TRIGGER WARNING: THIS POST DISCUSSES RAPE…MY RAPE(S)…AND IT WAS REALLY HARD TO FUCKING WRITE…AND I DON’T FEEL GOOD…SO YOU SHOULD PROBABLY NOT READ THIS.
This sorrow holds me down like they did; the men, separate and the same. Choking. I can’t get it out of my mind – that peculiar salty mix of tears and snot and cum that I was forced to swallow. The heat of the issue: the heat of my mind, my mouth, the moment.
The utter disgust.
The filth I am painted with now. The filth they left in my mind. I can never be clean of it, no ablutions can take away what’s under my skin at this point. I am tattooed with sickness and perversion; fantasies of force and heat mix when I masturbate, but fantasies only: the truth of that titillation is ugly and disturbing.
Do not see me; I will pass as a ghost, unloved, untouched. Do not love me; it frightens me so to hear those words. Do not touch me; I flinch as if struck.
I hate most those who see my tender spot, who manipulate by sheer instinct. I am polarized to attract these manipulators, and anyone who comes my way must now first prove they are not sadists drawn to my masochistic side. Most do not survive the test. They fall under my Gom Jabbar.
How hard it is to write.
Lost virginity: he didn’t know. He asked for too much. He expected too much, and I at 15 didn’t want to disappoint. I complied. I bled. I hurt. I never heard from him again.
A crush; a girlhood crush. Endless flirtations. One opportunity to satisfy that itch: rushed, hurried, in a car under a street lamp. Head forced down. Salt, unclean. Tears. I try to pull back, he is forcing my head down and I choke on him. Back to the bar. Will I come in for another drink? No. I leave, my head down and my soul sick all the way home.
Bad date: fancy dinner, older man. Back at his place, on the sofa. Forced down. Legs forced open. Pain; I am dry and unwilling. He humps on me and grunts. I leave and never see him again.
Abusive boyfriend: he wants. He nags. He pushes. I comply to get him to shut up. I am unmoved and sick; I am not needed for what he wants. I am not there. It happens to someone else. Everything he tries makes me sicker, makes me feel more dirty. I never let him touch me again.
And later, attempts at normal sexuality. I am unmoved, it is a bad idea. It is painful on my joints and I derive no pleasure from the act. More than ever, I feel I am not needed in the process; that only my body is there.
I am disgusted by sex. It is filthy. My desire is filthy, but better taken care of by my own hand than anyone else’s. I never force myself or ask too much of myself. I never hurt myself. After masturbation, my hand is still there, by my side. Never a question of it leaving me or not returning a phone call.
So much easier to wash my hand than wash my mind.
In the rinse cycle: squeezing the water out, feeling shrunken and smaller. Hoping that I’ll stretch after I dry out. Sick. Sick with cycling, with spinning. Sick with remembering. I need to bleach out the stains. Apply some goop that will suck them out of me once and for all.
No resolution. Just hanging out to dry on a rainy Sunday.