The key to my lock

I don't wanna post this on tumblr cause this feels a bit too dark and gruesome, too personal and too private. But I need to vent it just the same, so I put it here. It also led me to yet another important realisation.

I really wish I hadn't been raped. It fills me with such sadness today. I'm still turned on by fantasies of random men raping me, and it makes me feel so horrible. Like the fantasies themselves make me wanna crawl out of my skin, cry and go to sleep. They gross me out, scare me and make me nauseous. And they give me the saddest orgasms. I don't know how to break that chain. I don't wanna cum from those fantasies, I don't want them in my head.

It takes more and more effort to even make myself masturbate when those fantasies rape my mind. And those orgasms come almost right away, within a couple of minutes. But they make me feel like shit.

This time I was out for a smoke on my balcony when one of those intrusive fantasies popped up. I've had similar ones before, but not very recently. It's a dystopic future fantasy of a society where it's been decided that everyone has to offer sex to anyone who wants to fuck them, by law, as in no form of discrimination is legal, including sexual. And of course a lot of unwanted, creepy, straight men start going after all the women they want to fuck. And the women can't say no. Of course then one of those sleezy guys comes up to me and demands sex. And I'm repulsed, both in the fantasy and in real life, but at the same time extremely turned on.

I finished the cigarette when the guy in my fantasy tells me I have to take him to my bedroom and he tells me to undress. In reality I lied down on my bed and slipped down my pants, reached for my vibrator and positioned it. In the fantasy the guy again tells me to undress while my entire being tells him to stop. I do not want this. But I undress for him in my mind, reluctantly, and lie down on my back on a bed. He tells me to masturbate until I'm wet, then asks me if I'm wet. I checked with my fingers in reality and tell him yes as I reached for my dildo. He lies on top of me in my mind and the dildo is his dick as I push it inside myself. I came within half a minute, but remained in the bed just lying like that for a few minutes, struggling to get back up again.

It feels like depression right after that kind of orgasm. It feels like I'm suddenly completely dead inside. It feels like I am being raped by my own mind, and I can't excape it.

Yes, realising I'm a lesbian changed everything. And I'm not too happy about it. I can't pretend to like these fantasies anymore. I can pretend that I invited them into my mind freely, when it's so obvious now that they break down the door and take me by force. When I finally started saying no but they don't care. That's when it started to really affect me badly. Cause I started resisting them but they don't take no for an answer. The horniess I feel for them feels like my body betraying me. I hate the fantasies, the men in them gross me out, I don't want to look at them, I don't want them to touch me or fuck me.

But take me, I'm their whore and slave, I guess. All I can do is keep spreading my legs cause it won't stop. But it's affecting me worse and worse. I don't know what it will lead to, eventually.

I feel like my rapist took my lesbianism away from me. And not even now that I finally know I'm gay, not even now, can I have it. Cause I'm being forced to fuck men in my fantasies. The terror and pain he created within me is repeating itself like a nightmare stuck on a loop, again and again, that I can't wake up from, and it's slowly turning me into stone.

Cause it doesn't matter what I think or do, or how much I'd rather think about some cute and sexy woman playing with my pussy and me playing with her pussy instead. Or just sit on a pack of ice until I can't feel my aroused pussy anymore. It almost makes me wanna die. When I get so horny from such an intrusive fantasy that just keeps playing in my head and I get so aroused I can't stop myself from getting rid of the feeling by masturbating to orgasm. It makes me almost want to die when I cum from that. Like it sucks the life force out of me and I struggle to move, think or feel anything at all.

And I'm just lying there. One minute longer for each time, cause I feel so empty I might as well just be a shell.

I would never be turned on like that, or at all, by a man in real life. I never have been. And I don't at all get turned on by "healthy sex" fantasies of men. It's only the rape (and mutilation) fantasies, and they carve out my will to live, cause I feel like my own mind has just raped me. And I know it's because I was raped in reality, all those years ago, cause I know that feeling by experience. What it feels like to have just been raped. I felt like my body had been turned inside out, numb yet hurting, moderately dissociating and extremely disconnected fromy my body. As if I didn't even have a body but just a head floating around in the air. It reminds me of an audiobook I have and listened to a few times. It's about a girl who's a victim of sex trafficking and gets involved in a series of crimes that some detectives try to solve. Sometime in the beginning of the book the writer describes how she, and her friend who's also stuck in the same kind of life (they're "colleagues" I guess), deal with the sex they have with the clients who pay for them. The main character girl describes it as that she "doesn't have a body" but is just a head, and her friend desacribes it as that she "only has a body" but it's not real what's happening. And sadly, both of those describe really well how I've handled my entire sex life.

