I come from sexual assault: A tale of #Metoo

(Ed. Note: TRIGGER WARNING. The following post may be triggering for some as it contains real life accounts of many non-consensual sexual acts.  Please read with caution.)

My first sexual experience with a boy – a man of 19 when I was a summer shy of 16 – was rooted in assault.  Every touch, kiss, and fondle was coerced from me.

His breath smelled, he sat too close, his fingers hurt my tender skin as he dug his way down into my jeans and then into my body.  He reeked of Obsession.  I refused to let him look at me naked, never took off my clothes, but he managed to snake his hands onto my flesh and they explored my virgin body instead.  In broad daylight all over his parents’ house, exposed and helpless.

He called me every night long past a decent calling time and kept me up until 3 and 4 in the morning.  I dragged myself to work at the pool where we both taught swim lessons and lifeguarded; I shied away from him in public.  I didn’t want anyone to know about us.

I can still taste the kiss he planted on me after his lunch of a big Dairy Queen burger with onions.

One warm summer night my friends and I all dipped into the Everclear stash of Tammy’s drunken, passed out father.  My friends were vaguely aware that this 19 yo man and I were dating, but they didn’t press.  He and Tammy had dated for several months and every night he’d sneak in her bedroom window and fuck her while her father lay passed out on the couch in the living room.

By all accounts, despite being a year younger than me, she had wanted it and him and thus everyone assumed I did, too. Not wanting to appear less sophisticated than her I didn’t correct them.

The liquor stoked a restlessness within me.  He knew I was there and what I was doing and he’d told me to sneak out and come see him.  To do what, exactly, I never considered.  My innocent 15 yo brain could only explore so far before my imagination gave out, romance novels notwithstanding.

With enough alcohol to embolden me I called him and shared my plan: I would steal one of the 16 year old’s cars who was too drunk to notice and drive across town to see him.  But just for a little while.  “Don’t take advantage of me,” I said.

Underage, without a license, I traversed my little bedroom town and parked in front of his house.  He was waiting for me in the dark awning of his converted garage bedroom.

I don’t remember what we said to each other except that I said those magical, protective words again: Please.  Don’t take advantage of me.  I felt light and hot and like a grown up.  Wild and free.  I’d told him not to hurt me so therefore he wouldn’t.

I knew he wanted me – whatever that meant – and that felt like power.

We kissed in the dark, alone and in his bedroom, a place we had never spent time before.  He walked me backwards towards his bed.  His room smelled foreign and faintly like dirty laundry.  Like a musky boy.

The backs of my legs hit the bed and we stopped.  I stopped.  This was enough.  I was done.  But how??

He was not done.

He pulled off my shirt and I crossed my arms over my bra.  He pulled my hands apart and took off my bra.  I had never been topless in front of him and I shivered with embarrassment, a vague sense of wrong washed over me, but… I had put myself here.

He pushed me back on the bed, pulled down my pants and I shuddered with humiliation thinking he could see in the dim porch light that I was wearing my mother’s high-waisted underwear.  He didn’t notice that I was wearing my mother’s panties.

He only wanted them off.

I froze as he slipped them past my straight little hips and off my foot, pushed my knees apart and put his face between my legs.  There.  Where no one had ever been before, where I had not asked, where he had no right to be.

His tongue was hot and wet and acid.  Mortification, horror, fear pressed me deep into the mattress.  I was disgusted that he seemed to be enjoying it.

I pulled him up, told him to stop, and he kissed me as if it were a lovers moment, my first experience ever of tasting myself on a man’s lips and I pressed mine shut and turned away.

He pulled me into his arms to lay on his bed.  I thought it was over.  That he’d gotten what he wanted and I was safe again.  Stiffly I lay against his bare chest.  He was in only underpants.  I didn’t know what to say.

Then he took my hand – I thought he wanted to hold it – but instead forced it down to his groin, to his hot, hard skin.  I snatched my hand away as if it were burned, sat up and couldn’t stop the verbal outpouring.

