Rape Recollections

[temira]

The following is all true stuff. I chose not to post it in the Real Rape thread because a) it's going to be long, and b) I don't mind if people ask me sexual questions about it. In fact, that's pretty much why I'm here. As messed up as that is. Moderators - if I'm out of line, I'll accept that with grace.

So. Here goes.

I'm 3, almost 4 when my mom is pregnant again and I ask her where babies come from. God bless her, she told me the truth. So a few weeks later when we're on vacation in some little beach town and the waitress asks, "Where do you come from, little girl," she gets an answer she never expected.

My family was open about sexual matters. No age was too young to get the facts, even if my mind was too young to actually comprehend them. And we were a sex-positive family, too. I was told that sex was something adults do for fun and to love each other.

-----

I'm about 8.

There's a report on the local news about a serial rapist in our town. I ask my mom what a rapist is. "He's a man who makes women have sex," she says.

My mind conflates this new information with the old information about sex being for fun. To me, a rapist is now a man who makes women have fun.

I ride my bike around the neighborhood for hours hoping the rapist will find me, but he never does.

-----

I'm 9. My parents have sent me to stay with my aunt and uncle and cousin for a week over Christmas break.

I remember nearly falling asleep in my aunt and uncle's bed after trying and failing to understand a copy of Scientific American. Sunlight is filtering through the brownish yellow curtains, giving the room a dark kind of glow.

I look up to my uncle, a professor who has taught me a smidgeon about plate tectonics, evolution, psychiatry and other scientific topics. Now he's going to teach biology.

My cousin, male, three months older than me, is here with my uncle. He's explaining to us how boys and girls are different. I already know this stuff, but apparently my cousin doesn't. I take off my pants.

I don't remember much beyond this, other than a suffocating feeling after being tickled by them both.

I don't mention it for 10 years.

-----

19. In college and depressed. Heck, suicidal, even. I don't know why, but I have a sudden memory of that time in my uncle's room. I tell my parents, who insist I'm making it up. Making it up, even though we all know my uncle beats my aunt. Making it up, even though his 30-year-old daughter fled the house as soon as she turned 18 and hasn't been heard from since. Making it up, even though my cousin is an emotional wreck who can't even take care of himself but who insists he is going to marry me and gives me a copy of "The Joy of Sex" for Christmas. But I'm making it up.

I learned that there are some things you just don't talk about.

-----

It's two years later and I've turned my life around. I'm going to college out f state and living off-campus, when I take out an ad to find a roommate.

The man who calls to make an appointment to see it is from Iran. He asks if I'd like to go out to dinner after I show him the apartment. I don't think twice. I'm not the type to be fearful, and even if I am afraid, I rebel against fear controlling what I do.

We get in his pick-up truck and he drives to the other side of town. I wonder where we're going to have dinner. Turns out, it's the Burger King drive-through. I hide my disappointment.

It seems strange that he takes me to his hotel room, but I don't worry about it. We eat our food and watch TV, and when he starts rubbing his hands on my thigh and over my crotch, I freeze. He keeps mauling away at me, and I just sit there, frozen. I don't respond to either tell him to stop or to encourage him, even though my mind is screaming at me to get away.

It's only when he sees me crying that he decides he won't fuck me. He tells me so. But at the same time, he drags my motionless body to the edge of the bed and pulls down my skirt and panties. He rubs himself against the crack of my ass until he cums, then takes me home.

On the drive home, he tells me it's a shame I'm not a Muslim, because "God sees everything you do and he knows you're a bad woman."

I take a shower as soon as I get home. I'm due to fly home tomorrow, and I resolve that I had better pull myself together and not let my parents know that anything bad had happened, because I remember all too well how it went down the last time I told them I had been molested.

-----

About a year later. I've graduated now and I'm living near Miami. I'm also insatiably curious about bondage. I've found a BBS (yes, it's 1995) that specializes in BDSM, and I hang out there all the time - even during work, because bless their souls, they don't know anything about the Internet yet.

A man on the BBS offers to meet me for dinner one night, and I agree. We're meeting at a public place, so it seems safe. I invite him back to my apartment. He comes in with a duffel bag. Don't think anything of it.

He's got a graphic novel of "The Story of O" and asks me if I've read the book. I have. He shows me the graphic novel and we read some of it together. He takes out some cuffs from his bag and shows me how they're just velcro. See how easy it is to open them? Do you want to try them? Of course I do. And nipple clamps? Ever been curious about those? Well, of course I have.

In no time at all, I'm naked down to my panties, hands cuffed behind my back and standing against a wall as he flogs my back. I like it. Like a massage, really.

He tells me to turn around and he starts on my breasts. That's too much - especially with the clamps connected by a chain on my nipples. I try to hold still but I can't. I eventually turn to my side to avoid the flogger. The next thing I know, he's on me. His hands are on my throat, strangling me, and my hands are still cuffed behind my back. I can't do anything to stop him. He's yelling at me - I can't remember the words, but whatever it is, accompanied by his hands at my throat, are enough to convince me my life is in jeopardy. I do remember making a quick calculation in my mind: He is looking for any excuse to erupt in anger. I decide that placating him is the best move. And I'm terrified I won't make it through the night.

