fucktoyism.
Maybe it was the gangbang talk. I’m mindless and wet and I want cock.
I’m seeing the twentysomething tonight and it’s long overdue. I’ve been craving this boy since our last few flings before I ran off to Europe, and I’ve been thinking about him ever since. I want him as a permanent fixture between my legs.
The twentysomething is ultra-masculine, more conventionally masculine than most of the men I date. He boxes, for example. He drinks whiskey. He watches porn. And sports. He rivals my fuckbuddy in hyperbolic maleness.
“Yeah. I’m pretty much the stereotype,” he says, as he tugs my underwear down. “All my friends’ girlfriends hate me.”
*
When I first moved to Italy, I didn’t know the language very well. I could read it well but I hadn’t learned to speak it, so I spent a few rocky months struggling with basic communication until my speaking skills caught up. During those rocky months, I met a man named Giovanni, who couldn’t understand a word I’d said. I would struggle and strain, but he’d just pat my shoulder. He thought I was charming in all my clumsy, stuttering glory. La Muta, he called me. The Mute.
We met in a piazza, and while he invited me out a few times, I declined with a rapid shake of the head. It wasn’t for lack of attraction, because I thought he looked amazing. He was dark Italian, extremely lean and muscular, and fairly tall. His attention made me shy and awkward and the language gap made me self-conscious, but my shyness just encouraged him. He’d chatter on and on without pause while I’d hurry through the side streets and over bridges and through the tunnel-like sottoporteghi until I’d get to my apartment, tucked to the side of a small, dark square. My landlady was perpetually drunk; my neighbor was a lunatic known locally as Il Matto. And each time I’d get to my door, he’d try to come up.
“Ma dai…” he’d say. I’d just scramble with my key, shake my head furiously, and then close the door quickly behind me. And then I’d hear again, through the door, “Ma dai…”
It’s how I learned the expression ‘ma dai.’ It means something like ‘come on…’ Through my door – over and over – come on, baby.
He was relentless, for weeks. I’d cross a particularly social square and if I caught his eye, he’d run after me, and when I’d walk faster, he’d run circles around me until I stopped. I thought he was funny, ballsy, persistent, and maybe a little crazy.
And then, one evening, I was sitting at my desk with the windows open when I heard him down in the campo calling up to me. I heard, “Muta… Americana...” and when I stuck my head out the window, he waved furiously and then gestured for me to come down. I just shook my head, but he was making such a scene that I attempted broken Italian to hush him up. And when that didn’t work, I grabbed my apartment keys and ran downstairs to stress, emphatically, that he needed to go home. But the moment I cracked open the door, he pushed his way inside.
I broke into nervous laughter because I couldn’t believe the gall, and I tried to push him back out, but he wasn’t having it. He just pushed me against the wall and ground his body against me while he mumbled words I couldn’t understand. Ever the American, I thought, Is this legal? Can men do this?
I pushed him off and shushed him, and I was worried my drunk landlady would stumble out into the hallway and see us, this – she was already a little too curious about my love life. So when I couldn’t get him to leave, I made my way upstairs to avoid a scene, maybe to quiet him down. As it was, I felt self-conscious enough as the conspicuously single girl from a country best known for its porn and its Pamela Anderson.
The second I opened my apartment door, he gripped my body with both arms and threw me down on the bed, kicking the door closed behind him. It was like getting hit by a tidal wave – I felt completely out of control, a little afraid, rendered mute by the rift in language. My mind was buzzing with incredulity. Can he do this? Is this rape? What the fuck. I tried to speak but I wasn’t understood, and there was a moment when I knew I could’ve made myself clear, in any language, but I chose not to. I wanted to see what would happen.
And for a moment I panicked, worried about the condom, but then I heard the package rip.
He had me flat on my stomach, pinned spread-eagle under his body. I turned my head to stare at his forearm as he held my arms down, and he was so strong – I’d never known anyone to use all their strength on me like this. It was disorienting, exciting, terrifying. I liked it.
