🚩 Volume IV – The Award-Winning Family Man

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He wasn’t a lover. He didn’t need to be.
He violated without ever touching me.

🚩 Red Flags I Ignored

  1. He presented himself as a professional—but approached me personally.
    I met him on a cruise with my family.
    He was an award-winning photographer. Polite. Charismatic.
    He asked to photograph me. I agreed.
    He said I impressed him. That I should model again.
    He wore professionalism like a mask. But what lay behind it was premeditated.

  2. His public image showed a family man—but his behavior said otherwise.
    I looked him up on Instagram. A wife. Children. A picture-perfect home.
    My mother warned me: “He just wants sex.”
    But I thought: not every man is like that.
    When October came, he texted—like clockwork.
    He scheduled the shoot at 9 p.m.
    That’s when my body started whispering what my brain didn’t want to believe.

  3. He used compliments as a cover. Admiration as access.
    He praised me. Repeatedly.
    I’d done sensual shoots before, and I expected mature conversation about art and form.
    Instead, the way he spoke made me feel dirty.

    “Like I was being raped via phone.”
    He hadn’t touched me—but I felt reduced. Exposed.
    He wasn’t admiring. He was watching. Consuming.

  4. He asked me to explain my poem—as if he couldn’t read.
    My first poem: The Black Donkey.
    I had posted it alongside my photo. He said he didn’t understand it.
    Asked me to dissect it.
    I did. Even though it was obvious.
    He didn’t want to understand me. He wanted me to unravel myself for him.

  5. He saw himself in the men who hurt me—and still didn’t stop.
    He read the line:

    “Good enough to fuck, but not to love.”
    And instead of flinching, he stayed.
    Not to prove it wrong. But to prove it true.

  6. He punished me for not playing the fantasy.

    “This is exactly the opposite of the kind of girl I thought you were.”
    As if I’d ruined his script.
    I had boundaries. I had voice.
    He didn’t want a woman. He wanted a character in his performance.

  7. He asked me what I thought of him—and hated the truth.

    “I hadn’t thought of you at all—beyond being a photographer and a family man.”
    And I saw something shift.
    Because I wasn’t dreaming of him.
    I wasn’t moved.
    I wasn’t attracted.
    I was unmoved. And that made him furious.

  8. I reminded him he had a wife and children—and he justified it with sensuality.
    He said:

    “Guyanese men are very sensual.”
    As if that excused anything. As if culture explained disrespect.

  9. He tried to dominate my time and body—until I walked away.
    He called to talk about the shoot.
    Kept me on the line for nearly an hour. I tried to end it—several times.
    He told me to cancel my day and meet him.
    When I said I was busy, he insisted:

    “You’re going to cancel and come.”
    The award show was at 3. He wanted a shoot after—when it would be dark.
    I kept trying to leave the call.
    He kept asking, “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
    Eventually, I said a friend was calling.
    I tried to be polite. I said, “You must be tired of me.”
    And he said:
    “No. I want you with me now.”

💥 The Aftermath That Hurt Most

I wasn’t in love with him.
But I had trusted him—as a professional. As a father. As someone who had once earned admiration.

And he ruined that.

He violated without touching.
He made me feel like I had to justify my art, my boundaries, my discomfort.
He made me feel guilty for refusing.
He wanted to take what was never offered.

And the only thing I regret—is how long I stayed on that call.

✨ What I Learned

  • A man doesn’t need to touch you to make you feel violated.

  • If someone only sees you as a muse, they’ll resent you the moment you speak.

  • You are never too polite to hang up.

  • Family men lie. Photographers lie.

  • Art is not an invitation.

  • Boundaries don’t need to be explained.

  • I am not an archetype. I am a human being.

  • And when your stomach twists—that’s reason enough.

  • Blocking is not cruel. It’s self-defense.

📝 Final Reflection

He said I wasn’t the girl he thought I was.

But I was never his girl.
I was a mind. A soul. A body he thought he could bend.

He saw me once.
But he wanted to make that moment last forever—on his terms.

And when I said no, he didn’t leave.

He lingered. He pushed.
He asked if he was making me uncomfortable—but he already knew the answer.

And I gave him mine.
I blocked his number.
I blocked his name.

Because my silence is not for sale.

And my poem was never his to penetrate. 

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