My Sexual Assault From This Year

October 18, 2016

[Trigger warning: This post includes details of sexual assault.]

The (second) time I was assaulted by him.

It was surreal. It felt like I was in a soundproof(-ish) (maybe even visual-ish-proof) box.

I’d said words out loud…

And everything I said was either completely ignored, or was (legitimately) laughed at, and on and on.

Also, oof. I am *terribly* embarrassed to admit this. Don’t tell anybody. 😉 But, I even cried as it was happening.

It was like, “Am I speaking English? … Am I showing normal human emotion clearly here? Because I’m preeeetty sure I’m doing both of those things.”

And yet, none of it was respected in the least.

I don’t know a better word for that event than surreal.

…A question that could come up here (and sometimes does) is why didn’t I physically fight him (instead of merely recoiling and crying and such)?

Well, for one thing, as I said, it was surreal. It was as though I didn’t even understand what was happening, or how it was getting so out of control so quickly, or why it seemed like I could not be heard.

I found it hard to react to that situation, when I was still trying to figure the situation out.

In my head, I was punching against that imaginary box I was trapped in. (While in real life, I think I was pretty much frozen in shock and fear.)

I vividly remember screaming in my head, “I hate you right now.” (I know hate is a mean and strong word, and I try not to use it a ton… But that sentence was rocketing through a megaphone in my mind…) But my body didn’t move…

Because, for another thing, I was legitimately afraid of him.

(I’m honestly still a little afraid of him…. I mean, I’m facing that fear enough/ignoring it enough to write about my experience… But I’m afraid, still.)

And I was afraid as it was happening – too afraid to fight back.

When it was over, I immediately got up from the bed and walked away in a trance with empty eyes, still just trying to process what in the world was happening.

He followed me into the shower and started to touch me again, saying, “Now that we got me off, let’s get you off.”

Ugh. I get sick thinking about that even now…

He spoke as if what had just happened was anything I’d wanted at all… As though everything that was happening was 100% normal… as if me being in tears (and saying out loud that that was because I was uncomfortable with him) was just not a big deal at all…

In fact, he even said (as I tried desperately to explain how upset I was), “Everybody cries during sex! It’s not a big deal! It’s totally normal. Sex brings up all these hormones and emotions. Everybody cries during sex, Aurora.”


I’d never cried during sex before in my whole entire life. Nothing about it felt “normal.”

So, back to the shower. I stood frozen there for a moment as he looked in my eyes, and he gave me a little half smile, and started touching me.

I can still see his face so vividly… Sometimes, weirdly, I have more of a nightmare about the shower where he acts like everything is fine, than of the act itself. I was looking at him with my lifeless eyes, as I leaned against the shower door – feeling like I didn’t even have enough energy to stand upright – as he reached out one hand to touch me and play with me.

And I felt completely numb. It was like, I could see what was happening in front of my eyes. I knew his hand was down there. But I just couldn’t feel anything. I don’t know what other word to use other than numb.

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[Edited to add (for potentially detail or clarity, though I think is extraneous, so you can skip it if you want – especially if you don’t want to hear the word orgasm 500,000 times): I didn’t know what to do. I had nothing left. For a split second, I thought, “If somehow you can get excited by this… If maybe you can orgasm, or even pretend to orgasm, this will probably all stop – all this hurt and pain and everything… all his condescension and everything… If you can end this morning in a “normal” way, if you can make it more okay now, maybe things will be okay… Maybe he’ll stop relentlessly making fun of you for not orgasming while you were crying in distress, if you orgasm (or even if you can pretend to!) right now.
(And, even though it probably doesn’t matter, I had already orgasmed multiple times that morning. He shouldn’t be making fun of me either way about it. It would’ve never been nice or appropriate to tear me down deeply in the way he was. But it seemed especially odd, as I’d orgasmed plenty (both that very morning and also through our whole time together). He didn’t have to act like I was incapable, or had a deficiency, or that there was something wrong with me that I didn’t orgasm when a man is assaulting me.)
Anyway, getting back to what we were saying about orgasming, or pretending to, and that maybe helping – I’m not a person who pretends to orgasm. That’s not an “Aurora” thing. Yes, yes, I’m a great actress and all [*winks, fans self*], but in this moment, after feeling like some of my humanity was taken away, it just didn’t feel like the time to try to pull off my first fake orgasm. And I’m kind of an awesome orgasmer who can usually do it quickly and under many circumstances, if I do say so myself [*dusts shoulders*]. But I had nothing left. I could do nothing. I couldn’t even stand on my own, I was so empty. So, I don’t know how I was gonna pull out an orgasm, like normal. Alas, it just didn’t seem to be a route I could go.]