And he thrust into me in one strong stroke, hard enough to make me jerk under his body and try to buck him off. It was out of a porn video or an improbable fantasy, this swift thrust, and that’s how he went on to fuck me, in steady, strong, complete strokes, to remind me, again and again and again, that I was being penetrated. I remember him being so hard, hard enough to bruise me, and I kept my eyes fixed on his forearm, the veins, the sinews, my mouth open with perpetual surprise. The gall. The gall to fuck me like this. There’s no way this could be legal.
And I had dangerous thoughts. The fact I liked it felt dangerous. The fact it resembled rape and yet my cunt was the wettest it had ever been felt wholly anti-femininist, or the fact he was so hyper-masculine, brutish, muscular, animalistic, the fact there was no way we had any emotional or intellectual connection – I was La Muta, to him, not a reasonably intelligent woman with a reasonably prestigious grant. The way he fucked me, like he was fucking me into submission, felt dangerous. This was a politically incorrect fuck and I was a bad feminist for loving it. And wanting it. And wanting it to go on forever.
But I loved it because thinking didn’t matter. I could, and can, intellectualize any sex act, apply all sorts of rationale to certain behaviors, and I liked that this rapey behavior circumvented it all. I was just a body to be fucked, a cute, mute thing that ran away when chased, and now caught, I was being treated as nothing more than a hot, throbbing, and increasingly slutty cunt to be held down and fucked hard.
I love having my intellectualism kicked out from under me.
He fucked me hard enough to hurt, but it was good. He pulled my hair, buried his teeth into my shoulder, bruised my hips and thighs. And when he came, he rolled off quickly, dressed quickly, and left me buzzing with confusion.
*
I mention this because I remember it whenever I think about extreme masculinity. The gender dynamics were so exaggerated that it made me feel supremely feminine, at my most primal.
I like that sex can trump politics, rhetoric, and logic. And I like knowing there’s something in my life that can shut me up and cut me down to my most basic impulses, where – at that moment – my intellect is irrelevant. Existing in that moment, defined strictly by my body, is bliss.
And then, once I come, my intellect is restored. Slowly. Eventually. In someone’s pheromonal wake.
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Tags: rapey
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An extreme pushes us to our own extremes; it’s a powerful story you’ve shared. And something deep and dark about it too, which just draws us in, even more.
.6
Its reading something like this that makes me regret not being an alpha-male.
That settles it, I’m joining a gym.
Excellent work. The rape fantasy is a fairly common one, I’ve read, but also one that is definitely not PC or pro-fem. However, there it is. I too love that sex is so powerful, trumping all ideals and philosophies, at least for a little while. We ARE sex – it is how we were made… such a powerful force. I was pleasantly disturbed. Thanks.
holy. crap.
so hot. and dangerous! his actions piss me off, even if your cunt was the wettest it had ever been – it still scares me that he thought he had the right to take you down that way. makes me want to launch into a diatribe, but I’ll avoid that here.
that said: oh my lord, so hot.
I really like the way you articulate the end, having your “intellectualism kicked out from under me.” I so agree. and I also so know what you mean about the gender dynamics being exaggerated. bit of a fetish of mine, even.
hope you had fun with the twentysomething boy. he sounds intimidating. makes me want to know how I stack up.
Wow. I love your blog, but I’m aghast at this story. He meant to rape you — and he did. That you enjoyed it was something else entirely, but what he did was appalling and yes, illegal. The other thing that makes me cringe is that he probably felt like he got away with it, since you didn’t scream or try to report him to the police. And *that* is scary, because he probably went on to do that to another foreigner.
hunh
i like that i don’t know how this post makes me feel. as a piece of writing it’s excellent and extremely hot. as a piece of someone’s history, even someone i’ve only just virtually ‘met’ it’s disturbing as hell…
i think really that’s the best you can ask for when you write anything, sort of like how when you watch ‘the war of the roses’ you’re laughing your head off and totally dismayed to find yourself doing so….
not that you need another one miss but i’ve linked you.
excellent piece!
