I walked out to the living room in my brand new back-to-school outfit…that one I’d searched for tirelessly while shopping with my father the day before. It was my first jean mini-skirt. Frosted and just above the knee, it buttoned all the way down the front. With it, I wore an off-the-shoulder white crop sweater and a tank top beneath, showing just one strap.
My mother took one look at me and told me to go change.
“I’m not sending my daughter to school looking like a whore.”
I don’t think I stopped crying until well through first period English.
I was 16, lying in my boyfriend’s brother’s messy bed in a trailer on the wrong side of town. I was in love, and as my legs spread for him, I thought I was prepared. But no one is prepared for a too-large cock, un-lubed, to enter a never-before-penetrated teenage vagina. He went slowly, believing himself gracious and careful. Not knowing otherwise, I thought he was, as well.
He pushed himself into me, further and further, as I bit my lips and the insides of my cheeks to keep from protesting. I didn’t know enough to know that if I’d simply relaxed it would have been less painful. He didn’t know enough to know that if he’d simply used lubricant, I might have enjoyed it as much as he did. Neither of us knew enough to be doing what we were doing. But we did it anyway.
I cried silently beneath him, digging my nails into his biceps and his back, which surely he read as a sign that I was enjoying myself. He rode me until he came, and then he rolled off of me, removed his condom, and threw it in the garbage can in the corner of the room.
I covered myself with a sheet, bit back tears of pain and disappointment, and hoped that this wasn’t really what sex was like.
I don’t remember much about that day…only that we had driven out to a place where a lot of kids went to get high and make out. It was a Sunday afternoon, and no one else was there.
He had a VW microbus…and he was a little “off” that day. Maybe he’d forgotten his meds…maybe he’d already started using meth, which would shortly thereafter be the cause of our break-up.
He asked me to lay down in the back of the bus. He’d cleared out the seats to make it easier to use the vehicle for just this purpose.
I told him I didn’t really want to, in the daylight like this, out in public…what if someone found us?
He assured me we were fine. He told me to lay down and close my eyes.
I did it. Naked. Feeling the dirt and grime rub into the my skin.
And I changed my mind. I told him I didn’t want to do this.
But he climbed on top of me, with his pants around his ankles and pushed himself between my legs.
“It’ll be fine…” he said.
I turned my face away and went limp.
It was a beautiful, sunny day outside. I remember that, more than anything. And I could hear the water rushing in the river nearby.
He wasn’t himself. But neither was I. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost my voice.
It was a hotel party I shouldn’t have been at, but I was. A freshman among seniors, and most of them were already drunk.
I walked in, holding my best friend’s hand, my other hand adjusting the fallen spaghetti strap on my tank top.
He was my ex-boyfriend’s best friend…a boy I thought I knew decently well. He smiled at me, put his arm around me and pulled me away from my friend.
“Come on…let’s get you a beer…”
I don’t know how much I drank, and I don’t remember how I ended up making out with him on the hotel bed in the midst of dozens of people. Or how I found myself between the wall on the bed, between his legs with his dick in my mouth, the faded comforter the only thing shielding our actions from the rest of the room.
I do remember trying to pull my face away from him. And I do remember him grabbing the back of my head, a fistful of my hair between his fingers, forcing my mouth open wider and wider. I remember the feeling of his cock against the back of my throat. Gagging. Tears. Choking.
I remember being terrified that I’d never breathe again.That I’d die with a dick in my mouth on the floor of a hotel room full of drunk teenagers.
But it was worse.
The next day…I was simply a slut. So easily whittled down to one word, the rest of my identity discarded.
I straddled him in the back of my car, kissing his lips, his ears, his neck. I was on fire with desire…my thighs tight as I ground my sex into his through our jeans.
He put his hands of the back of my shirt and I felt his nails dig into my flesh. He dragged them down my spine, around my waist, up my belly.
My back arched with the sensation, my body electrified and confused by the pleasure I felt as he dug into my skin.
He ran his nails down my arms…across my thighs…and I bucked against him, knowing I’d come this way…knowing that all he had to do…was hurt me…in this controlled, dedicated way.
“Have you ever tried anal?”
“Do you want to?”