My dysphoria, that I used to have, of course also confused me in my "attraction" to men. I thought it was because of my dysphoria that I dissociated during sex. It wasn't. That was also because I wasn't into the men and cause I was actually grossed out by being fucked by them. I thought it was my own body that grossed me out, when in fact it was their bodies that did.

I never had any such dark sexual fantasies before the rape. I'm yet again in a phase of being angry at my rapist for having done that to me, and slightly hating him for it. I try not to hate him, to not fuel that fire. Cause it only leads to more pain. I gain nothing from hating him. But I do hate him, cause it feels like he ruined my sex life and took my lesbianism away from me. Well he did, in a sense, didn't he? Like he lit a small flame in a fire stove, but the flames spread and burned down the entire house. My home.

I wanna rip his guts out for it, and choke him with them. But I know not even that would be enough, nothing would, and that's why revenge just never is an a good idea. But fuck I still hate him for ruining my life, and it makes me want to ruin his. But justice is an illusion. It will never feel fair for me, no matter what I could conceivably put him through. It wouldn't solve a damn thing.

But for all its worth... I think he just made me even gayer. Cause he gave me quite a strong distaste for men, making me properly disgusted by even just the thought of sex with men, while the thought of sex with other women, and romance, stands out like a beautiful garden amidst a war torn landscape. That's how I see what I feel women versus what I feel for men, sexually and romantically. It's that strong of a contrast. But just to clarify that I don't idealise my love for women: beautiful gardens do tend to have some sharp thorns, nasty bugs and weeds too. But it also feels like I'm trying to grow that garden with my love for women and wanting to heal my sex life, on what is currently a war torn landscape. But I have to bury the remains of fallen soldiers, collect the broken weapons and landmines, and wash the blood from the ground first. Right now I can't make anything grow there.

Of course I can't know what it would have been like if I had never crossed paths with my rapist, but I don't think I would have been quite this fucked up if I had never been raped. For every single guy I had sex with, it was trying to find my rapist in them. But none of them were even close to as bad as him. None of them cruel enough to treat me like he did... to my utter disappointment.

Something just hit me... Oh my god, I never thought it was an important detail but fuck I've been wrong... When I was raped, he didn't actually quite manage to get his dick inside me, cause my pussy locked up or spasmed or something. It does that sometimes when I'm tense and scared, and it did that during that evening with him. But he kept trying and and pushing his dick against the opening of my vagina until I started bleeding. It hurt really bad and it was clearly against my will, and I had given him my complete lack of consent. But no, he didn't actually manage to get inside me.

But that's good, right? No... it wasn't.

I always felt like it "wasn't actual rape" cause he didn't get it inside me, so I always went with the slightly altered story that he did get it in. But why is that important, all of a sudden? Because for every guy after him... I wanted for it to be my rapist finishing his job, of actually penetrating and cumming inside me, which he never did. Because that's what I had decided would have been "real rape" and it fucked with me. On all possibly imaginable levels.

It's important because I just realised I wasn't trying to repeat the rape... I was trying to finish it.

Cause on some fucked up level I felt ashamed that my vagina locked up for him, that it wasn't "real" rape because of that, but almost. Very, very almost. And that "almost" pissed me off, it dragged me to hell and beyond hell. In my world things just have to be either or and fit into a category, and if I can't fit something into any category, I take the closest fit and shove it in with brute force, crying and screaming that it has to work. I was trying to "finish" the rape with other men so that it would fit into the category of rape. Somehow. I dunno what the hell went completely short circuit in my brain there, but yeah... that's what I did. I couldn't undo the rape, obviously, so I tried to finish it for him with other men instead, fill in the gap... Okay, that pun was not intended. (What the hell, brain?)

And that's what became of my entire sex life, for the past 12 years. The longest trauma I've ever endured so far. He started it. I continued from where he left off.

So that little detail that I kept deliberately leaving out cause of shame... of course that's the key itself. The key I've kept trying to unlock my vagina with. That metaphor... it fits too perfectly to be true. It gives me chills. It all just makes me so sad. And that I missed out on my lesbianism almost entirely cause I was so obsessed with literally trying to fulfill my rapist's desire! Cause I guess in my mind he would have wanted to fuck me until he'd cum inside me... and I've kept wishing he had done that. Cause I'm haunted by that it wasn't enough to count as rape and that I shouldn't feel so hurt by it cause it was "less serious" than the "real rape" I've always claimed it to be. I still wish he had raped me properly. What does that say about me, my damaged mind? I think it just means that I'm craving, yearning, dying for... closure.

I think that's why I've kept fantasising about having consensual sex with him, and why I keep wanting to reunite with him. I think I want for him to rape me again, but properly this time. Or I mean if I'd actually seek him out and want sex with him, it wouldn't technically be rape, but as I'm not even remotely into him, and I'd only want it because he once raped me and I want closure from that... it's in a category of its own beyond consensual and rape and anything in between. It's not attraction, love, care or pleasure that pulls me towards him sexually, but something else entirely.