“I like that sex can trump politics, rhetoric, and logic.”
maybe even more: “reality trumps politics, rhetoric, and logic.”
I’m with SM on this one. I love the blog but this post made me feel very uneasy…
From one vantage point, it could be disturbing – it threatens social order in a very real way. From another vantage point, it taps into a very real, intense, sexually exciting fantasy, one of losing control, deferring authority, being reduced to our fuckable parts. And I imagine this post is disturbing to some because it crosses from fantasy to reality, from a dark lust to a real disruption of order between the sexes.
The fact remains that when I think about this event, I get wet.
Well, I think that his behavior was way over the line, scary, brutish, wrong and totally prosecutable, had you wanted to charge him.
But, I also see how your positively primal reaction to it can authentically exist in the same breath. Given a tailored set of circumstances, I might respond the same way.
A lot of people have spoken out in distaste – and it’s not without reason. But no one said that the extreme would be easy to stomach, and I think that’s the point here.
I stand by my original comment – this is a powerful post, though-provoking, and maybe a little scary. It’s a lot like staring off a cliff into the never-ending darkness, leaning over just a little too far, a little too close.
.6
I too would have loved such an experience. From the earliest ages, from the type my sexuality just began to unravel my fantasies have been of danger, force and primal masculinity. On the other hand, I also like being more than body so him leaving immediately, without pausing for several long seconds to hold me and look into my eyes would have left me feel used in a bad rather than good sense.
This story disturbs me because while rape fantasies are common, there are many women out there who don’t want anything like that to happen. And I am worried than men like him would not discriminate.
I don’t know how to combine my love of peace, civilization and human rights of the modern world with the deep longing for the politically incorrect, raw and primitive. To me those seem like opposites, and anything encouraging one would by definition diminish another.
oops… “time” not “type”
Em, last time I checked, rape was a non-consensual act. I don’t see anywhere in D’s post an allusion to that. Was this man forceful and domineering? Absolutely. But it seems that Debauchette’s cunt was quite happy to surrender.
Women have rape or domination fantasies all the time. As do men. The best “fantasy” play wavers on the line of fantasy/reality. Or else it simply isn’t cathartic. And I think at its best, that’s exactly what it is.
What I respond to most in this post is the idea that at some primal, archetypal level, D felt very, very satisfied and, uh, thrust into her femininity by the sheer strength of his penetration. I truly believe that this sort of raw, intense assertion of masculinity and power is one of the greatest gifts men can offer women – being fucked open and into obliteration.
Too bad there aren’t more men like that out there. Who can fuck the thoughts right out of our over-educated, over-analytical brains and bring us right to the other seat of power – our bodies and our cunts.
it’s taken a while for me to formulate and articulate my thoughts on this post. it’s very edgy and very provocative, but more significantly, i think it’s a stunning insight into the workings of a very, very rare and exquisite mind. this is not the brain of a victim, this is a person who, as a matter of fact, could probably never be victimized in this way. what could have been an absolutely traumatizing experience for many other women was processed, eroticized, and then democratized by your sexual strength and sense of self.
i bet nobody could bully you when you were a child. i bet you never cried in front of anyone if they hit you. i bet you stared at them defiantly till they fucked off and never bothered you again.
Totally inspiring. Too much to say here, so I wrote an entire blog post!
reading the comments left for this post was just as amazing as the story.
i look forward to hearing what happens with twentysomething. i like him
This feeds into so much – not least the hope that when we say “no” because it’s the right thing to do, we secretly long for the “no” that means “yes” to be interpreted correctly, and absolve us of having to make that decision (disclaimers here, obviously, for all the time “no” really does mean “no”). What is disturbing about this post is not what happened, but all the issues around it: did he have a habit of doing that to women who really didn’t want him to? What would have happened if he had been someone else, who you really didn’t want to fuck? What is hot about this post (apart from the writing) is that he ignored the superficial niceties, and just let his animal self speak to your animal self.