“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” I said.  “No, no, no,” spilled out to nothing as he helplessly watched me find my clothing in the dark.  Retroactive words that couldn’t turn back time.

I was sober now.

He continued to treat it like it was a tender moment between us and hugged my stiff body goodbye.  I walked to the little red Pontiac Le Mans 5-speed and drove back to my friend’s house and cried.

I cried because it was my fault.  I cried because I was supposed to feel differently than this, this despondence, this hurled into space feeling.

I had called him, flirted with him, went to him.

I hadn’t fought or slapped or kicked or said even one word to him to make him stop.

But none of what had happened had felt right — nothing about our entire “relationship” had felt right — but I was raised on dysfunctional interactions with men – you must be so beautiful you stop traffic, so desirable you make him reckless and irrational, so lovely you make him weep.  Not listening to how I felt with him was what I’d been bred to do: what I needed never mattered.

He shipped out the following fall and married a sad creature from our high school.  He occasionally wrote me letters telling me how special I was.  By then I didn’t care.  I no longer wanted to impress him.

A decade or so later, with a divorce and two children under his belt – including a daughter – he apologized for that night.  He avoided calling it assault, but he acknowledged that if I never wanted to speak to him again he deserved it.  My reply was gracious, but lackluster.  I had shrunken it down: It was just a bad night.

I wish I could remember when I named that night for what it was.  It wasn’t right away, I know that.  For years I considered that just another really bad sexual experience, a bad start. “Sexual assault” was too hard to swallow.

I didn’t date another boy until I was in college and those fumbling attempts at sex were consensual, though I was barely present.  I would drink too much and throw myself at these boys and descend upon them fearlessly, my tender heart a million miles away.

I fucked like that throughout my 20s, through serious boyfriends who’d paw at me and beg and wear me down until I finally said yes, through drunken liaisons with hot, willing men in bars whose names I barely knew.

Close to 30 I began to try to marry sex with emotion and embarked on sober sex with a lover or two before I met my exhusband – who was so not sexually charged that I considered him safe enough to open up with.  I had missed the mark again.

Another decade and I left our sexless marriage and was back to heartless fucking and a lot more “bad sex.”

Sex when I didn’t want to have it after a wonderful date.

Oral sex when I had said I didn’t want it.

Being abused by a “so-called dominant.”

Being fondled in public on a first date without my consent.

Being completely ignored when I said “No, not tonight.”

Maybe having sex with the bastard who dragged me across a room filled with people into a dark bedroom, but I can’t remember because I was so fucked up or maybe I just blocked that part out.

The date with the Frenchman who coerced me into his car, into his apartment, and into letting him jam his disgusting, fat tongue down my throat.

The same Frenchman who insisted on pawing me and trying to sneak his hand up my skirt despite my many firm NOs.

The light-weight chef who blamed the whiskey or two he’d consumed on his boorish sexual advances.

I literally cannot count the number of times I have been physically assaulted in my life —  Twenty-five?  Fifty? — let alone count the number of times I have been assaulted by unsolicited dick pics and disgusting “erotic” messages online.  If I had to guess at that combined number it’d have to be in the thousands.

After a couple of winter assaults in 2016 I began 2017 with a date at a swanky restaurant with Rex, a feminist and bleeding heart liberal.  Imagine my surprise when I registered the shock on his face as I told him, “Literally every woman you know has been sexually assaulted.  Every. Woman.”  He should know this already, right??  But, no.

He wanted to know more, why hadn’t I reported anything ever? A bad thing happened to me at the hands of someone else and I should report such bad things. “Because it wouldn’t have held up in court; I know what kind of world I live in. I did X, Y, Z and a jury would find me at fault.”

He had no idea that No didn’t actually mean No to a whole lot of men out there, that women felt compelled to follow through with a situation because she felt responsible, that some women — myself included — did things with her body because it might mitigate potential violence should she try to fully stop her date, that all women understand she bears the burden of proof and if one signal were mixed she has no legal leg to stand on.

