TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT
Why is it that the tiniest thing will set me off spinning out of orbit? I went over to Facebook to look up a rabbi I want to visit when I am in Jerusalem next time, and there on her wall was a comment from that guy I had an affair with last year. Well, I had high hopes (actually was completely convinced) that it was “the real thing,” but it turned out to be an affair. So I though I was over it, and was really quite proud of myself for getting out of an abusive relationship before it became addictive (yes, I have a tendency to become addicted to abusive relationships. Has to do with the way I was raised, according to my psychologist). Various anniversaries of benchmarks in the relationship came and went, and some I made note of in a casual way and was pleased that I didn’t have a reaction to them, and some I sort of reacted to but not badly and talked it out with my therapist.
Enter Facebook, that double-edged sword of connectedness, whether you want it or not.
I saw his name, and his comment, and a sly comment to a former lover of his who had also commented…..and suddenly (flashback) he was in my bed getting ready to force his cock down my throat, and I freaked out, because unbeknownst to him I had been raped that way, and besides he should have asked before doing something so invasive, and he stopped, and I thought oh, what a good man because he stopped. Never thought of it that the fact that he would do such a thing “on our first date” was an outrageous disrespect of my SELF, and what I should have done was to throw his ass out of my house and my life then and there.
But I didn’t. And why? Because my self image is still where it was forty years ago when I was living on the street for a living and taking pot luck. Telling some dickhead “no” was not an option. So that might be why, when push comes to shove, my reflex is to thank the bastard for not violating me. For not raping me.
There had been signs, during the long-distance phase of our relationship, that he wanted what he wanted, and objected to my having my own priorities. But I ignored them and pretended they didn’t exist, for the most part, except for one extreme boundary violation that sent me to bed for three days with a violent PTSD reaction. But I got over that one too, and soldiered on with the relationship.
Fast forward a few months, and I was in his bed, halfway around the world. We had just lain down, no contact yet really, and he grabs my hand and pushes it toward his cock, without asking, without any tenderness at all. That triggered me bigtime. because how many times has that happened to me in the past, against my will or without my wanting it? I drew back my hand. Angered, he then grabbed my wrist and forced my hand downward. I ripped my hand out of his grasp and laid it on his belly. I should have read him the riot act and gone to sleep on the couch, and taken a cab out in the morning, but instead, “You know,” I whispered in my best whore voice,” you’ll like it better if I do it my own way.”
“Go to hell with your fucking game-playing!” he said, and rolled over, farted, and went to sleep. I was left shaking, in a cold sweat. The next morning I packed my bags, but I didn’t leave yet. I tried to talk to him about the sexual stuff, but he just shouted at me that I was playing games and would not engage with me.
I stayed another week. We didn’t have sex at all after that. I was constantly reprimanded: I left the faucet dripping; I left foot prints in the bathtub; I used the wrong knife to cut up fruit (that was a big one, precipitating a screaming fit on his part), I this, I that. So, since I hadn’t unpacked my bags, I arranged a ride to the other end of the country. As I was leaving, he staged a scene:
“Are you leaving, just like that?”
“Don’t you want to talk about it?”
“Do you really want to leave it this way?”
“We’ll keep in touch, right, we’ll keep this dialogue going, won’t we?”
To this one, I lied “Yes,” because I knew that if I said no he would launch into something that would keep me standing at the door when all I wanted was to walk through it and be gone.
I wonder now, whether I have the capacity to identify a truly good man. I met a few, during my time on the streets, but they belonged to somebody else. I’ve met a few since then, but ditto, married or in a relationship. I think I might be able to see one, but so far my longing for someone to fit the picture I have in my mind and my heart has got me into more trouble than I can begin to describe. I think the factor of unavailability helps me to see the goodness in a man, because my subconscious believes that a good man is not for me. Therefore the attractive ones are the “bad boys” who abuse me and do me wrong.
There are exited prostitutes who manage to focus on the nice, sweet guys, I guess, from what I’ve read. And yes, I did have encounters with nice, sweet guys, and all of them were married, and I don’t know what they wanted with me in the first place, but there you go. Unfortunately, my life was peppered with rapes of different kinds for so many years, that it’s hard for me to disengage from them enough to pick a guy who is not a brute. I sometimes fantasize about having a relationship with, say, a paraplegic, someone for whom sex is impossible, but then I remember that all abuse is not sexual, not by a long shot, and it would be just my luck to get into a relationship with someone who was platonically abusive.
I hate to think of living the rest of my years alone, aging and dying alone with no one to share the “golden years (hah!)” with. Getting old is not for the faint of heart, said my grandmother, crazy as a bat but wise in her way. But now that I have become a true recluse, I have no idea how to meet a truly good man to share life with. An interesting one, with quirks I find endearing. I’d like one who loved me for who I am, craziness and all, who respected and even adored me, and made love fully in mutual agreement. Is that too much to ask?