Pursuant to your post and Marcelle’s, I wrote something too. It’s a little rambly, but what the hell. I’ve been going around on your post all day. It’s hot, but also disturbing, as Z says… I can’t get it off my mind.
Like some of your other commentators, this story made me a little uncomfortable. As a man, I dislike rape in any form. I once stood in one of Ouday Hussein’s “rape rooms”, and felt physically ill when I imagined what took place there. I will take that feeling with me to my grave. I was glad when Ouday was killed. I wish I had been able to kill him myself. I still feel that way, unapologetically.
That is just my prejudice coloring my view of the story here, though. Another way to look at the story is as a triumph of non-verbal communication. Your body wanted to fuck him, most of your mind wanted to fuck him, and so it happened. There was just enough flirting with loss of control to make it hot for you. Objectively, it seems like no-nonsense fucking with a little submissive fantasy for you. This wasn’t Ouday Hussein, this was a strapping Italian lad who could read non-verbal signals better than he understands Een-gleesh.
Good story, with some interesting issues brought up. I feel a little dirty now.
While I have little doubt this was a rape from the way you describe it here, I do have a question or two.
1) You speak of surprise, “the gall”, etc, but very little of fear once the condom went on.
2) You speak nothing of what happened afterwards. How did you feel after this? How was your relationship with him after this?
Well, it wasn’t rape per se, and it’s probably important to maintain that distinction. Like Kasia said, it was forceful and domineering but it was also consensual, and like Savage Henry said, there was a lot said via nonverbal communication.
I was shocked by the gall because nobody had ever been this forceful with me before, and because I’d been taught and conditioned to stay in control. I’m American, so I grew up in a highly litigious culture that stresses, emphatically, that permission be given loudly and clearly to avoid any possible confusion in all sexual situations. It stunned me that he was totally indifferent or oblivious to these concerns.
What fear I felt was a fear of losing control. I’m used to being in control.
Afterwards, I was just amazed at what he’d done. If I stood outside of myself, I marvelled that he had the guts to do something that could be so easily misperceived as a rape. But how did I feel, personally? Excited. Disoriented. I felt primal. And I worried a little about enjoying it too much.
After, my Italian got much better and we passed the point of a zipless encounter — it became increasingly clear that he was a moron. I think I needed him to be incomprehensible, just as I’m sure I was much hotter as a mute. But at that moment, then, it was good.
Is this fiction? I’m new to your blog.
No, it isn’t fiction.
your intense sensations are those of sexual submission. when we give control completely or allow it to be “taken” from us – we release ourselves from responsibility, thought, guilt – there is an exquisite elation that comes with this freedom. we no longer have to consider, rationalize, plan, justify, attempt to control the sex act – you are there in that moment fully and what will happen, will happen. and not knowing what will happen next…that’s the other kick.
submission doesn’t always need cuffs and ropes…
i think we should all let the animal in us out a bit more often…especially those of us cursed by an overdose of thought…
thank you for an honest and provocative post
marcus
I agree.
There’s nothing disturbing about this. Awkward, and sloppily-executed, and very dangerous, certainly. I never thought it was possible for a consensual act to happen without negotiation, but that’s what this sounds like, in the heat of the moment.
I re-read it, and I don’t see any point where she was not in control. She could have stopped him. She decided not to. The decision to gamble, to give in to the moment, was very risky, but it was her decision. She yielded power more than having it taken from her.
I think that may be why she was wet and excited instead of crying. That says a lot. Playing with fire can be very erotic. Getting played just feels like being violated.
I look at it this way: at the end of ANY interaction with another person– emotional, business, sexual–, do I feel used? Manipulated? Frightened? Mistreated? Mistrustful? Outraged? Beaten down? Broken?
