Irritable Hearts: A PTSD Love Story - Plot & Excerpts
Back in Haiti, things looked mostly the same. It had only been a few months. But I had a better lay of the land than I did on my first arrival. And this time, I fantasized incessantly about having sex at gunpoint. There was absolutely nothing in the Western Hemisphere I wanted so much as my back against a wall with a friendly gun to my throat. Whatever. I considered an inability to think about sex without thinking about guns a huge improvement over an inability to think about sex without picturing rape. Maybe it was the guns I encountered every day—shotguns on the security guards in front of banks and gas stations. Rifles on the peacekeepers, who slung them carelessly across their laps in the backs of UN trucks, barrels pointed inadvertently at your face while you drove behind them in traffic. Rich people talking about the handguns used to kidnap other rich people who were bartered for ransom, rape activists talking about gun threats, and gunpoint rapes, too. Whatever the source of the fantasy, it nearly became reality when a regular at the hotel bar got desperate one night and, asking for the eighty-seventh time if I would sleep with him, grasped for anything that might change my mind, trying eventually, wildly, “We can do this at gunpoint if that sells it for you.”
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