Posts tagged healing
So you want to get with* an assault survivor?

*And by “get with” I mean consensually date or have sex with. 

Reposting this essay from my old blog because something tells me it will only continue to become more of an issue in the upcoming years. I use hetero-normative pronouns for ease of story telling, knowing that assault can happen to anyone/anyone can be on either side of this healing process.

Rape changes a lot of things.

Sex gets complicated. Walking home in the dark gets complicated. People who remind you of the person who assaulted you get complicated. But I personally refuse to let that moment of ugliness win. I think of putting distance between me and the night I was raped as a challenge and adventure, rather than the end of the world.

Then some new thing comes along that reminds me that being a rape survivor will always be a part of me. A teeny tiny part, but a part nonetheless. After going on a slew of first dates recently I realized dating was going to be another thing that gets complicated.

There are two things I need to get out of the way with guys up front to see if it’s worth our time to have a second drink. Is he into rope? And how does he react to a casual mention of the other r-word? I know better than to torment myself with a fella who can’t handle either.

Since I tell my assault story a lot usually I say something about having been in a story telling show or having recently finished writing something.

“Oh, what was it about?” The good ones will say.

“I’m so sorry.” The keepers will say when I tell them, when I say the big scary words that will make a lesser man run in the other direction…“I was raped.”

Some will say, “Wow” or “gee” or just reach across the table and touch my hand while making an apologetic face. Those are also acceptable.

The ones that I want nothing to do with will say, “That happened to my sister once” or “not all guys are like that.” That’s when I ask for the check and go home. Even if they aren’t purposefully douches those guys aren’t ready to deal with the reality of dating and/or sleeping with a survivor in any meaningful way.

Casual sex is usually pretty do-able with some negotiation and discussion of the things that are trigger to avoid. Fuck buddies will gladly dance around those land mines in order to get laid on occasion.  And I've found it empowering at times to get my  brain casually fucked out during the healing process but your mileage my vary.

It’s the friends and longer term dating partners that get complicated. At first it will be great and I’ll think “yay, this is working I don’t have to have a hard talk about consent and rape with this person.” Then the universe reads my mind and shit gets weird.

It happens again and again. I’ll meet a person and we get along swimmingly, we’ll flirt, and maybe even casually sleep together or engage in kinky play. Then one day not to long after I can feel a shift in the universe. I’ll notice they’ve liked things on my Fetlife profile or visited my website. Suddenly the flirtation is no longer there, the hugs get briefer, and the conversations more awkward. And I know...they’ve read about my rape. Shit just got weird.

Sleeping with a rape survivor is scary. I understand. Especially one that refuses to shut up. So I started asking these interesting men that seemed to be pulling away for no other good reason what was going on and I was right. My being vocal on the subject makes things a little weird for my well meaning sexy friends.

I understand, but hot guys of the world, we can still rub yummy parts on one another if you’re into it. Consent is hot and I’ll gladly show you why. So don’t pull away or disappear.  A whole ton of other things, glorious delicious body rocking things have also happened to me. Let’s focus on that stuff!

I’ve already before about what folks can do to support a rape survivor but what can a fella do to make sex and dating less weird when pursuing a person who has been assaulted?

1. Ask before you touch. Not every time but the first couple of times is not only nice but required. There are few things sexier than a guy who grabs the band of my underwear, looks up with eyes full of trouble and lust to ask, “Can I take these off?” It establishes that consent is a thing he understands and that he will ask when in doubt instead of barreling forward. I will go so much farther with a person who asks because I don’t have to stay on alert and worry about him. He gets it, he’s trust worthy.

2. It’s just as important to not withhold sex as it is to not force it. Of course it’s okay to not be in the mood but if you’re not having sex because you think it’s what she needs, that’s not kosher. Rape makes intimacy difficult to trust, and has a tendency to make survivors feel alienated from their bodies. So if she says “fuck me” then by golly fuck her! Don’t do any of this “but if I fuck her I’ll remind her of her rapist and then…” If you can’t trust her enthusiastic fuck yeah consent then take your squishy bits and go home.