Or do I feel fulfilled, enlightened, satisfied?
If I don’t feel used at the end of it, then I wasn’t. That’s my golden rule for power dynamics.
Reading this story makes my pussy throb–I can actually feel my own pulse in my vagina. The thing is, I have spent most of my sexual life being in careful control out of fear of being forced like I was in all aspects of my life as a child. My reward for such control is a profound inability to have an orgasm through physical touch alone; I require the personal application of some type of vibratorial object.
My fiancee’ understands this and accepts this; he has never once judged me in my desire to discover through any means necessary how to achieve an orgasm, an act of control in itself. (My thinking is that I won’t let “them” win by stealing my ability to orgasm; it’s MY body and I should be in control of it, not them. A vicious circle, indeed.) He is supportive and loving and a willing participant.
So why this particular fantasy, when I know first-hand what it is to be violated, abused? Perhaps my way of being victorious in recreating the situation? Like in a re-match, so I can regain my title (read: dignity, sexuality, innocence, childhood, ability to trust, courage, etc.)? But what is the natural progression for that scenario? So one day I flip it and win, and then what? Does that mean my fiancee loses? I don’t want that, but I do know I want something….I want to lose control in order to gain control. Or maybe I know that’s what has to happen. I don’t know. It’s confusing.
One thing I do know, being in control isn’t all it’s cracked up to be if your compass is off. I think that’s why this story resonates with me. She understands herself enough to know whatever happens, she’ll be alright. That’s what gives her the freedom to even enter into such an exchange–she’s not going to be hurt by this man, whatever occurs. Her core is intact.
Thanks for the therapy.
Having older sisters appears to have instilled an ethos that women are to be A: respected and B: protected …really messed up my sex life as it took me until my mid 20’s to clue in that it is really mostly appreciated by the very young and the very old.
Most women outside those categories are attracted to men as well …MEN…ripping through fences and tearing apart flaming car wrecks with their bare hands to pull a concussed victim from death by barbecue and fighting off packs of hungry wolves attracted by the stench of signed flesh…not Metrosexuals with all the right designers clothes …but someone who will face down death for them with brazen joy. Having faced down a loaded firearm…and other adventures …I have to admit it is one of those moments of absolute visceral certainty that define one…at the time all you know that while subjective time slows to a crawl … you realize that you are NOT going to back down…
Afterwards your brain says to you…”Well that was really pretty stupid”…your heart tells you …”They won’t screw with me again”…the reptilian (territorial aggressive) part of your mind …which has been around a lot longer than the mammalian intellectual part…keeps us (and our pack) alive when all else fails…is it possible that we need to periodically remind ourselves of those primal drives…especially in our crowded structured cities where we have to be so mindful of others and of the litany of regulations that constrain us…try driving a few blocks and noting the …buckle up, speed limit, no parking here…etc etc
Do??? women – secretly – want a brute who will rip the throat from anyone or anything that threatens them …and need that looming threat directed to them – and have it pull back at he last possible moment – as heart pounding physical proof of your willingness to die – before hand or tooth gets through to them – possibly …just possibly
Only in Italy. In the States, this would get you a felony conviction. In the States, one can’t even ask a girl out or chat up a girl at a bar without being labelled a potential rapist/stalker. In the States, here in the Year Eight, lust is regarded as being outside the pale—- socially, politically, legally. Any sexual desire— let alone forceful desire —is seen as being something out of the DSM-IV or something for the law courts.
I am a 34-year old English boy working in Sweden. I am waking up to a lot of things in my life. This is interesting, and so is your experience overall (which I have encountered through the hyper-mesh that is Web 2.0 – I think HuffPo was my interface to your world.)
I think it’s great, and inspiring, that you are claiming sexual, psychosexual, psychosocial [...enough already] territory that is naturally yours, everyone’s, not a realm of wrong. But I think – with respect – you set your sights too low. (Yup! No rest for the, ahem, wicked.)
