment has not escaped me, just a few seconds after the screamingness and moaning of fucking have evaporated into the distant past. And we are lying here, naked, with these guns in this room.
We are small people. We are not villains. We are not criminals. We are not committing political deeds of rebellion or insurrection. We are merely people. In Oakland. The goons of these streets. And we fuck each other, and we claw. We bring guns to bars and bark at our enemies. We are rabid, like animals, feasting on flesh in the name of murder or fucking. We are not glamorous or beautiful. Just people. Just small people with guns and condoms in our bags. That is all. And part of me is asking why.