Could I possibly get pleasure from fucking him though? Well I guess hypothetically that would be possible if he or I would stimulate the right spots and I'd be able to relax enough, but somehow I think I'd be filled with too much fear and disgust to enjoy it much. But as I said, it's not pleasure that pulls me towards him, but closure. I think what I really want with that... is to make peace with him, as well as with myself. Cause it feels like I'm in a constant state of being unable to sleep the night after a fight. And thus, I want to go back to him and settle the argument. It might be a little bit unorthodox... and very dangerous... but I actually believe that it could work, in the sense that it could give some kind of closure to go to bed with him freely, not forced. The thought of it makes me feel a glimpse of relief.

Hmm... it appears I still enjoy my sexual fantasies about him, and that I'm not particularly disgusted by his image in my mind. Not even his dick. I did just masturbate to a fantasy of him, and I didn't feel much of that mortal dread after orgasming. Just a bit of sadness and a bit of emptiness, but not so bad. Cause I also felt some relief. And like... I can allow myself that, if I want to. He seems to be the only man that I like fantasising about and that I don't feel bad about thinking of that way. It is consensual with him in my fantasies, often me taking the initiative and even leading him during the sex, so it feels like I'm in control. But there's no lust or attraction, and I think that's why I'm fine with it. I don't have any other reason to possibly want to fuck any other man, like why would I? But him, I have a special connection to in my mind, which makes him the only exception. And I think I'm still gay despite that exception, cause I'm not into him, or any other man. Cause he's the only guy I'd wanna fuck despite not being attracted. Because he once raped me, and no other guy ever has.

But about that rape in general, I think I'm just so desperately trying to heal a wound that I've resorted to aggressively stabbing it, only making it worse and then screaming at it "why won't you fucking heal?!" so yeah that's going great.

But for all those years I couldn't find him again and didn't dare to call or text that number he once gave me... so I reached for other men. But I kept thinking it had to be him again for it to work. He is the only man who holds the key to my locked up pussy. Because he was the one to lock it. Does that make sense, somehow? I'm not attracted to him, I clearly don't love him in any capacity, but I yearn for him. Like that string of blood in that poem, I feel a certain connection towards him that I can't quite manage to describe. Because I do not understand that connection. What it means, what it wants, or even what it is. Perhaps... it's some kind of Stockholm Syndrome that I've developed for him.

Well he was my abuser. And ever since I left him I've kept clinging to my memory of him, and my altered versions of it. But the more time that passes, the more honest and truthful the story I tell becomes. As I bit by bit let go of my shame and dare to look myself in the eye. There's so much about that one evening that I've struggled to admit happened, that I've felt ashamed by, that I've kept to myself for years before daring to mention, that I've altered to something I think fits the story better to then years later alter back to what actually happened, and so on. Because it was probably the longest evening of my life, packed with details which seemed insignificant at the time but turned out to all have their own very important meanings.

Perhaps I still on some fucked up level want to have sex with him. Even though I'm not into him that way. My trauma bleeds for him. Like a broken cyborg running back to its creator to get fixed, but it was the creator that broke the cyborg. But the cyborg is programmed to always run back to its creator whenever it's been damaged. I feel like my rapist is my creator and that I need to run back to him to get fixed. But because it was him who broke me, I can't trust he could fix me, cause he might just damage me even more.

I feel drawn to the very source of my issues. My mind has decided that's the solution that I need, even though it's irrational and would probably be very dangerous to actually try to do. He could hurt me badly if I'd actually approach him in real life. Cause I have a sensation that he would recognise me, at least subconsciously and react emotionally to my presense, even if he wouldn't recognise me by my looks. I'm not sure I would recognise him by his looks. I can't remember his face anymore, but I do remember his body language, his scent and his laughter. But those things alone might not be enough to catch him in a crowd. If I will actually do it, though? I don't know. Gotta find him first.

I both hate him and I want him. He ruined my life and I want to give him my body. Should I really reward him for that, ahaha... yeah, perhaps I should... thank him, for something. Something I don't quite know what it is, but something within me nods at the idea of thanking him. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but that's just the nature of trauma.

But I found the key. What I've been looking for, what I've been trying to accomplish with all my unhealthy sex with men I never wanted. I figured it had a lot to do with the rape, more so than the other of my traumas, but I didn't know it was entirely because of the rape. Well, now I know.

One last thing: I didn't betray myself by having sex with men. I shouldn't blame myself for the tragedy that my rapist created. Even though he only created that tragedy indirectly. I would not have done that if he hadn't raped me. I did it because of him.