To The Ex-Boyfriend Who Raped Me
Content Warning: sex, rough-sex
To the ex-boyfriend who raped me,
I’ve fucked five people since you. I’ve kept a log of them in my mind, each person, each encounter, each gender, the exact moment it went from being a ‘date’ to knowing the night would end in some alcohol-infused amalgamation of cum, spit, the resulting wet bedsheets and occasionally pleasure. I viewed each one as a conquest:
The initial dry back and forth on *insert generic dating app here* that I would morph into a ‘connection’, something reminiscent of a spark but instead of being spontaneous it’s as magical as flicking a 99p lighter. I’d ask questions I had no interest in knowing the answer too, laugh at your jokes to make you feel funnier than you are, I’d share my life as if I ever really saw you having a place in it. I played. We’d arrange to meet for a ‘drink’ near ‘mine’ or ‘yours’ (all code for we’re going to get smashed and fuck, the only question is whose house) and then the real-life performance would begin. From the moment I walk in and we sit down, I wanted to be everything you’ve ever wanted. I wanted you to believe that I am beautiful, witty, funny, smart – you had no idea how you came across me on Tinder but you felt so blessed that our paths crossed. I was your ideal potential girlfriend/situationship/FwB/casual relationship/booty call/one-night stand. I performed.
We’d continue drinking, you’d always make the first move but I would be so into myself, it would be hard to tell who really wanted this more, because in that moment I would do anything you wanted me to. Kiss me, lift me up, throw me on the bed, put your tongue down me, bite my lip, turn me over, pull my hair, choke me, spit on me, tell me I’m a slut, shove your dick further down my throat even though I pull back, try to say you ‘accidentally’ tried to penetrate there when I told you specifically I don’t do anal, try to slip a finger in when I said I don’t do that, tell me you don’t want to use protection because it doesn’t feel as nice and I’m on the pill so I guess it’s ok. Take me, use me, I am your ideal potential girlfriend/situationship/FwB/casual relationship/booty call/one-night stand. I will perform.
What I didn’t realise was that by fucking each person to try to move further and further away from you, it brought me closer to you. Trying to escape the control you had over my body by fucking others to gain control over mine left me chasing a sense of fulfilment in sex I would never get. I only ever knew how to perform with you, bend to what you wanted me to do and push myself to the side to make way for you steamrolling over my boundaries. And with every person, every encounter, every alcohol laden night I only became a better, more fuckable performer. Sometimes I’d even think of having sex with you and I don’t know why because it should repulse me, I should feel sick - but I don’t.
Maybe it’s just that I want to have the choice this time.