He uses my mouth - roughly. I'd given oral before many times, but this was the first time I remember gagging and choking. In fact, I love oral, but I hate him, and I'm just brave enough to do as bad a job of it as I dare. He doesn't seem to notice and cums down my throat anyhow.

After this - I'm not sure what happens for a while. But eventually I'm on my knees on the bed, arms still behind me and the side of my face on the mattress. A feeling of dread. I know what is about to happen. My mind shuts down.

After a while he stops and tells me to stay where I am, and dumbly, I do. He comes back a moment later and starts pushing himself into my ass. I must be dissociating heavily now, because that should have hurt a lot. Instead, I really don't feel much of anything. I'm just not really there.

After it all, he falls asleep on my bed with my hands secured around a post. When dawn comes, he leaves. He's been at my place for at least six hours.

I take a shower and cry on the tiled floor until the water goes cold. I know not to go to police - what chance would I have? It never occurs to me to go to a hospital though, or that I could ask for counseling. On the way to work, I resolve that what has happened won't change me. I won't become fearful or change who I am because of it.

At work, I send an email to a former boyfriend who had been supportive of feminist causes. He writes back that I had been stupid. Again, as with my parents, I learn that there are some things you just don't say.

Even though I know the rape happened, it still feels unreal. At home that night, I see bruises on my neck and know that it really did happen. But for years, much of the night is lost. I remember being scared for my life, but I don't remember why.

-----

Three years ago. I'm in a master's program to become a counselor and for my internship, I'm going through training to work at a crisis intervention center. It works like this: We have a lecture on a topic such as drug abuse, suicide or rape, then we meet in small groups to practice self-disclosure and empathizing with others.

I know the lecture on rape is coming up and I dread it. I know there will be people in my small group with accounts to tell, and I don't know if I can handle hearing it. But then, as the evening of the lecture draws closer, I realize something else.

We're in our small group now, and I talk first. Because if I don't, I don't know what will happen.

"I told myself I didn't want to be here tonight because I didn't think I could handle hearing what has happened to people in our group, but in reality, it's me. It's me."

For the first time, I tell people what happened. All that I can remember of it. And for the first time, I'm believed.

-----

A year later, still volunteering at the crisis center, I take additional training to become a sexual assault survivor advocate. It's one weekend jam-packed with all things rape. And yet, it's not nearly as fun as it sounds.

Somewhere in the 40 hours of talking about rape, rapists, rape statistics, rape trauma and recovery, some of my memories come back. I remember why I was scared for my life. But this matter of memory and forgetting plagues me, and I can't remember chunks of that night, or what happened with my uncle all those years ago.

-----

Today, I'm a counselor who works with survivors of rape, and I've talked with women who have endured a lot more than I did. And as I listen to them tell me about all that they've survived, it occurs to me that I've still never had therapy for my own experiences. I feel like something of a hypocrite.

This matter of memory and forgetting is a common theme. I'm not alone in being haunted with half-memories. Sometimes I obsess over recovering them.

And it's not always in healthy ways. Sometimes - often - I eroticize it. I suppose it's one way to try to get control over what happened to me. But it bothers me, too. I don't particularly want to be turned on by rape, particularly my own. But the fantasies persist. And to be fair, they were there as long as I can remember.

-----

I am haunted by the things I can remember and the things I cannot.

It's why I'm here. It's why I fantasize about the things I do. It's the darkest side of me and the best side. It's the reason I seek to relive my own rape, but also the reason I give free counseling to other survivors. I'm here because I want to understand.

I don't mind questions about my experiences, and I don't mind comments, but I would hope that they would at least be thoughtful ones. I don't feel shame for what happened. I wish I hadn't allowed myself to be as vulnerable as I was, but I was not the one who decided to abuse another. And even though with hindsight, I would never have let him put those cuffs on me, I still don't blame myself for what happened.

But I do wonder what he thought. Did he realize what he was doing? He must have. I've done a lot of bondage play since, and never once did I meet someone who thought it was OK to strangle someone without a lot of negotiation first. And I've never been with someone else who thought nonresponsiveness wouldn't be a big clue that whatever was happening needed to stop right now.

Did he go to my place that night intending to rape? The irony is, I probably would have had sex anyway, but then it would have been my choice, and I wouldn't have been afraid for my life. Is that what he was seeking?

Heck, what are any of us seeking.

[Vigil]

Respect.

[spacer_350]

Temira, very well written, and my respects for surviving and thriving.

[temira]

Thanks, Spacer. There's many who have went through a lot more than I ever did. But I appreciate your words.

[nissanZ350]

thanks for sharing

[harry_c]

Thanks Temira,

Well explained and very believable.

I think you must be a strong person to a lot of people. They don't see you as vulnerable, or in need of support as much as others.

Obviously rape fantasies are standard for most women, but you have the added repulsion/attraction thing that makes it feel dangerous to let your mind go there.