Like queer, and nigger, before, for others, the word slut seems be one territory for reclamation for you. It makes sense when you are addressing a real or imagined audience of prudes and prurients. But how about this: that there are men – women, people – out there, the post-liberals, the post-post-modernists, who are simply logical but loving and living pragmatists. There is nothing you need to reclaim from us. We just want leadership in realms where we wish to learn and follow. if it makes sense for you, believe me, it makes sense for the world – for us.
This story is interesting (even if, with respect, I find it hard to believe due in part to the narrative style) because you are, in effect, INSISTING that there is a realm of consent that is incredibly evolved, marginal. Consent, you are saying, is not some pre-manufactured product, it is not a ticket to a game of two halves [European perspective], it is a roulette wheel, it is a poker match. You might lose, but if you are playing properly, you won’t /really/ lose.
This is just masterclass stuff. It is not nobly – but merely – rolling back the barricades of prejudice, it is penetrating the frontiers of human potential. What I think you could, and hope you will, contribute to is not the tired battle with Sawerconventionality, but just assuming that there entirely new generations with really open eyes, very advanced skills of liberal interaction, and hope and need that we can all going beyond . And we want to know what is possible. We need leaders. You could, if you go beyond merely dabbling with taboos (I am sure you have, but this is the first proper item I have read, beyond the Sawyer post-mortem), shape sex and relating for years to come.
I mean it. You can spend your time in running battles with the generations, and their hardened mindsets, that are dying, or be truly true to yourself, and spend your time increasingly selfconsciously leading, by taking the interpretation of what you do to ever higher levels, the generations that now starting to live, and their open and happily malleable lifeworlds.
this post reminded me of the “rape scene” in the Fountainhead. so much misunderstanding.
I’m new to your blog. but I’m totally hooked.
I’d like to suggest 2 books that might help yourself (and others) understand your feelings. if your up for that.
“The Psychology of Romantic Love” and “A Woman’s Self-Esteem”. both by Nathaniel Branden. non-judgmental. very informative. and impossible to read and not learn something about yourself.
I have not read all of the comments on this post, so I don’t know if another reader has made this point, but in my “it needs to be neat and tidy” mind, I can rationalize that it was choice on your part to allow the rape to take place, in that you confess to knowing “there was a moment when I knew I could’ve made myself clear, in any language, but I chose not to. I wanted to see what would happen.”
What he did was flat out wrong, illegal, violent, castratable as far as I am concerned AND you had options (unlike other situations where it just isn’t possible – ie nobody can hear, he’s just too powerful, no opportunity to get out of it). You could of screamed for your drunk landlady, you could have given him what he deserved, where he deserved it. But you didn’t. You wanted to see what would happen.
How does this take the whole conversation deeper (http://sexegesis.blogspot.com/search?q=ambivalent+sex), when a woman can fight off a rapist, but doesn’t? We start getting into the nitty-gritty of feminism, where it seems the ultimate core of defining female power is to know true self detemination in what choices we make that allow us to be our utmost selves, as we see ourselves. What are the internal qualities of feminism or our upbringing that inform/decide/predate the choices that we make?
It’s clear to me you said “yes” to being raped by this man, in fact, got so wet, and continue to get wet to this day, that I conclude that it was a deeply concious choice you made for your own pleasure, which I find INCREDIBLY powerful! Hell, that’s the part that gets my mind-gina wet! When presented with what life had to give at that moment you said to yourself (it seems very clearly) “yes…let’s see what I can do with this”. This does not mean when a woman wears a short skirt, she wants to be raped, or that women who are raped are in some way asking for it. If a woman wants to wear a short skirt, it is her perogative to do so in a way that makes her feel good, without having to worry about negative consequences. Quite the contrary, it is how we deal with things as they come up in the moment, that determines to me the quality of our feminism.
