I had sex with an old friend. Halfway through I discovered he was a Trump supporter.

When comedians Billy Eichner and Will Ferrell took to the streets in October in a video representing “loud white men for Kamala Harris,” I was thrilled. I was even happier when three women they approached had similar answers to slightly different versions of the same question: “Would you have sex with a Trump voter?” The answers were, in order, “absolutely not,” “no!” “ and “(vomiting sound).”

You see, dear reader, I’ve been there – actually, literally, geographically, facing the same question, in the bed of (someone who turned out to be a Donald Trump voter). It was my own fault because there were signs of it. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I said to myself: I’d rather just not know.

It was 2020, autumn. Like everyone else in New York, I was a nervous wreck. Every day had the same soundtrack: Gov. Andrew Cuomo’s voice telling me how many people had died the day before, sirens, the catharsis/shock of banging pots and pans at 7 p.m. As November 3rd, Election Day, approached, the noise in the streets and the noise in my head merged into a cacophonous blob fuuuuuuuuck. A pandemic and the possibility of a second Trump term? I couldn’t stand it. You deserve something beautifulI said to myself.

I don’t remember how we got back in touch, but a guy I’d slept with off and on for years – usually with long periods of absence – showed up again. I asked him if he followed the COVID-19 rules as strictly as I did, and when he said yes, I decided he was right up my alley.

This man and I had met years ago on a dating website. It quickly became clear that we were not compatible for many reasons. But no matter how ideologically incompatible we were, we were very compatible chemistry-o-logical. Besides, I felt comfortable with him. The protection of my body and discomfort with strangers have made me wary of sleeping around – it has no moral value to me; Strangers just don’t rev my engine that much – so it was nice to have him constantly in the background. It was like I had put him on ice.

You see, I have a history full of terrible men. I’ve dated all kinds of narcissists, idiots, idiots, and misogynists. (Occasionally, I would hit a grand slam and do all of the above in one person.) I would bury my head in the sand when men I was attracted to showed signs of extreme anger; I looked away when boys said things that I wouldn’t tolerate with friends, but would tolerate with objects of my affection, because I desperately wanted to nuzzle my face into their stupid faces.

Over the years we’d known each other, Layaway Man had occasionally waved the red flag. We met in the run-up to the 2016 election and I knew he didn’t like Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump. He said something vague about how he would probably vote for Gary Johnson, and I must have distanced myself from that because I kept seeing him. One time he was very aggressive towards someone who was standing too close to him on the subway as we were driving to work after one of our nights together, and that scared me. He also posted a photo on his Instagram of an apparently unhoused man sleeping on the subway, which seemed pointlessly cruel to me – perhaps Patrick Bateman-esque or even Trumpian. (Yes, I just ranked them in order of scariness.)

He tended to complain a lot, as more and more straight white men do these days. In many ways he was the exact opposite of the kind of people I respect. It didn’t matter, I told myself, because I wasn’t trying to date him; I was just trying to bone him.

This kind of character vivisection doesn’t suit me at all. I am and always have been a proud liberal. I treat my body like a (fuel efficient) car and wear my political beliefs like bumper stickers to bring people like me closer and repel (and upset) those who aren’t.

I grew up with parents who boycotted or abstained from many things for many reasons, from Nestlé to Chanel. As an adult, I became a vocal supporter of cancel culture (or rather, “consequence”), condemning people for all sorts of misdeeds, be it a simple political dispute or a one-time faux pas, which to me recognized a deep-seated moral flaw let. For a long time I was unforgiving in a way that I now find a little too rigid, nihilistic and unnecessarily exhausting. (One of my most joyful surprises lately has been seeing people I thought would be on my no-go list forever—Paris Hilton, Eminem—who have grown into inspiring, charitable adults who , as it turns out, people who created something made mistakes and expected them, or at least some of them. Other people – Mel Gibson, Harvey Weinstein, anyone who recently attended Donald Trump’s rally at Madison Square Garden, on stage or in the audience – have almost no chance of ever making mistakes (redeeming yourself.)

