you can’t rape the willing

i find the above statement to be empowering, in addition to being ironic. seen in a particular light, it transforms sexual predation into a risky and specialized service, and one for which i would probably pay good money, if it were only for sale!

please make an effort to see things from my point of view… and give me the benefit of the doubt, if you can.

despite my issues – and i have been bluntly honest about them to the best of my ability – i am, in the end, an adult. and as an adult i feel that i am the one who knows best what i want and need. not only that, but i happen to enjoy the freedom to make risky decisions if i wish to, and will accept the consequences, just like someone who goes all out for mountain climbing or extreme sports.

if i fall off the mountainside, or if my bungee cord breaks, i am capable of paying my own medical bills, people!

so try to see how i see Harpo, the man who followed my on line clues, found me, and abducted me. foolish as it was, i had been asking very clearly for someone to do this to me, on a very public forum, for months.

no, i’m not a victim!

do i think i perhaps made a mistake asking for that sort of treatment, given that i didn’t particularly enjoy the outcome?

yes, it was definitely a mistake!

and, having experienced it, i will never do it again, and i recommend that other women also not do it.

why? because you may find, like it did, that there is a big difference between fear and dread.

fear can be very sexy, but dread not so much. if you don’t vet your guy, and you genuinely have no way of knowing whether he’s a psycho, and you therefore can’t authoritatively answer certain related questions such as whether you’ll survive the experience or not, then you may end up feeling something close to what i felt, which was honestly not fun at all. basically, your “mortal fear” (aka dread), may kick in and end up dominating your whole experience, so that you won’t be able to enjoy it much at all.

i personally discovered that whereas “fear of rape” and “fear of pain” are both extremely sexy to me, “fear of death” is simply too strong a flavor to be compatible with sexual feelings, even for a hardcore masochist like myself.

and i got lucky. he might have turned out to be an actual psycho, and slowly dismembered me instead of fulfilling my hot, rough fantasy.

luckily, Harpo turned out to be a fully fledged non-psychotic. he was just a very confident man who tends to play by his own rules, and comes from a place (the UK) where there are more “out” heterosexual submissive women, and given his attractive physical stature and his ease in the Dominant role, he seems to be fairly popular among them.

that is to say, Harpo is tenured enough to have recognized my feelings as being not terribly abnormal, and decided to take me at face value. and since he was interested in the abduction/rape fantasy as well, and was able to untangle my clues as to my whereabouts and schedule, he was able to track me down and capture me without much of a problem.

and since i had been extremely clear on line that i wanted this to be real, and not some bdsm game or role-play, he decided to let me believe i had actually been abducted by a malevolent and unpredictable stranger, and consequently said nothing to reassure me or assuage my fears.

but, being a sensible person, he only maintained this charade for the first 24 hours, at which point he told me that he had no intention of holding me against my will, and that i could of course leave at any time i wanted, and that he would happily pay for luxury transportation back to my apartment the minute i asked. apparently he had a limousine driver on staff.

he also told me that he thought i was very pretty, and that he had had a wonderful time raping and abusing me, and that if i wanted to stay i was welcome to, but only if i was happy to continue to be his sex slave and do anything and everything he told me to do for the duration of my stay. “And without hesitation”, he said.

Harpo was pure Dom, and there was no indication whatsoever that he wanted to also be my “friend” or “lover” or any of those other roles that i find so unbearably confusing.

so i thought about it, ate an elegantly prepared eggplant parmisiana by myself in his semi-finished basement apartment, and slept on the bare mattress he had thrown in the corner on the cement floor of the less finished part of the large, multi-use room.

only this time he did not rape me, whip me, or shove anything whatsoever up my behind. instead, he stayed upstairs in the modern, well-appointed main house, and left me alone so i could think. so that i could decide for myself what i wanted out of this experience, and whether i was in too much of a state of shell-shock to enjoy it.

and i found myself masturbating all night long, without any internet or written erotica to prompt me, just the thoughts of what might happen if i stayed. and by morning i had decided that yes, as a matter of fact i did fancy the idea of sticking around, subjecting myself to the whims of this particularly ballsy Dom, for at least another day or two. and i ended up staying in Master Harpo’s basement for about a week!

so the next morning i let him rape me again… this time it was play rape but it felt exactly the same. that’s because he knew how to do it. zero consideration for my pleasure, just pure pounding, ruthless and driven, purely selfish. just as i had always fantasized about wanting to be fucked. in a way, he was raping me… i was just consenting to it this time. we were certainly not “making love”.