I began to feel responsible for the mixed signals I had given.  How would he know if I didn’t say No?  If I didn’t fight?  If I ended up just going along with it because my body responded to his touch?  I was a part of the problem, too, then right?  I was actively contributing to misinformation about sex and women and the miseducation of men.  Wasn’t I?

It wasn’t until this fall, right as the Harvey Weinstein news was crashing down upon us all, that I wondered this aloud to a young man who wanted to connect with me before we embarked on a sexual relationship.

Nate and I sat in his dark Volvo outside my building and he listened to my concerns and he became incensed at my logic.  Incensed.

I could hear the horror in his voice as he realized I was owning the revolting behavior of the men who had hurt me over the years.  “NO, HY.  NO.  MEN KNOW WHEN A WOMAN DOESN’T WANT IT.

“But what if I didn’t want him to know??”

“NO.”

“But what if I went along with it?”

“NO.”

“But what if eventually I just stopped saying No??”

“NO NO NO NO NO.  WE ALWAYS KNOW.”

The windows steamed up from his shouting.  I felt like I had been punched.  Not by him — no, I was in awe of his emotion about this — but by a new reality: those incidents hadn’t just been “bad dates” with ignorant, stupid men, they had been sexual assaults by men who knew better.

They knew they were hurting me.

They knew they were pressuring and pushing me.

They knew I didn’t want to.

They knew.

Just like that 19 yo boyfriend always knew.

I don’t think that this makes every man who assaulted me a bad man and a predator.  It makes him irresponsible, possibly an opportunist, certainly a jerk, but not an automatic menace to society.  That would require more data if we are to be fair.

And a man is as much a product of his socializing to conquer and take sex as I have been socialized to please and give it.  Imagine how different our world would be if we raised our men to give sex rather than take or get it.

Honestly, how the fuck are any of us to know when No is a real-No and a No is an I’m-Supposed-to-Say-This-So-You-Don’t-Think-I’m-Easy-No.  Aziz Ansari is a numbnut dipshit and a perfect example of this and that date personifies my guilt about my role in all of this.

He [willfully] believed all her dodging and eventual capitulations were part of a consensual chase, that it was his role to pursue, but those two poor souls were definitely not on the same date.  She was in hell, he was the romantic hero of his own romance novel.  But he still knew, he just assigned a different meaning to her behaviors.

She was being coy, playing hard to get, and if he could somehow convince her to say Yes then it was consensual.  Score 1 for the good guy!

And she’s thinking, “If I say Yes, then maybe it’ll stop.”  Or, “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”  Or, “Maybe he really doesn’t know and I won’t die if I just do it.”  Or, “I did invite him back to my apartment/go to his apartment/a secluded area/his car so I’ve given the signal I’m interested and I can’t stop now.”

This issue does not lay at the feet of only women to solve.  It is not about us saying No louder or avoiding situations or running away or “just leaving.”  It’s about men understanding that it lays equally at their feet to be honest, present, and responsible.

Men need to question the model of masculinity handed to them, the Patriarchy which tells them once turned on it is their duty and right to satiate their need by any means necessary.

Women must reject what’s been handed to them, as well, this belief that they are solely responsible for what happens to them.  If only she hadn’t worn that skirt, had that drink, said Yes the last date/hour/minute then this wouldn’t have happened to her.

What we’re taught is breathtakingly fucked up.

Once we realize what we’ve been spoon fed we all – both men and women – need a path to redemption.  Men need an avenue to a safe place for growth and forgiveness and women need a route to believe in her inherent human value and her rights to safety with men.

Being violent is only the most obvious assault, but it’s not the only way men force their sexual will on women.  They also intimidate, beg, cajole, plead, manipulate, wear down, corner, argue, and insist upon.

And because he didn’t raise a hand against her he believes he did nothing wrong and the woman who just went against her instincts to survive the encounter is left with a jagged empty space in her heart and a truckload of guilt for bringing it upon herself.

But he knew.

And now we know, too.

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Post inspired by Katie’s, “Not that bad.”

I’m afraid of jinxing it.

