quizzical pussy

You always hear that rape isn’t about sex, it’s about power. And that probably holds true if you look deep enough, but why in the world would a rapist do that? On more casual reflection, I think that dictum has the potential to allow people to easily deny that what they did was rape. A lot of times, in their minds, it was completely about sex. They weren’t paying particular attention to consent, but they think they probably got it, more or less. And besides, they weren’t trying to take anyone’s power away. They weren’t being violent. They were just trying to get laid, man.

I believe that it’s easy for people to think “Rapists are monsters. I am a person. Therefore, I must not be a rapist. IT’S LIKE MATH.”

Piers Vitiard liked to bike and play lacrosse. He knew about Classical mythology and was good at Soul Calibur. He thought everyone should see Donnie Darko and the entire Godfather series. He was a pretty nice guy. He also raped me.

Reginald Sleeth dreamed of being a filmmaker. He always wove intricate stories in his head, but rarely wrote them down. His voice got louder when he was self-conscious, and he spoke in a fake Scottish accent when he wanted attention. He worried about getting fat. He thought that orange striped cats were the best kind. When he gave you a compliment you tasted it for weeks afterward. He was emotionally, physically, and sexually abusive.

They weren’t monsters, they were just people who did some fucked up things. And people don’t let themselves feel like abusers or rapists. They might have moments when they realize that they’ve done some fucked up stuff, and even feel guilty, but the homeostasis of the mind demands that our thoughts move on from there. We need to justify, rewrite history a little. We need to slant events in such a way that allows us to be the heroes of our own stories.

And along a similar vein, I’m no righteous, innocent victim. The choices I made were monstrously wrong, if I really examine them. I played into Reginald’s abuse, responding to his manipulations as if he’d scripted them and I’d memorized my part. I let our dysfunction teach me what it meant to be in a romantic relationship. Every chance I had to stand up to him, I folded; right up until I found the strength to leave at the very end. I excused Piers after he violated me, and made a point of trying to make it seem to both of us like what had happened wasn’t a big deal. That was unfair to me, to him, and to the next woman he got alone in a room. He learned nothing from what he did to me.

I got it all so wrong. I denied myself the protection and respect that were mine by right. I told them it was okay to disrespect me, harm me, use me. I allowed myself to become inhuman. Maybe I didn’t feel human in the first place. I do now, though. I know better now.

You can be a real person, even a normally decent person, and fuck up big time. You can be weak. You can collude against yourself in the sickest ways imaginable. You can be a rapist. You can be an abuser. Maybe you didn’t mean for things to happen that way, but motive isn’t everything. Sometimes what actually happened is important too. And you’re allowed to forgive yourself, but that really sort of requires admitting it to yourself first.

(image source)

I do a lot of sharing on this blog, probably bordering on oversharing, but if that’s not what sex blogging is all about, I misread the charter. This forthright honesty doesn’t come naturally to me. In real life I’m totally comfortable talking about sex all day as long as I don’t have to get emotionally vulnerable about it. I revel in the abstract and avoid getting personal. It’s easier, for instance, to talk to my friends about the horrors of unbirthing than it is to admit to having a crush on someone, or discuss what I like in bed.

I’ve always tended to be even more reserved with the people I’m actually fucking. My first romantic relationship was a huge cat-and-mouse game, where eventually I hid as much as possible from Reginald Sleeth, unsure which things were going to set him off. This got to be a habit with me. I don’t lie anymore now that the threat of violence is removed, but I’m also not as effusive or direct as I’d like to be.

In my blog I try to push these limits. It’s difficult because a small handful of people I know in real life read this, my boyfriend among them. So being open here actually translates to being open with them, and with him (OMG scary). But I’m finding that I can better discuss things with Laramy face-to-face because of what I write here, whether he reads it or not. Honesty begets more honesty or something. It’s a weird way to approach relationship communication, sure, but it’s helping me get better at it.

I still have some secrets, though, from pretty much everyone. Not necessarily things-which-must-not-be-named; more just things that don’t come up, and yeah, that in some cases might make you think less of me. Like:

• When I made out with my friend’s little brother after he told me he’d broken up with his girlfriend, I kind of knew there was a chance he was lying. Now he’s married to her, and she must never find out. Also, I really like her now that I’ve met her, and lying to her makes me feel like kind of a jerk.
• I’m in favor of safer sex. But giving blowjobs while using condoms does nothing for me and at that point I’d rather just fuck instead. Sorry.
• I tried to convince myself that even though Piers Vitiard forced his penis inside me while I was saying “no” and begging him to stop, it didn’t really count as rape because my reason for choosing not to fuck him wasn’t all that good in the first place.
• After reading that post-sex dopamine supplies fade about two years into a relationship, I’m worried that no one will ever have a reason like me for longer than that. And yes, I do know that’s a silly oversimplification only loosely based on real science. Still.
• I’m not sure what the difference is between a woman being good in bed and just being really enthusiastic. What if I’m only the second and not at all the first?
• According to a friend who lived with him after I moved out of our apartment, Reginald likely beat the girlfriend he had after me. He has yet another girlfriend now and I wonder if he’s hurting her. It haunts me because I never called the police on him.
• At the same time, I have to admit I wouldn’t like knowing that I alone summoned that violence from him, like I somehow turned him into something ugly that he’d never otherwise have been. It double haunts me that any part of me is even a tiny bit relieved that he might be torturing another woman.

So many little secrets that I just tuck away while I try to present as clean, sane, pretty. You probably have some too.

That’s why I’ve just launched the Sex Confessional. This is like a lazy, less artistic version of Post Secret: I’ve put up an online form (linked on my top menu bar) where you, I, or your mom can anonymously post sex secrets. I’ll receive a form-generated email with your sex secret, but that email won’t have your email address, name, IP address, or any other identifying feature. When I collect a decent number of them I’ll put them up on my blog and we can all gawk at them in comfort and safety. Trust I have a few horrible ones of my own left to sneak in, but hopefully they’ll be impossible to suss out in the swarm. So get confessing! And spread the word because I want to read absolutely everyone’s anonymous dirt.