3. Remember eventually something will go wrong and that’s okay. It’s just the way things go, no matter how careful you are a boundary will get crossed slightly or someone will get a bit hurt. That’s no reason to avoid whatever activity because it’s kinda extreme or tangentially related to the person’s assault. Tiny mistakes are a learning experience and not in the same neighborhood as a blatant consent violation. So go forth and do all the things both of you are into and communicate like crazy when something weird happens.

4. Rough sex is not equal to rape. Just as being bound is not equal to being held down against your will. When those things were used against me as a form of physical violence it was scary. What makes BDSM hot is the part where I beg you for those things. So there is no reason to tiptoe around stuff if I asked for it, okay?

5. Don’t be afraid to ask her on a date/to play. Just because you may know this intimate thing about her past isn’t a reason to avoid her like a broken toy. If you’re interested, go for it. Survivors already worry about what people think about them so don’t treat her like she’s dirty or fragile.

6. Relax. It’s not a big deal unless one of you makes a big deal out of it. Don’t force her to talk about it. Asking questions to understand is perfectly okay. But if she wants to go into it, let her talk about it on her own terms. And for the love of everything don’t try to be her therapist, she needs to recover from the experience with a professional not her special man friend.

7. Trust her. Your instinct might be that since she hung out with a person who ended up violating her consent that she has shitty taste or instincts. You should protect her from life and especially from new partners, right? Nope! The fucked up thing about psychopaths is that they are super charming right up until they mess up your world, so it wasn’t her lack of instincts it was his being a icky mother fucker that led to the rape.

8. There will be hard days. If she’s ready to be shopping for sex partners/in a relationship then 99% of the time things will be fine. Every once in a while something will come out of nowhere and trigger her into a tiny ball of tears or fury. You can’t fix anything, just stick around and hold her or listen, this too shall pass.  If she’s emotional and having a rough time more like 99% of the time, she has work to do before she’s ready for you. Just stick around until the timing is right or transition into being people who don't rub genitals together.  Friends are something every survivor needs more of, after all she probably lost most of her old "friends" when she outed the asshole who assaulted her because they "didn't want to chose sides." 

9. But she reported her rapists, what’s to stop her from reporting me? Don’t rape her!

Want to know a secret? These are things you should be doing with anyone you’re dating/sleeping with. It’s so easy!

Absence Makes a Heart...

My lover goes to another country for two weeks.  Not that long.  Easy peasy.  The time will fly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, right?  His last words to me are “I’ll miss you.”  He leaves me with a vase of flowers to remember him by.  I’m so secure in our mutual feels for one another that it’s all silly puppy love pouts of longing and not worry about the distance, neither physical nor emotional, that has me bummed.

Except: absence makes the heart grow fonder…

He texts me about his days, his adventures and I live vicariously through him. One day the phrase “and I had company” appears in his run down of the day.  And I feel a weird flutter in my chest as I read it a couple of times to parse that out.  And the queasy feeling grows, not because he’s likely slept with another woman—he’s free to do whatever he likes within the bounds of safety and honesty—but because none of this is ideal.  There are conversations we should have had before he left, and silly us, we were too busy saying good bye to have those talks. 

So logical me smiles and teasingly congratulates him, eager to hear more about her later, ideally when we’re in the same room so I can touch him, see him smile when he describes their time.  Because I do want to know more and I want him to do all the things (and people) that make him happy.  But emotional me can’t figure out why this hurts. I frantically leave the brunch place I’ve taken myself to while texting him good morning and lay in bed feeling deflated.

Then it hits me. I hear his voice in my head, “She was just keeping me company, stop over reacting, Emily.” Not Mr. Right’s voice.  It’s Mutton, the shit box narcissist abuser whose manipulation and mind games were as plentiful as the amount of women he kept around to make me feel insecure during our two years together. That was years ago and yet…

And I feel like a shit for not being able to say more, say the right thing to Mr. Right just then.  My feels are not his fault.  Dear, PTSD brain, you suck.  Unfuck you Mutton and the abuse that keeps on abusing even though you’re long gone from my life.  It was the euphemism, too familiar, too often used against me, and not the information conveyed that hurt.