I’m afraid of jinxing it, but I am bursting with words.  I have been hiding from the blog for fear that if I lay letters down here my men will whittle away with each click.  I don’t want them to disappear.  Not yet.  I’m not finished with any of them — there are possibly more lurking that I will continue to keep close to my breast.  I don’t want to lose any of them.

::

My thighs cradled him as he pumped deeply into me, his kisses deep and fervent.  Somehow he managed to hold himself up and reach around my bottom, shift my flesh and slip a strong finger into my asshole.  I cried out and ground down hard on him, clutched at every sinewy, flexing muscle I could.  He growled in my ear.

His room was dark, no nerdy light show this time, and my body fell into a black abyss of sensation which centered on me, like an undulating chocolate fountain, never ending.

His finger remained lodged in me, his cock a hard, fleshy piston, my body a reactive live wire.  I came hard and melted beneath him.

He freed his hand and slammed into me but with a strange cadence.  “No,” I pleaded, “Don’t stop there.  More.  All the way.”  He plunged in deeply now again and again.  Then stopped short again, seemingly oblivious.  “NOOOOO,” I said again.  “All the way.  Please.”

Again he buried himself in me and I rewarded us both with a clawing, mewling climax.   “Thank you,” I breathed into his mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

I caught my breath and rolled over onto all fours.  “Fuck me in my ass,” I said.  I arched my back and wagged my behind.  I imagined they looked like two pale moons  in the dim light.

He pet my sopping pussy and dragged its wetness to my other hole and pushed his meat in.  Slowly, naughtily.  Good girls don’t get fucked in the ass.  Or is it God girls?

He moved gingerly at first until it felt too good to hold back.  He gripped my hips like he meant it this time, nothing soft about his touch.  I didn’t cringe now like I did when he first touched me.  I can’t do light touch.  It makes me want to vomit and run and hide.  I didn’t want to hide now.

I came from just the thought of how filthy we were, how dirty.  Two otherwise upstanding citizens doing this disgusting thing.  I loved it.  And I loved hearing him unravel behind me.  He came for a second time.

Earlier in the night we’d met for dinner near his house.  It’s our 4th date this go around, the first go around having happened in 2015 followed by a two year gap.  We have a little script we follow now.  First drinks, then dinner, back to his place for a little more imbibing, then up to his room where our limbs entwine and he drives into my body.

I enjoy his company immensely: he’s smart, liberal, ridiculously complimentary, generous.  He takes me to the nicest restaurants and buys me stupid-fancy hipster cocktails.  He also plays with my asshole.  I dig him.

::

Hands bound above his head, blindfolded, he lay on his side.  The belt cracked on the bright pink X I had drawn on his right cheek.  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he gritted out.

Crack, crack, crack!

Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am.

I’d opened the door to this tall blond man wearing leather and a blast of cold air.  “Ignore the dog,” I said.  It came out throaty, bossy.

He stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.  I raised up on my toes and put my arms around his neck and kissed his cold face.  He tasted faintly of tobacco.

I drew him with me as I fell against the wall behind the door and wrapped his hair in my fingers.  I pulled him off my lips and pushed him down to my breasts.  He dropped to his knees and peeled off my clothes, a cardigan, black velvet boy shorts and a black camisole.  I silently laughed how my thoughtful choice of clothing was not noticed.

He hunkered lower and latched on to my pussy, now eye-level.  I held on to the wall for support, and his chin-length hair.  I let my big lover worship me from his knees for a minute, two, before I pulled him up and undressed him, and led him into my room cast in a cool afternoon light.

I would tie him up, light a candle, draw on him, slip his tiny dark pink nipples between the tines of golden bobby pins, and straddle him as I rode him.  I’d push a pale pink butt plug into his tight little hole, then later my finger, and I’d slurp him up until he’d say, “I’m at a 7, Ma’am,” breathless and with some apprehension.  He was not allowed to cum and did not want to displease me.

Writhing on top of him like a wicked little girl on her wicked little pony I flicked his nipples and held on as he bucked his hips.  What a deliciously good boy he was.  As I drew closer to orgasm I flicked faster imagining the tip of his cock somewhere near my sternum; I was riding a bronco, not a pony.  My hands went numb and my scalp tingled.  It was time to burst through the surface of the water.