“Come on…let’s just try it…I’ll be gentle.”
I found myself with my ass in the air, face pressed into to the uncovered mattress. I could feel him spreading my ass cheeks, the heat of embarrassment burning my face. He stuck his finger inside of me, and I constricted around him, every part of my body working together to expel him. But he didn’t give up. He pushed in two fingers, pulsing them in and out a few times.
Without lube, it hurt, and I could feel the jagged nails of his fingers scraping inside of me.
He removed his fingers, spread my cheeks wide and spit on my asshole. I found it degrading and humiliating, but I remained silent, hoping the whole affair wouldn’t last long.
He rubbed the spit around my asshole, pressed his fingers into me again a few times, and then I felt the head of his cock pushing into me. He had to push hard, and because I was tensed, the pain was increased. He only shoved himself into me a few times before he gave up.
“I’m going to rub off the skin of my dick if I keep at it. I could pick up some lube and we could try it again later?”
“I don’t think so.”
I hid my tears from him, got up, washed my face, dressed, and went back to my dorm room.
I felt the pain for the rest of the day.
The prompt for this week’s Erotic Journal Challenge was “Hurt” and the questions were: Have you ever been hurt sexually (physically, emotionally, mentally)? How do you think this impacts your sexual likes/dislikes, what you gravitate toward or what you shy away from, when it comes to sex?
Above, are a few vignettes of times I’ve been hurt sexually, either physically or emotionally or both. I’d say from the earliest, the first vignette about my mother’s judgement, I’ve had difficulty with my self-concept sexually. Until I was well into my twenties, I dressed very conservatively all the time. I didn’t show cleavage or wear short skirts. I pretty much kept my body hidden and felt that if I didn’t, I was somehow improper and would be judged as such. Dressing sexily to go out, even now, can be a challenge. While I don’t have a problem wearing tight jeans or a semi-low-cut shirt, my definition of “sexy” is very different from my husband’s. He loves it if I dress up “slutty sexy”…a super short skirt that shows off my thigh-highs, platform heels, a very low-cut shirt, form-fitting dresses. I still have a hard time going out in public like this.
Sexually speaking, I had difficulty with anal sex until I had it with my husband. It seems stupid to think about it now, but since I’ve learned how to relax and we ALWAYS use lube (duh), I find anal sex highly enjoyable now, even if I DON’T like to talk about it. I will say that the first time we tried it, I did have the above-described moment in my head and I was reticent. But, love and trust do a lot to break down barriers and past hurts.
As for the moment of pain that I enjoyed in the back of the car…there are little whispers of it that still get to me…a rough hold…my hair being pulled…being almost choked as he holds me down. There is the hint of a pain slut living inside of me, but I’ve yet to really get to know her all that well. I do notice that when Mr. D does hurt me in these controlled ways, I come quickly in response.
As for the situations where I was forced or coerced? Well…they were indeed hurtful times. And I’m sure my self-esteem took a major hit. I found these times more humiliating than anything else, and I think that is why I don’t find the idea of being humiliated as part of a D/s dynamic very appealing. I don’t like to be called derogatory names or treated as if I am less than. So even though I am submissive to Mr. D, he doesn’t do this much.
I still have a difficult time handling “forced” blow-jobs…the rough-holding and hair-pulling…a cocking pushing down my throat. It pretty much always elicits tears and an underlying feeling of dread and shame.
I think, looking back, that I just didn’t have a lot of self or sexual confidence. I did things for boys that I thought would make them like me or want to be with me. I gave things up to get acceptance, rather than doing things because I personally wanted to do them. In fact…I did that until well in to my late twenties.
I did go through a phase, in my late twenties, where I went out and just hunted and fucked whatever I wanted and then threw it away. I was border-line cruel during this time. But, I think I was desperately trying to establish my sexual power in opposition to what had happened in my past. I was trying to take back what I had let be taken from me.
Then I met Mr. D. And something shifted inside of me. I honestly think that the day I met him face to face (after some time of corresponding on the internet), the healthy submissive side of me took root and began to grow. It’s still growing, but now…as an adult, I have control of my sexuality. I own it. What power I give, I give willingly and intentionally.