Logical me treats herself to an orgasm because Mutton never gets to ruin my day ever again.  Seriously, unfuck that guy.  I turn on porn and fuck myself for a good long while, delaying the inevitable, getting myself just to the edge and stopping to go plainfly slow while watching the man and woman on the screen.  In my head the couple becomes Mr. Right and his mystery hook up.  And it becomes more difficult to wait. 

Holding myself on the edge is excruciating as I fuck myself with the vibrator, not allowing myself the stimulation to my clit that would put me over the edge.  The couple on the screen kiss, looking at one another that way only people who are really enjoying fucking do.  Eyes and mouths wide and bodies absolutely on the same page of pleasure.  Looking almost as if they’re shocked to find themselves in this situation.  Their connection is palpable and erotic as hell.

I wonder if Mr. Right looked at his mystery lady that way.  It’s a look I’ve seen on his face many times.  And I hope so, I hope his hotel room was full of pleasure.  I fantasize about watching them from a chair in the corner of that room, touching myself as my lover fucks another woman.  Would their entangling look anything like ours?  Does he touch her the way he touches me?  What’s specific to our repertoire?

It’s not enough that I’m a dirty old woman fucking this sweet young thing?  Now I’m imagining his trysts?   Knowing this fantasy is weird makes the moment that much better.  So of course this is the moment I move the vibrator to my clit and let go.

And the climax is so cathartic that I cry while coming down from that high. Sweaty and sticky between the legs, face covered in tears, I laugh at myself.  I never stop being surprised at the human heart.  That limerence*, lust, and sadness can occur in the same moment.  That both people can do everything right and one person can trip over the strangest trigger.  That a bruised heart can lead to such debauchery.

Emotional me feels raw the next day until she grows the ovaries to text Mr. Right the “right” way to let me know next time he sleeps with someone else.  100% industrial strength honesty with no euphemism please and thank you.  And that is that.  I have a communication-is-sexy boner the rest of the day.

And the heart grows fonder still…

So I have to throw my hands up and roll my eyes epically at the universe to hear that as soon as Mr. Right gets home, he’s sick.  Instead of having a sweet, sexy reunion we’re both miserable, our bodies playing cruel tricks on us both.  Fortunately he’s well enough a day later to snuggle up and hide from the world. 

We aren’t able to follow our lust anywhere deeper than to spooning but we talk and that’s world’s more intimate.  I hear about the mystery woman and my heart swells to see him shy and pleased, sharing the perfect amount of details.  And in hearing him talk about her I learn more about him, what he likes and what he is like.  What delights him and what drew him to her.  I’ve never adored him as much as when I hear him speak kindly of another woman and their time together.  Because he doesn’t hide anything or compare us. No one is better or more than, we’re just both ladies who happened to cross paths with this same man.  And isn’t that beautiful and strange?

And I tell him of my own minor hook up while he was away.  The rope fun I had when my regular rope bottom was away.  Everything is sweet and silly and out in the open.  We tease one another and giggle at ourselves, it’s not the cathartic sex I’d prefer to be having after having such a vulnerable conversation, but when is life ever perfect?

Instead he lets me hold him through a long night of fever sleep, my arm wrapped around him, hand on his heart, feeling him close.  And I don’t even feel sad about our lack of sexual intimacy just then. Instead I’m consumed with sweetness. For once I actually believe what’s happening in front of me, none of it is manipulation, or denial to keep me on my toes, sad and stressed.  It’s just life.  And we’ll get to the dirty stuff soon enough.  For now the tenderness is plenty satisfying and real.

When I finally get around to tying him up…  Oh boy.

 

 

*used here to describe that delightful mushy lovey dovey near obsession that happens early in a romance before the commitment and bonding stage begins