I pressed the Hitachi against us both and told him to hold still, to only twitch inside of me.  I felt the pressure swirl somewhere down low and begin to build, stars pressed against my eyes with each blink.  “Ok,” I whispered.  “You may cum now.”

He moved like a healed man on godly legs, wild and desperate.  I stared at his blindfolded face and the jagged grimace that told me he was completely in his body, in me, in us.  He told me he was going to cum peppered with random Ma’am’s and I told him I was cumming, too.  And then we cried out together and I gulped big gulps of air, desperate, dying, living.  He keened his pleasure then lay still, vibrating a little.

I kissed his lips and resituated his blindfold, traced the starbursts I’d drawn around his nipples, now plump and dark rose with life.  He hissed.  “Those are very sensitive, Ma’am.”

“Good.”  I flicked them both.

I came again, even bigger than the first, with him soft and spent in a little pile of flesh beneath me, still safely wrapped in the condom.  He wasn’t sure if he’d ejaculated he said.  I climbed off of him and investigated.  The condom was full.

“Wow,” he chuckled.  “It was an all-body orgasm; I couldn’t tell.”  I wondered silently if it could be said he just had a “female orgasm.”  I could hardly spell my name.

I remounted him, carefully, and removed the blindfold.  I felt shy.  This was the transition back to Hy and him.  Not Ma’am and him.  I talked him through my removal of the bobby pins and pressed firmly with my palm, told him to breathe.  Men are such babies, I thought.

I slowly untied the black neck tie from one of my blouses from around his neck, ceremoniously, and lay down in his crook.  We talked about what we’d just experienced like we were excited children after their first roller coaster ride.

I had to leave in 45 minutes to get my baby from school, he had to leave in 45 minutes to go to work.  “Let’s go sit on my couch,” I said.  I gathered my clothes from the pool of fabric by the front door and dressed.  He plopped down next to me and I put my feet in his lap.  “There’s lotion,” I motioned to the bottle I had ready on the table.

He massaged my feet until we had to go; we kissed and hugged at the door, told each other we looked forward to next time.  I dig him.

 

 

Anticipation.

I chose my outfit a day early: a black pencil skirt, a slip, a light pink lace bra which would show tastefully through my opaque white blouse.  My cuffs were black as was a strip of silk that I tied haphazardly below the highest button.

In the cool morning light my stomach fluttered as I dressed carefully; slipped on black lace panties, the short black slip, and the rest of the tantalizing draping.  Business appropriate, but with an ulterior motive.  That black silk that rested between my breasts all day will be wrapped around him once the moon rises.

9 o’clock.  Au naturale.  Nothing up his ass or around his cock.  Fresh underwear on if he wears some normally.  Stone sober.  I want him just as he is.

I have inventoried my new toys and laid them carefully on my white bed, their black shapes like a seedy jigsaw puzzle.  I have attached a silk loop at the center head of my bed to the steel frame for the cuffs to be attached to if I so choose to use them and looped two more silk ties in the upper corners to the wooden mattress slats if I eschew them.

I have condoms of all sizes and only a little lube.  I doubt I’ll need it.

My nose is powdered, my pussy spruced up.  I have placed a single hair tie on the coffee table beside a bottle of lotion.  When I am ready, he will tie his jaw-length hair back and my eyes will turn black with desire.  He will remove my black booties and socks and rub my aching feet, his hair tied back while I devour the length of his long body with my black eyes and imagine his heart beating against his muscular chest.

Candles are lit.  The house smells like tobacco and cinnamon.  A Led Zepplin record from my mother’s 1970s collection plays tantalizingly in the low light.

He called to say he ran out of time to buy wine, but he will be on time.  I bought red wine for us anyway.  I can’t stop my heart from beating wildly in my chest nor my pussy to stop thrumming intermittently when I think about his imminent arrival.

He will be here in 7 minutes.