Rape and Sex

I just found out about the Brock Turner Stanford Rape Case a few days ago whilst browsing through the news feed on Facebook through my phone. It caught my eye because of the word “rape”. Rape and erect penises have been on my mind a lot lately. Sorry but not sorry to put it so bluntly, because these are facts of life. Boys have penises and girls have vaginas, though I prefer to refer to it with a term that encompasses the entire area, the vulva. Vaginas excrete fluids at times and penises get erect. Even a boy in elementary school can get a hard-on. That doesn’t mean he’s sexually excited. He probably barely knows about sex. It’s a natural bodily reaction that happens because we are human. Heck, I’ve even seen dog penises come out when they’re excited. It’s no one’s fault that it happens. On the other hand, a woman can become moist. It’s natural lubrication. Sex is for making babies. That’s it’s primary function, so that we can survive as a species. We need to procreate. But because we are also human, and have intricate minds, sex has also been perverted. There are sex addicts and there are rapists and there are child molesters. To them, it’s not about the victim, it’s all about the perpetrator satisfying his needs. Why the fuck is it always men who are the rapists?! It just is.

When a woman has a physical reaction to sex, such as erect nipples or moisture in the vagina, it doesn’t mean she wants to have sex. Paying attention to the mind is important. If a person says, “I don’t want to have sex,” she is saying that because her mind is telling her that she doesn’t want it. End of story… not. Because some men are disgusting and they see women as objects rather than people. This leads into my own story because I don’t know how many times I was told by my abuser, “your pussy is sopping wet, you must really like this!!” He just couldn’t believe, it seemed, that my body would react to forced sex in that way. Maybe he wasn’t expecting it. And when I couldn’t become moist because my body wasn’t stimulated and was not producing the natural lubrication, he would empty his mouth and place a large spit wad onto my vaginal opening so that he could penetrate me anyway. It was obvious to me that my body didn’t want it. I didn’t want it. In my mind and my heart, I didn’t want it.

Now that I am no longer being abused and happily celibate, I have had no gynecological issues whatsoever. I don’t need to go to the doctor for prescriptions of 5% lidocaine to numb my vulva because it’s burning and I can’t sit or walk or concentrate on anything. No yeast infections because of the penis having penetrated my anus and not washed properly and then inserted into my vagina. He didn’t just insert his penis. He inserted all kinds of objects. There were dildos of various sizes but the most traumatizing were his hands. I would be lying down on my back, trying to push him away from me, but he was stronger. “It will be just for a bit. It won’t hurt,” he might have said. All kinds of justifications as to why I should be “letting him” perform oral sex acts on me. He tried to fit as many fingers as possible into me, and he would push his hand so deeply into me that the skin on my vulva was pressed onto my pubic bone and I would get bruises. It would hurt for days.

I need to know that these things happened to me. I need to name them for what they were. The acts, the body parts, the visual images I still have in my mind and the ability of the mind to “feel” the pain still, years later. I can imagine and remember exactly what it felt like. I was told by my victim advocate that rape is a “violent act”. That caught my attention because from my experience I have never thought of rape as a violent act. Although I was getting raped, I never ended up with bruises or scratches on my body (other than on my vagina, so scratch that last part), and I didn’t have a gun put to my head. In fact, I’ve never had a gun to my head even in face of all of my suicidal fantasies. I’ve often screamed and cried like a broken record, “why me?” But it’s not my fault, because if it didn’t happen to me, it would have happened to someone else. He selected me because he knew that I was vulnerable and damaged. I was a frail bird. My aunt wants me to grow into a beautiful swan. Swans are powerful creatures. They have strong legs, they protect their young to the point of killing if they have to, and they mate for life. Now I want to become a swan. Maybe I can find meaning in all of what happened to me. Maybe I can use this to become a better person and to then help others.

Here at this juncture, I had to take a break. I put both hands to my cheeks, elbows pointing out in exasperation, and took one deep breath. I don’t have the patience for breathing exercises but the body knows when it needs more air. It will fight to survive. That’s an instinct. I heard from my friend, the one I chat with over SMS for support. The one who has known me for several years now. He said he believes in me. Do I believe in myself? I think so.

I am drinking this disgusting carrot juice. I am dehydrated because I hate drinking water so I have to drink something. Normally I like carrot juice but tonight it’s going down forcibly. Here’s a novel thought: maybe I hate drinking water because of my ex-husband’s pee fetish. He would make me drink lots of water and wait until I was desperate to go, and then have an “accident” on the floor. That’s what two-year-olds do, not a grown woman in her 20’s. He promised to clean it all up if I just please did it for him. If I did it just this once, he wouldn’t ask again for a whole month. Good, I can get him off my back for the rest of the month? Sure I’ll do it. Stop bugging me, you pervert. I know I need to write one of those unsent anger letters to him. I don’t think it would be angry so much as introspective and just plain healing to me. I’ve never done that before. So basically, I’m always dehydrated because I have trauma from being forced to drink lots of water. Now it makes sense.

We all know by know that he was into child pornography. He’s not only a rapist and a pervert, but he’s… what’s the word? Help me out. Give me some words to describe him with. Fill in the blank. That’s why he was obsessed with dressing me up like a little girl and asking him to call him “daddy”. He would tell me to say, “daddy, don’t do that” while he was initiating a sexual act. And then in the role of a perfect actress, I would say “no, no, no” and that fed his ego and turned him on. God forbid he ever has a daughter or is around any little girls at all. Because to him, they too are objects. He also made me wax my vulva so that it would be smooth skin just as if I were prepubescent. Waxing fucking hurts!! I don’t normally curse but it’s been appropriate two times in this blog. Just… don’t ever get that area waxed. Please.

Finally, there’s the issue of consent, for all of this, for everything, for things that are related to sex. Oral sex counts as sex too, even though one may not be penetrating the vagina. Make me touch your penis, that’s sex. During my entire relationship I never once heard the word “consent”. No one had ever educated me on this aspect. What is that, anyway? If my “no” was disregarded over and over again, then I lost my voice and became powerless. And eventually I became helpless, until I was ready to take my life into my own hands. The solution to my torture was to be suicide. It was brilliant. It was ideal. It was the one and only thing I could strive for, and if I kill myself, that’s me asserting control over my own body. You can’t own me any more if I’m dead. I never thought of leaving. It never, never once crossed my mind, until the day I suddenly escaped and drove off in my car with a few belongings, and you changed the lock to the home and almost sent out a restraining order on me. On me. Because I didn’t want to leave. He was all I knew. My entire adult life had been centered around one man, who controlled me. He had trained me. He trained me that it wasn’t okay to say no, and that I needed to listen to him and do what he says.

I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. This doesn’t hurt me. It does. I’m okay. Breathe. Look at your last post. YOU are worthy. You are worthy of living. Tell myself these things. Remember them. Write them on the wall. It’s not your fault. If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else. You don’t have to kill yourself because there is an end to all of the pain and suffering. And you can help other people. Just think, victims like yourself, who are shattered and need support. You can raise their spirit, if only for a few moments whilst they read what you’ve written. And, you’ll be distracting them from suicidal thoughts. Tell them to just hang on for one more minute. And then another. I can do this. Talk to myself. I can do this. I’m okay.

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