At Layaway Man’s apartment in Bushwick in the fall of 2020, we got right to work as usual and it was fun as always. Then we sort of… took a break. (We’re in our 40s, not 20s.) He asked if I wanted to watch his YouTube channel. Not really is what I thought, but secure is what I said because I am a lifelong people lover. I put on my underwear and as I grabbed the rest of my clothes he urged me not to. Now not only did I want to watch a vlog that I wasn’t interested in, but I also wanted to feel like I was on a French beach while doing it. Fantastic.

I honestly can’t remember what the video was specifically about. All I know is that it was a snarky, snarky, sexist comment on camera about Kamala Harris, who wasn’t even the Democratic nominee. He (the naked layaway man sitting next to me, not the grating, anti-men’s rights video projection I had to endure) watched as I watched him, and he seemed like a little child, proud of what he was doing Show had brought – and – tell.

In a way, it felt like he was trying to impress me. In another case, it felt like he was luring me in. Our couple has always been mismatched – I had a more successful career and could tell it bothered him, and he often made snide comments about the nice apartment I lived in alone, while he lived in a cramped group of three with his roommates – but it was the first time I felt like he was trying to stab me.

Finally I asked, “You’re not voting for Donald Trump, are you?” A smile spread across his face. He shrugged shyly and pursed his lips as if to say, “I don’t know, maybe,” meaning he definitely voted for Donald Trump. Was he flirting? Did he think it was him? flirt? Was this the ideological equivalent of pulling my hair on the playground (or in the bedroom)?

In that moment, I didn’t understand how we had ever tolerated each other long enough to balance each other out find out of that the chemistry between us was right. “I can’t have sex with someone who votes for Donald Trump,” I heard myself saying, and the next thing I knew, I grabbed my Isabel Marant dress from the floor. He seemed taken aback, and in a way I was too. But I knew on a cellular level, before the words had even formed, that there was no way I could knowingly let a Trump supporter touch me.

As I threw clothes on my body, I heard myself muttering other things, like “You’re super awesome” and “Take care of yourself, good luck!” (With what? Oh my God, Carla, stop talking.) He protested dejectedly – “I haven’t come yet” – and I said, “Oops, sorry, Uber is here, I have to run!” I flew down the stairs of his building and never saw him again.

I was proud of my body for choosing “fly” out of all the options available (and I guess a little bit “fawn” – because again, people like it). I told the story to anyone who would listen, waving it around as evidence of my commitment to democracy, feminism, and humanity. (Holding back his orgasm wasn’t intentional, but it gave me a sadistic little thrill.)

Of course, the decision to sleep with him (or not sleep with him) depending on how he voted had relatively low stakes for me. I’m a light-skinned, cis-female, self-supporting Jewish woman from New York, so unlike many others, this man and his ideals posed little real threat to me. (My Jewishness is something I can hide, even though I don’t I do the opposite and drape myself in a Judaica-style adornment of Mr. Security, in opposition to people who are marginalized and targeted, such as those in the transgender and black communities of Layaway Man’s voting intentions was a true ladyboy killer – but it was my inherent privilege that kept me from needing to know it sooner.

In a post – Jan 6 World, I will not make this mistake again. Like those women on the street with Billy Eichner and Will Ferrell, I can tell you, “No way, ew, (vomit sound) – I wouldn’t have sex with a Trump voter.” And I mean it. Instead, I hope to encounter a man who will give me the feelings in my body that Layaway Man once had, but the feelings in my heart and brain that only a Kamala devotee could feel.

Now more than ever, our bodies are a battlefield, and access to my body has always been a privilege that had to be earned. Now I have an even stricter door policy based on doing no harm. If my body is a wonderland that you want to experience, then to even be considered for entry you had better vote to protect all bodies. Otherwise, you may not be allowed to ride. These are the rules.

This article originally appeared on HuffPost.