Ancilla L
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One Man Leads To Another.
🕑 Added 2024-02-16 07:36:11 +0000 UTCThe first time I cried during sex was the second time I had sex. Or to be more accurate, the second time sex was had with me. They weren't accidental tears that just roll off the cheek in a streak like the ones you get when you have your nose pierced, but the kind of tears that come out of you aided by the physical act of crying. Retrospectively, I can say there were a lot of reasons to cry, but in that moment I cried because it hurt. There was no fear-induced adrenaline to help me ignore the pain and there was no method that I knew of to get out of it. I realize now that at any time I could have just got up, run out of *my* room into *my* house and insisted the man be removed from my room, because all that stood in my way was a door that I couldn't definitely break down even then, but back then that door was like being caged inside a locked chest. The door held me in, as much as it held out all of society that was waiting to tell me I was a liar and a slut who deserved what was coming to me. I knew that, so I did nothing, I just cried while he fucked me.
And the more it hurt, the more I cried. The more I cried, the more I liked it. The more I liked it, the more aroused I became. And as a result the first orgasm I had from penetration also happened the second time I had sex. I don't remember what I did after, or how it felt, but I remember my general state of being from that year. That year I felt like I was carrying around a shameful secret that hurt me and simultaneously made me long; it made me sick and also made me ravenous. It made me want more and it made me never want anything like that again. It made me want to hide and also be found. I remember being confused all year— wondering how people cared so much about assignments and class tests and lipgloss while I tried to work around the schedule of my mother and the household help to enable letting my rapist into my room. I remember from that point onwards, it was always me who worried about being caught. He expected me to schedule and arrange my own rapes from then on.
And I did it.
There is an objective, linear timeline of events in my head about my life and it tells me that somewhere along the line I fell in love with this man but I cannot see how that could have happened. I hated him. He disgusted me. He robbed me, not only of my agency but, by sleeping with my mother for years on end which ultimately alienated my father to become largely absent, he also robbed me of my family, and more importantly, of the protection that a child comes to expect from a family. Why would I love that man? But I know for sure that I did. I also did go out of my way constantly to ease his access to me.
And it all goes back to the second time I had sex.
He hurt me and made me cry.
This is the strongest case I have for sexuality having a genetic, infallible component that will show itself in an alarmingly particular way. He never beat me, but I wanted him to. He wasn't "violent" but I wanted him to be. I couldn't urge him, I knew nothing about the world of sexual relations and their actual operation. I knew the sex of books, and most books I read lacked any concept of a consent culture. Classic literature is awesome, to study for its flaws in the concepts of civilization and, of course, the beautiful sentencing. Books also lack the practical aspects of sex and the social aspect of how to navigate sexual relations and even if they didn't I'd be hard-pressed to find a book that helped me navigate a sexual relationship with a married rapist pedophile who was in a romantic relationship with my mother. I still haven't found that book, I may have to write it.
So I did what I knew to do, I learnt to love sex because it made me hurt and cry. I learnt to have orgasms on cocks that hurt me and made me feel a sick, painful shame. The year passed and by the end of it I was a completely matured sexual creature. I knew what I liked, I knew what I wanted and I had somehow learnt the confidence to go get anything from any man I wanted. Manipulating and goading men into hurting me made me feel vindicated, and so satisfied. Hurting against the cocks of men I had no respect for made me feel used in the way that I believe good sex still makes me feel. For a brief window, I felt complete control over the pain men dispensed to me and no one could fault me, because I was, after all, a fifteen-year old girl who couldn't possibly be expected to know better. I did, though, I knew better but I didn't care for better. Better was boring.
It was only after eight years (could that be right?) with my ex that I truly wished for better (and it's not even boring!). He did, however, get me to stop having orgasms with a cock in me. When I told him about the man who taught me to cry during sex, he asked me many questions about the sexual relationship. He determined that because I had so many orgasms on that guy's cock, he couldn't have possibly been raping me. And I know, I know, many people have experienced an orgasm in response to rape but I don't know one from amongst these people who had no struggle with it. I know I should have just told him that meant nothing and a lack of control over the responses of my body didn't make me complicit because by that logic any man who can get an erection while being forced to have sex has not been raped. I know that's wrong, I knew it then.
But he hurt me more.
He hurt me more whenever I did come on his cock while he fucked me, and he accused me of liking it too much because he wasn't causing me enough pain to counteract it. I liked the accusation and I liked that it drove him to hurt me. I liked that he wanted to disallow a natural, sexual reaction and replace it with unnatural shame. I liked that he forced me to learn to respond only with fear and tears while he fucked me, my body was already responding only with resistance. He'd fuck me with bottles if I asked to come while he was in me. He'd pull out and fuck my ass if asked. He'd tell me he'd have to leave me for a woman who had more shame than to dare to be more than a sexual vessel. I've never known a man who hated women more than him. He never wanted to be a revelation, always a sentence, to a woman.
He was to me.
Many parts of that sentence were unbearable, but not this one. This one just made me want him more and more, because at the heart of it I do not want to *have* sex, I want to *endure* it. I don't do it just for the moment, but also the sick, painful shame that follows. I never stopped feeling that, I don't believe I ever could. If I didn't I probably wouldn't see reason in fucking anymore. Ultimately, even though it could have been, the way he fucked me is not what caused us to break-up. No, that was a long time coming and a couple of fractures too late.
I still would have missed the way he fucked me, though. I would have if I hadn't already slept with the man who would teach me that's it's okay to cry or come while he fucks me, so long as I am in pain either way. My ex was a mess but he was also a type, and I saw that type in my husband when he first fucked me. When he told me if I was going to get his cock all dirty, he was going to make me cry. My husband is nothing like my ex in most ways, but they have two things in common. They snore just as loud as each other. They also fuck me to make me cry.
I like that.
I know no other way, anyway.