There are the ways in which women give up their power everyday – whether it be in mundane interactions with a husband/boyfriend, or in sexuality and rape – so as not to rock the boat, or make him mad, or keep the peace, or keep up a situation of comfort and security. That’s the rape, and it is in a sense self rape. This is not to blame the victim, but to begin to take radical responsibility for what we make, do and attract in our lives, based on the conditioning we’ve endured, and the amount of self reflection we can bring to our choices. How do we interact with men on a daily basis? Do we stand up for the right to be ourselves and choose that which brings about a greater sense of taking care of one’s own physical, emotional, spiritual, sexual needs?
Don’t get me wrong, there is way in which this is so a man’s world and to be an empowered, self-aware, self determined woman is far frm easy. Silence of women is expected and condoned, and I feel it is responsible for the way in which we live as a species that is Earth raping, and utterly violent. I also feel we are learning what our voices are in this environment and that is going to make us all the stronger, more intellient and resilient for it. Here’s to keeping the conversation alive around the stickiest – the most “ambivalent” – tests of what it means to be an empowered, concious choice making woman in a way fuckin’ wacked out world! Thank you for sharing this experience (and may it never happen to you you again. Or me! Or anyone else for that matter….unless of course they want it!)
When I was nineteen, I had a huge crush on one of the patrons of the place where I worked. He was thirty two and often spoke of a bar he went to, so one night I showed up there. It was a guy bar, small, surprisingly well lit, the kind of quiet little tavern where men go to get away from their wives was the impression I got. This should have been a clue, and I later found out he was engaged to be married.
We talked, laughed and later he walked me to my car. He kissed me in the parking lot and it was sooo good. I was silly, stupid, young, even for my age, VERY inexperienced and saw it as the perfect end to a first date (you know, those perfect first dates where you follow a guy to a bar. ugh). But instead, he got into the car, as well, and before I could register my surprise, he had one hand up my skirt and the other around me like a python. I said no, stop, I’m a virgin – that last part only made him harder. I know, because somehow, maybe with a third hand, he was out and ready to take the plunge.
I didn’t want this to happen. I wasn’t ready for something like this to happen. So, I made a choice that would change the scope of the situation. I wrapped my hand around his cock and gave him a hand job, my first, talking the whole time. He was off in like twenty seconds and was suddenly very easy to reason with. Of course.
He left. I drove home completely perplexed by the rapid turn of events I’d just undergone.
I debated whether or not to share this for several reasons. After you’d posted a few more times, it felt like the time had passed, but there are new comments, so I wanted to let you know you’ve helped me realize something.
You very clearly turned “helpless” into something else. I know our encounters weren’t the same, but in this way they were. I never really saw my situation as an empowering moment and even felt pretty shitty about it all these years, but I think I see it a little differently, now.
Wallflover, you’re smart. And this is no joke.
Had some of these close-to-rape, but not exactly-situations myself, when I was around 19-20. There were some situations, when I only agreed to being fucked because it meant nothing to me, and not doing it would have made me look like a naive stupid little girl.
The next morning I was already moving on, no regrets, no feeling dirty. It was just sex, I knew that those man couldn’t take anything away from me. Sometimes it was good. Most of the times, nothing special.
But once, in a situation like that, I met my partner for the next few years. I didn’t even notice it back there, it took a few months until we met again. It was me who didn’t wanted to meet him again, I didn’t like his attitude, the way he dressed, the way he talked.
Afterwards I came to know him better, I fell in love with him. He kept on asking me why I didn’t wanted to meet him for months. There was no answer I could give him. Saying “I just fucked you because you were there, it took me to know you better to like you” just didn’t fit:-)
this is definitely a rape but since you were into rae fantasy it reads hot mixed with shocking. i wouldnt dare without previous knowledge of the need to be taken this way.
“And I imagine this post is disturbing to some because it crosses from fantasy to reality, from a dark lust to a real disruption of order between the sexes.”