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He looked at my lifeless eyes and practically limp body and said, “I can’t tell if what I’m doing is good.” And I finally found some more strength inside myself, and pulled away, leaving the shower, walking back into the other room.

As he followed me, I tried to tell him how exceptionally wildly uncomfortable/upset I was… And even still, I tried my best to tell him in the calmest manner I could. I was a little riled up. But I didn’t scream or attack him or anything… I just kind of had a little trouble breathing, and kind of said please a lot, I think… But I was as calm as I could reasonably be in that situation (which shockingly was pretty calm overall).

And even in the midst of being as civil as I possibly knew how to be, even on that exceptionally upsetting day, he told me, “You think you’re upset about this. What you’re really upset about is [insert some random thing here]. He did that a lot that day – in the bed, after the shower… He did it in general in our time together, but he did it multiple times that morning, no matter how many times I tried to voice that I’m upset because you are making me uncomfortable… “You’re upset about [a close friend of mine getting a routine test at the hospital, which really didn’t bother me all that much – as, of all the people who’d know hospitals are safe, it’s me].” “You’re upset about [maybe not doing so hot in your class at BMI].” “You’re upset about [mention anything to fill in this blank, as long as it doesn’t have to do with him – even if I very explicitly say I’m uncomfortable because of him.

“You think you’re upset about this. What you’re really upset about is….” That’s how he phrased it…

Him saying that sentence is him ignoring me, and dictating my emotions/concerns in basically the most literal way he could’ve.

Yeah, I know. *shivers.*

I should’ve been more self-respecting (and more feminist!) than to just take at face value the man who thinks that I might be mis-reading my own emotions… Because I actually did stop for a minute and think, “He’s so sure… Is he maybe right?” And that’s embarrassing that apparently some part of me thought I can’t possibly know for myself, or express clearly, what I am (rightfully) upset about. Gah!

Goodness, there’s a lot more to talk about.

But at least we got through this main story…

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[Edited to add: It might be confusing how it got to that point (of the start of this story). After all, I went over with the intention of having sex with him, right? (Right.) And we did have normal, consensual sex before the assault happened.

We’d been fighting a lot that week – and even that night that led into that fateful morning (mainly about me feeling so talked down to, but about other stuff that surrounded that too… And it certainly didn’t help that he’d already assaulted me once).

I came over with the intention of finally talking out all these little fights we’d been having – I even organized my thoughts in actual physical notes (because he asked me to), and I stayed very calm as I tried to have a normal conversation to get on the same page…

But instead of jumping on board with deescalating our situation that was growing ever more volatile, he spent a lot of the night making fun of me and needling me, and being suuuuuper condescending to me. And it was building and upsetting me (especially, since, in large part, I was there to talk about that exact problem)… But every single time I brought it up that he was doing it right then, he’d say something along the lines of, “I didn’t mean it that way.” “I’m just teasing.” “Oh, come on.” etc. etc.

Huh… Well, okay… I – I guess you’re just teasing… I’ve said everything on my notes you asked me to write… I guess we’re okay, then?… Well, let’s not waste this time together. Let’s have a bunch of sex, right?

And when we were having (normal, consensual) sex, he was on top of me. And I was feeling a little weird that the man who seemed to be metaphorically looking down on me (over and over – not just that night, not even just that week, but almost since we’d started sleeping together) was literally looking down on me in that moment.. He started talking in a way that I think was supposed to be hot, but was starting to come off as pretty condescending – culminating in something that felt reeeeeally condescending…

I kept trying to assuage that feeling in me by reminding myself, “Maybe it’s in your head… You did voice this concern to him. He said he’s not looking down on you… Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding…” And while my inner monologue is running (and he can apparently see it on my face), he commented something about how it seemed like maybe I felt weird or something. I said, “I’m a little in my head, but please keep going.”

Yet he stopped.

And obviously, that’s more than okay! He’s under no obligation ever to continue having sex with me. The problem was when he stopped, he was (surprise) exceptionally condescending as he explained to me, “I’m stopping for you because you’re so uncomfortable” (and on and on and on)… even though I’d asked him to keep going. He completely ignored my words, and then blamed me mercilessly for why we weren’t having sex in that moment.

