Content Warning: processing through the effects of repeated sexual harassment, trauma, and violence; explicit language
I want you to fuck me.
Why is that so difficult for me to say? I like sex. I like getting fucked. I like the way it feels, in my body, in that moment. It’s just sex.
But it’s not, though. Is it? It’s not as simple as that.
The first time I touched a cock, it was when the boy next door pulled his pants down and forced my hand. The second time, it was when my sister’s boyfriend’s cock got hard while he held me on top of him, watching the stars glowing on my ceiling. Four years old. Nine years old. I was already too ashamed of my body to protest.
The memories come fast, like flashes. The guy on the train, flash. The guy walking down the street, flash. I feel disgusting. A piece of meat, raw and bloody. The guy who came to my job, over and over, just to sit and stare at me for hours. Flash.
I want you to fuck me.
But those words don’t mean what they’re supposed to mean anymore. The people who want to fuck me don’t see me as a person. If you want to fuck me, it means you don’t see me as a person. I want you to fuck me. How do I know how you see me?
I’m angry tonight. Angry, and it feels like it’s the first time, even though I know it isn’t. I’ve been angry before, full of rage, trying to pull my own hair out because the human body is not meant to contain so much anger. And shaking, quivering on the slimy, greasy floor of a short-order breakfast joint, hyperventilating. Curled up rocking, praying, numb, under the bathroom sink.
I don’t know how to love this body. I still see shadows dancing underneath my skin.
Flash. The guy on the street corner, in the grocery store, outside the restaurant. Which one is dangerous? Which one should I be wary of? The guy walking drunkenly to the car. The guy in the bar. The other guy in the other bar. Which one is dangerous? My ex, in the movie theater. Again, later, in my tent.
The guy that’s lying in my bed.
Is it you? Is it you that I have to be wary of? Do you want to own me, possess me, conquer me like some trophy? Or worse, am I just convenient, a body that’s willing to spread their legs?
It’s never been about convenience. I don’t even know why I worry about that anymore. It’s always been me.
I am angry because I haven’t been in my own body so long, and I’m not sure I ever learned how to be. I am angry because I am afraid, and I am so fucking tired of being so fucking afraid all the time. Afraid to want, because wanting is consenting to being less of a person. Angry that I don’t know which person it’s going to be next time.
Because there will be a next time. There is always a next time.
I’m angry because I don’t have the right to be angry. I didn’t say no. I didn’t say stop. I didn’t say anything; I just floated away. Drifted. I couched my words in politeness, rejection in apologies. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You stuck your fingers in my cunt and told everyone that I was a whore, but I didn’t want to inconvenience you. I’m angry that I am still so ashamed.
Now, I don’t want to let you see how much I want it. If I end it fast, then my own desire never peaks. You never reach the heart of me, and the heart of me is a bloody, gloriously beautiful thing. I can be a mouth and a cunt and a body, but when you ask me to be a person, a whole person- god. That person doesn’t know how to be wanted.
Just end it fast so you don’t see. I want you to fuck me.
I want to ask you to help me feel good. But then, I have to trust you enough to see me, and people like you who fuck people like me don’t see me. I’m so confused. I’m so fucking angry.
It feels like there are pieces inside of myself that are trying to rip one another to shreds. I’m still standing, which is good. No curled up balls, no tightly clenched muscles. My motor skills are still functioning, and I’m not squeezing my eyes shut and praying to any god that will listen to make it stop.
How can I want you to fuck me? I don’t own my body; I have nothing to offer.
I want, so badly, not to give a fuck. I want, so badly, to let the words slip from my lips: I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me with your hands, and I want you to fuck me with your cock, and I want to relax and enjoy the sensations in my body instead of worrying that my stomach is rolling in a strange way and my nipples are too big and I am taking too long and my orgasm face sometimes looks like I’m dying and, shit, I meant to shave yesterday and you’ve got to be getting tired by now, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t want to have to put in this much effort and so I should end it now, because I want you to fuck me and I can’t relax enough to let you fuck more than this body, which seems to be doing everything wrong anyway, so I should end this soon because what’s the point?
If I don’t, I might let go. I’m very used to people wanting my body, but I have no idea how to trust that you want me. And I’m angry because there is a part of me that knows you do. It’s screaming as loud as it can, inside my head, trying to get me to believe it.
How do I believe it? I want you to fuck me and now, you’re fucking me, and I want to ask for something more, or something different, but that’s not my function here. I am a body. A trophy. A possession. Who am I to want? I exist for your pleasure.
This is not a scene. This is real life.
I want your cock, and I have no idea how to want that, how to ask for that, or how the hell to receive it in this body that doesn’t seem to be put together right but somehow still draws people in and I can’t trust that you are one of the good ones.
I’m angry because I want you to fuck me, and I don’t even know how to be in my fucking body.
[Cross-posted from FetLife]