Do you rewrite your experiences when you fantasise? How does it differ to the real event?

[temira]

Sometimes I try to keep it real as I can because I'm hoping to be able to remember more. Sometimes that works, but usually not, and it's frustrating in an intellectual sense - if not in a sexual one. Other times, I build on what happened. He called me up several days later and asked if I wanted to see him again - it's really not that uncommon. I said no, but sometimes I imagine what would have happened if I had said yes, and this usually involves a group of his friends.

[harry_c]

I can't imagine that you back to the state of feeling numb you described when you eroticise it. Do you replace that feeling with fear/excitement, or do you really "go through it again" when you fantasise?

Don't you think it's something you do to distance yourself from the attack rather than remember it?

[temira]

*puts on therapist hat*

Feeling sexually aroused is so much nicer than feeling terrified. So in that sense, it's understandable that I'd want to replace total fear with something much more pleasant. I'm sure that's at the core of it, tangled up there with my long-existing fantasies of being forced.

Perhaps I'm also trying to take control over a situation where I had absolutely no control by making it what I want, instead of what he wants. Although then it's a mystery why the fantasy doesn't end up with him clutching his balls and rolling around on the floor, and me walking out the door. Actually, until I typed that right now, I never even considered that ending. Weird.

At times, though, when fantasizing, the fear does creep back in. That's not pleasant.

[Fla Force Fantasy Man]

Very brave girl...I believe you and you know now it is not your fault. I have encountered female friends who have been raped wanted to act out the rape with a trusted partner because it helps them deal with it better. Perhaps re living it with a sense of control vs no control. That was their reasoning in not only exploring the rape fantasy but also being aroused by it.

Some woman do have orgasms while being raped (in real life) and that I think is more common than it is spoken about but further rips the control away from the victim.

I also think some people (men and women) are naturally submissive and would NEVER want to be raped in real life but would want to be "taken" forcibly in a controlled fantasy environment.

But the main point I wanted you to know is that yes in my experience there are indeed some women who want to explore the fantasy side of rape just for that reason...to explore the experience in a safe place with control.

I also admire you...for taking something bad that happened to you to make it good to make it to help others.

I wish you well...

[spacer_350]

I've been a lurker and then a member of this board for many years. Like you, we all on this board enjoy the fantasy of rape. But Temira, we (mostly) all know and accept it's just fantasy we enjoy. That another person is not an object, but a potential friend --even lover.
That whatever 'scenes' we play, we are playing with a friend. Forget "That Guy" feel sorry for him, he isn't, and never will be a Man.

[Brutalessons]

First off Temira, thank you for sharing in such an open and introspective manner and as well in so eloquently giving a face to the mental processes of the victim... after.

As my title suggests though, I am going to play a bit of devils advocate with regards to your own query/curiosity on this:

"But I do wonder what he thought. Did he realize what he was doing? He must have. I've done a lot of bondage play since, and never once did I meet someone who thought it was OK to strangle someone without a lot of negotiation first. And I've never been with someone else who thought nonresponsiveness wouldn't be a big clue that whatever was happening needed to stop right now."

First, My disclaimer that I cannot KNOW what was in his mind, just second hand hindsight based on the information you have given, so here goes.

In 95 the entire realm of BDSM was still in the shadows, but the internet and BBS's were bringing many of the practices to light. Everywhere you turned it seemed there were "Sr" this and "Master" that as men explored this new realm. There were no guidebooks (except fiction like "The Story of "O" ' so many of these new self styled Dom had little concept of Negotiations, Safewords, or protocols we are all so familiar with today.

Very telling in your narrative is that neither of you discussed these, set upa safeword before beginning playing. The man met you on a site dedicated to Bondage play and made a date with you, to which you consented. His appearing at the door with a fell duffle bag of sex toys was accepted by you as "Norm" and you then gave consent to Play.

When things, for you turned from Pleasure to fear, rather than withdrawing your consent, you instead withdrew into yourself ( an act to Which I automatically give Myself a Yellow light when I observe this). It also appears that as the encounter continued and escalated you remained passive, not sharing to Him your concerns. The Man, in his inexperience could have mistaken this Passiveness as Submission and in fact felt comfortable enough with the encounter to attempt to Make a date for future Play.

As you are familiar withthe jargon of Lifestyle, May I point out the State of Mind known as "Sub-Space" with regards to the comment on non-responsive.
I have stated that I Always give Myself a Yellow light when it becomes obvious that My Sub has "left the Building" and appears unresponsive to stimuli. This is to determine whether what is observed is the so called "Sub-space" or whether it is a result of catatonic withdrawal. I am observant... this guy obviously was not, once more signaling to me gross inexperience.

As Traumatic as the event was for you, it is quite possible that this man is still, to this day oblivious of the fact that you considered it to be rape, and if he is even still involved in the Lifestyle looks back at the event as part of his own learning curve.

Once more, I am not attacking you, nor solely defending Him, simply providing you with a different set of eyes, a different View of events.

Just My 2 cents.