And that’s when I burst into tears because this was the millionth (only slight hyperbole there ;)) time that he had completely ignored what I said and told me how I was feeling. And that’s when the situation really started escalating. It all just seemed like the situation got out of control so fast. I balled up a bit (kind of in the fetal position-ish) crying – telling him I was crying about him (when he was telling me I wasn’t – even though I was clearly stating I was). As I told him he was making my uncomfortable and I tried to move away a little, he grabbed me even tighter. He wouldn’t let me go. “That’s crazy,” he told me. “You can’t be uncomfortable around me!”

Then, as I was sort of trapped in his arms (as, as I said, he held me tighter when I started to move away) (and that was one of the many things that scared me about him), he (as per usual) was making fun of me, and I begged him to stop. And he just laughed. “Oh, Aurora, come ooooon. I’m just teasing” or even “I’m not making fun of you,” or whatever excuse he wanted to use as he cycled through them. But he could never just stop, or just let me go – no matter how much I begged. Apparently it was all just really funny to him…

And when I tried to calm myself down a little and I tried to stop crying so hard and I got just a little bit quieter (though I was most definitely still crying), that’s when he told me, “Well, since we can’t get you off, let’s get me off.” And he climbed on top of me.

Of course I wanted to scream no. But I literally did not feel like I could. He was scary. He was volatile. He blew up at me fairly often-ish. Judging by everything I knew of him, and experienced with him, I 100% did not feel it was safe to say no, or to fight him, or to do anything else.
I did not have an option. I’d already made it so clear (in my body language and words (and crying)) that he was making me exceptionally uncomfortable. I’d already tried to move away from him when he was next to me with his arms around me (which seemed easier than when this strong man was on top of me), and when I did that, he held me so much tighter (it even slightly hurt), and he told me I was crazy.
Everything I knew of him – especially in that week and night leading up to it (when things were getting worse all the time), made it seem legitimately dangerous to do anything but lay there and cry.

I knew (or at least, I “knew” as reasonably as one can know something given everything they already know that) the repercussions of specifically saying no, or trying to push him off would be so much worse than just lying there, that for all intents and purposes, I had no choice.

So, I laid there, crying, sniffling, unmoving. I did not touch him back in any way. I did not say anything that made him think I even might be enjoying this. He even had to move me to start. I was so weak, and sad, and crying, and empty, in basically the fetal position (but not with my knees pulled up that much), that when he said “if we can’t get you off, let’s get me off,” I didn’t adjust. I didn’t help him. He pushed my shoulder down and turned my body so I wouldn’t be sideways anymore. I’d be laying on my back. And I had no energy left to fight it. He moved my crying body for me since I was too distraught to do it myself. And then he climbed on top of me as I cried and did not touch him back.

And that catches you up to the beginning of this blog post. That’s how we get there…]

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[Also edited to add: Lastly, I don’t know if this is important or a necessary detail, but for the first and only time we had sex (out of a lot of time), he finished outside of me. And I don’t know why. As I said, it’s not something he’d ever done before.
I don’t think that pulling out and finishing on someone is always an act of degradation. If that’s how you like to have sex, go for it. But in this specific case, it just felt very odd.
(I mean, not that I wanted him to finish inside me either. Both ways wouldn’t have been fun. But I didn’t like feeling “marked” by him. I didn’t like this idea that he weirdly seemed even more powerful/imposing when he was able to kind of kneel up and get taller (sort of – does that make sense? That if he’s no longer, I guess, attached to me, he can look taller and seem even more imposing and big…)  as he finished (as opposed to if he’d just finished inside me)…
Was he unable to finish inside me because he saw/felt I was so distraught – and so instead of just stopping and getting away from me, he decided the best course of action was to push forward cum on me? Was he so overpowering/controlling/et al that he wanted to “mark” me – that he wanted to make me feel even more like an object than he was already making me?
In the grand scheme of things, that detail in itself that he finished outside of me (and his reasons behind it) is not wildly important. But it was just one more little thing that feels weird to me. (Obviously all of it does; none of it sits right with me.) But I dunno. It’s just something that stuck with me…
But even though we’re ending this blog post on this, please don’t let this be the thing we focus on – whether in the end, he ultimately came in me or on me, it doesn’t matter. The sexual assault part is the part of this story that matters… So, there you have it. I told it in sort of a weird order. So, hopefully it all made sense.]

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