Until I got that e-mail, I’d been considering telling my father. Afterward, I was too afraid. I thought if I told him too, then all three of them would hate me—my whole family—and that was more than I could bear.
Through the terrible depression of that spring and summer, I realized one important thing. Anthony had lied about me; that meant Anthony was scared of what I would say. So he had known I didn’t want to have sex with him the whole time. All the flimsy excuses I’d made for him in my mind collapsed, and I knew how worthless and small he really was.
Once I could concentrate on hating him, I stopped hating myself as much. But that was before I’d realized how deeply he scarred me.
These days I don’t hate myself for having been raped. I hate myself for wanting to act it out all over again.
“Ma’am?” The bar waiter leans closer to me, and I realize I’ve been sitting there motionless, wineglass in hand, for several minutes. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine. ”
He doesn’t buy it. “Would you like us to call you a cab?”
“I haven’t had much to drink. ” My glass is still half full. “It’s okay. I’m headed home. ”
I drive home, still in a daze. Doreen and I have worked hard on these memories, as I try to learn ways to deal with them without—going numb. Freezing up. By now, mostly, I can handle it.
But tonight takes me back all the way to square one.
Twelve
When I arrive home from the wine bar, I dump my purse on the table and step out of my shoes on my way toward my bed. I collapse on top of my quilt, burying my face in the pillows. Merely remembering that night with Anthony has left me exhausted. My stomach clenches as if I were seasick, and I don’t even have the will to get out of my clothes.
Okay. Doreen said that the next time I became overwhelmed about this, I should note down my reactions. Everything I felt, everything I thought. Then we could unpack it all later, in a session, while she’s with me.
I push myself up on one elbow to search for my iPad. Like I thought, it’s beside the bed. When I slide the bar across to wake the tablet up, I see that I have a new e-mail—and it’s from Jonah.
Just wanted to say that I’m glad we worked things out tonight. Looking forward to next time. —J
Next time. The next time I let Jonah pretend to rape me, and I get off on it.
It took me a while to realize how thoroughly Anthony had screwed with my head. After the rape, I stopped masturbating. Completely. I didn’t want to think about guys’ bodies when the only one I’d ever seen aroused was my rapist. When I started having sex with my senior-year boyfriend, Derek, I flashed back to that night—every single time. It was like Anthony was back on top of me, inside me, turning me from a person into a body.
But my boyfriend was a good guy. He had no idea what was wrong with me, why I didn’t seem to enjoy sex as much as he did. So he did his best. Went down on me, fingered me, took me in every position he knew and a couple I think he invented. Plenty of men never become as generous in bed as Derek was at seventeen; his wife must count herself lucky.
Bit by bit, my body woke up to the pleasure of touch. But every single time, I was thinking of Anthony too. Night by night, stroke by stroke, arousal and my rape were woven together. My mind turned the opposites into partners. I couldn’t peel them apart any longer.
When Derek finally got me off, I was remembering a hand clamped over my mouth so I couldn’t scream. And that orgasm—my first in three years—felt so goddamned good that I didn’t care how sick my fantasy was. I only wanted it to happen again.
If Derek thought it was weird, the way I asked him to hold my hands down or pull my hair, he never said anything. Like most teenage guys, he was just thrilled I was finally into it. Even though I felt guilty every time I touched myself while fantasizing about being forced, I didn’t stop. The only way I held myself in check was refusing to let myself think about Anthony anymore. Instead I came up with new scenarios, new kinds of violence—whether brutal or deceptive, as vicious as being bound and gagged or as commonplace as having a guy take advantage of me while I’m too drunk to fight him. The fantasies became more elaborate, just as I was learning how to bring myself off and how to teach a guy to take care of me.
And so here I am, twenty-five years old, only able to come when I think about being raped.
Believe it or not, I’m not the only one. Based on what Doreen has told me, and some psych books I’ve read, other victims sometimes find themselves having rape fantasies too. No, that’s not the usual reaction. But it’s not unheard of. Maybe that should make me feel better. It doesn’t.