Yes, it disturbs me that somebody may read your post, conclude that such “fucktoy” sex is what ALL women REALLY want, and then use it as a misguided license to destroy a woman’s life. (And really, can you say that this very same man didn’t do as much to some/all of the women who came before and after you?)
Truthfully, if I knew who you were and knew that I too would be able to hold you so exquisitely on that knife’s edge of eroticism and indignity…well, then I would. But I don’t know who you are.
And I don’t think that most women enjoy being raped.
So for better or worse, I conform (and like myself better because I do).
I suppose it’s something that’s difficult for a conformist to appreciate.
This above all to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
And this also be known, be known and employ! nimble as reflex and in all things, always, always retain the right to improvise.
~William Wallflower
I’d also like to add that the caliber of man it would take to have concluded what you said, already was what you’re afraid some words would turn him into.
My god that’s hot.
Dangerous, borderline, edgy sex. Is there any better?
On an unrelated note I have to restock my Kleenex and Jergens supply as it seems to have been exhausted.
o dear.
if seen through an anglo mindset, this story is really racy, BUT i live in italy too, am a petite, fun-loving girl (wink-wink, nudge-nudge; say no more)…
BUT italy is NOT all it’s cracked up to be…
first, there is no ‘no’ here. ‘no’ means ‘ask again later’. ‘i wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth’ means ‘maybe i think you’re cute, follow me home’, and ‘hello’ is a subtle ‘ask for my number in the next five seconds; then call me relentlessly for the next five months’.
it’s not really the italian male’s fault, it’s a product of the fact that women have never been allowed to say ‘yes’, so any response you receive at the start from a woman will be bitter and acidic; even if she likes you. the only way to say ‘no’, if you’re a woman, is to ignore any attempt at conversation, look straight ahead, and pretend the person isn’t even standing there. (yay headphones & sunglasses!)
so debauchette was probably right when she said there may have been more communication than of the ‘verbally explicit’ variety… if she made eye contact and said ‘hello’, that would have been taken as a sign of serious interest.
i have rape fantasies too; but as psychologists say, when they’re a fantasy, by definition you’re in control; perhaps debauchette was in control here, in many senses (she could have screamed)…
it is worth considering that the average italian male in his 30’s: A. graduates university at 28. B. gets his first job between 30-32, (with a long-term contract) C. lives at home with his family until he moves in with a girl, usually at 34-ish.
young italians are not getting married and not having children (italy = the only country with negative population growth). they have very little pressure to leave home, and just getting any job is a big accomplishment. there are no women in any mid-or-high level positions in corporations, either. it’s a totally different reality.
you meet a lot of men here that are ‘into’ s&m, partner-swapping, group sex… i think it’s due to the lack of freedom and boredom in their private lives; and a complete lack of life experience. all they have, at the end of the day, is driving fast and fucking. (there is also a HUGE urban legend that american girls are easy.)
when i first moved here i wondered why so many people were into having sex on the beach, cars, alleys… i discovered it’s because they CAN’T do it at home (moms), and italian hotels require you to register with a passport, and that info goes into a government database (d’oh! catholic church!).
SO; debauchette, i love reading your blog… i’m so afraid that you’re going to discover that this country is way too… 2 dimensional for you. it’s good you travel a lot! if you need italian lessons, i’m here for you (though i’m sure a lot of italian boys would be happy to oblige.). i’m glad to see you’re back to writing here on the blog…
I think it comes down to the fact that you wanted to fuck him, whether you wanted to admit it or not. He obviously sensed that you were attracted to him too, and that was probably why he was pursuing you so fervently. The story is hot. I believe there are people on this earth that we are destined to meet and connect, whether it is to share years with, months, or even hot, sweaty moments with. This experience was part of your fate. That’s the way I see it anyway. Thanks for sharing such an intimate moment. Your blog has a lot of balls, and I like that in writers.