Okay, this is probably the hardest post I have felt compelled to write. Where do I start? I wish I could express it in a poem but alas, I cannot. Some people I may know might go -HOW CAN I WRITE ABOUT THIS? SO PUBLICLY ? Well, feel free to stop reading right now and go and carry on living in your perfect world of whispers of your true thoughts behind covered hands.. Embarrassed to be authentic to you or anyone else. – Go gossip. Does this face look bothered?
So, here it is. When I was young and innocent I naturally,like most people do, experimented with finding ways to pleasure myself. I can still remember the orgasms I had. The pulsating in my vulva. The beating in my heart, blood racing furiously around my entire body.
As I grew up I came to know that I was abused by my step father and I can’t remember all the details. One memory is all I have: I remember being tied up -hands bound together with a ball if string and someone/him pushing pens up my private parts. I only have this image and I sometimes think I made it up or did it to myself. Something must have happened because one night,I was getting undressed to take a bath and my mother saw there was blood all over my tiny 5 year old sized knickers. There was an investigation. Faces coming in and out like breathing in and out of a paper bag. Mouths moving. No sound.A deaf mute. I could not speak. My Mum and I fled my ex step father in the middle of the blackest night. Why couldn’t Muffet come with? Why did she have to stay with that man who used to beat us?
I cried.I love animals. I spent a few years living with my Nan in South Africa when my Mum was too ill to look after me. This was in the days when she was a ‘manic depressive’ -so ‘crazy’ that the only cure was ECG. It wasn’t her fault she was so ill. I had normal friendships. I had my first kiss and felt the butterflies. The pulsating throb to explore some more. Experiment.
Some where and at some point I started using drugs and seeking out Anorexia. My family bar my Mother and Nan turned their backs away from me. I was a problem. An enfant terrible. Incurable and incapable of lifting my brides veil to protest to a union with the devil. I read somewhere that lace seeks to expose and reveal at the same time. I just like that statement so I have put it into this post.
My teenage years were ones in which I stumbled in a haze of drugs and men. I was raped three times and sexually assaulted many times. I was too drugged up to know or care. Some may say I had it coming but what can I do about that now? Accept it and move one. The last time I felt able to orgasm and completely let my wild sexual being let loose, was the night I had sex with J in the swimming pool. 15/16 years old.
Anorexia was creeping it’s way in, like wet clay, into my mind. Each hour, each day it hardened and became more cemented and difficult to shift. I was lucky enough to have a few men who wanted to be with me/date me in my 20’s. I couldn’t reciprocate. I was an ice queen. Detached. I didn’t want to be used. All men were out for themselves and would hurt me. Ironically, I could only get drunk and gravitate towards men that I knew could abuse me, to the very core of my being. It got to the point where I got stuck in a viscous , degrading and a ‘make your bed you lie in it’ situation.
Yes, their were a spectrum of lovely blues, purples and yellow colours punched on me like a stamp to pretty me up. I couldn’t see the colours in my black and white world as much as other people could. People gasped when they saw me. Looked away. What is wrong with these people?
Things got messier one night. I was three months pregnant at the time. We had been out drinking ( that’s the truth- judge me I don’t give a shit) The ex got it into his head that I had been flirting with other guys and he assaulted me in the street. I wanted to go stay anywhere as long as it wasn’t with him but I had my cat at his house. This was one of the million times we tried to live together. I was terrified he would torture her or take out his anger on her.
So, I went home with him and he went upstairs and got into bed and I got into bed. I was trying to tell him: I didn’t do what he thought I was doing. He threw me off the bed and got up and opened the wardrobe doors and started ripping the clothes from the hangers and onto the floor. I begged him too stop. To love me again. To forgive me for what ? I don’t know. I couldn’t handle him freezing me out.
His idea of forgiveness was to grab and throw me onto the bed and take me from behind and with each thrust he counted from 10 down to 1 -I needed punishing, he said. Once the sun had made an entrance. We were sat at his kitchen table and I told him it felt like he had raped me. I said STOP. He was shocked and started to cry. He didn’t mean for it to come across like that.
He had warped ideas of love and sex and because I had forgotten what love and respect and sex was truly about, I indulged in his fantasies – hard core porn and a bunch of unnatural shit that doesn’t interest me. I was always drunk when we slept together. I was always the one who couldn’t relax and felt I had to pleasure him -all the time.
Sex was brutal and mechanical.
I remember pouring my heart out to him one night. About my past with men and drugs. His cure!
His advice to help me‘let loose’ enough to enjoy sex again was simply this:
Use my body as your temple’
Cheers, great advice. So much happened I can’t bare to carry one writing about what went on.
The truth is no matter who I slept with or didn’t, I couldn’t arouse anything but a dull knock of a hammer nailing me into a state of numbness. I never sweated, I never felt my heart drumming in my chest. I told men to stop – when the feeling of what could be an orgasm had started. I got it into my head that every time I tried to just be in the moment and I could feel some kind of stir , some kind of bubbling, a feeling, I couldn’t enjoy it and I had this sensation to go to the toilet.
I gave up on the whole idea that sex could ever be enjoyable. I have felt like some carnival freak for many years. Why can’t I let go? Why can’t I enjoy one the most natural and purest feelings that sex expels so exquisitely from the body?
I don’t want to embarrass any one. I have to write what is true to me. What is in my heart and mind. I found my husband to be. The one I am marrying in June and he has been so patient with me. I still sometimes turn into a skittish deer, every time I think he wants to make love.
Make love? My brain won’t stop analysing to enjoy it.
Slowly, very slowly we are building up a more equal and loving sex life where I’m not treated with kids gloves.
I am loved.
I am alive.
I am made to feel like a goddess.
My mind has started to take a back seat. My body moves with his- so natural and primitive. I’m finding that by my true sexual self being basked in true love and respect. I radiate with pure desire and want, My soul is willing to be dominated in a way that doesn’t make me feel like a whore,in a vacant toilet cubicle, with a hole carved into the side wall of the cubicle -a perfect place for a whore to such any anonymous cock for a few pennies.
I’m working on myself.
I just want to be wild , free – to sweat, embrace the musky scent that emanates from two bodies – writhing, to their made up rhythmic , hypnotic beat. Each body part finds an instinctive way to place itself and just fits. I want my body to remember that sex is about me enjoying the act too. I’m getting there. No drugs , no alcohol , no manipulation but true patience, love,trust and instinct.
Shit am I brave enough to post this?
Well, I guess so because you are reading it. I’m sure I can’t be the only person alive that has experienced a feeling of nothingness when it comes to sex….. Well, I’ve put myself in the most vulnerable position ( excuse the pun) that I ever have with writing.
Am I ashamed ?
Why shouldn’t I discuss something as natural as sex, emotions and orgasms. I’m not living in the Victorian era. I am a woman , a proud feminist with my own sexual needs. I’m learning to let go. Stop clock watching. Stop making sure the only person to get pleasure out of the act of love is someone that is not me.