and at a certain point, i really started getting into it, almost in spite of myself. i let myself believe that i didn’t want to cum from this, and that my body was betraying me, and if i came from being raped it would be obvious to him that i was not a decent woman but that in fact he had interpreted my signals correctly, and that he had known somehow that i was the kind of “dirty” woman that “needed” this kind of treatment, and that no matter what i said or how i objected, that from now on he would know better, because he had now witnessed me gush and moan and cum, hard, from being raped.

and good girls just don’t do that. good girls cry from being raped; bad girls cum and cum, and get all sloppy down there, and only cry afterward when they realize what they have done.

Harpo’s actions were perfect, his attitude was perfect, and my purvy brain supplied all the narrative it needed without being asked.

but… was Harpo operating within the stated boundaries of my consent, and trying to provide me with something i had specifically asked for… or was he raping me?

both, gosh darnit!

this is risky even to say, and i can hear the political peanut gallery booing me even as i consider uttering this, but if Harpo had not actually raped me the first night, than indeed the third morning’s consensual rape would not have been nearly so much fun.

why? because my body knew he was capable of doing it for real. capable of doing it to me in particular. my body knew that to Harpo, it felt exactly the same whether i consented to it or not.

there was no need for either of us to verbalize this. from Harpo’s point of view, he was still raping me, and because it felt like rape to him, it felt like rape to me. the only difference was the technicality that this time he had my consent.

now, in court, this difference counts for a lot… i guess it counts for everything. but on that particular morning, on that particular day, consent counted for very little. it was irrelevant, it was a paperwork issue.

Harpo was raping me, again! and i was the nasty little slut who was so fucked up i liked it, so broken i couldn’t help but cum from it, despite myself. he was raping me, and my responsiveness absolved him, proving he had “every right” to rape me, because after all, beneath the veil of my tidy little office-girl persona, i was nothing more than the sordid, filthy little skank he thought i was!

yes, i know… this certainly made me feel worthless, and i’m sure it might have traumatized almost anyone else. but please understand, i had spent twenty years fantasizing about this, imagining it in all its glorious detail, imagining all possible permutations and variations of the core fantasy, rubbing myself or impaling myself into paroxysms of orgiastic splendor almost nightly, dreaming of exactly this event.

i am not a normal girl, okay, i get it. i was, in fact, sexually abused as a teen. okay. make that argument if you will, and thereby discount my experience, and the sexuality that evolved from it. check your medical books and define my pleasures and needs as mere symptoms of a pathology. fine. maybe you can learn more about women’s idiosyncratic sexual desires from sigmund freud. maybe you can someday figure out a way to cure me from this joy.

but guess what? i don’t plan to take the cure.

———————-

is consensual non-consent emotionally dangerous? you bet.

do i think everyone should try it? no way.

is it safe to seek out such dangerous thrills in the world we actually have to live in? not on your life!

but, just as a matter of argument, and in full understanding that there are perhaps no practical applications for this principle, i still feel a need to stand on principle, even if only because no one else will. i must defend my own experience, and i must tell my own story, and i must draw my own conclusions from it even if these conclusions fly in the face of accepted wisdom, and if my own experiential truths are dangerous and upsetting to many, and their implications undermine arguments predicated on the so-called common knowledge of “what women do and do not want.”

you don’t know what i want, even if you also happen to have a vagina. you have absolutely no idea at all what i want, unless i make the decision to tell you. and even then, you will have to listen.

so i must say that i do not wish to live in a world in which i am not understood to have FULL authority over my sexual experiences. i want every woman who says “NO” to be honored, and left the heck alone if she just doesn’t like you or is not in the mood to have sex.

but i also want every woman who shyly whispers “yes please” to be equally honored, no matter how strange or “unhealthy” her decisions may seem, or seem to some… to those who think they know, but actually don’t know much at all about this.

she can’t be free from predators, but perhaps she can be free from those know-it-alls who frankly haven’t a clue what it is they are asking her to give up.

because in all likelihood they are asking her to give up a lot more than a few cheap thrills. if she is anything like me, they are asking her to give up much more than they think they are, much more than they have any right whatsoever to ask of her.

as counterintuitive as it may seem, they are asking her to give up her unique way of giving and receiving love.