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Found 12 results

  1. Poppy_

    The Closet

    This post contains graphic details of sexual assault. Please take caution reading ahead. Well, happy Tuesday, everyone! I’ve gotten over the idea of posting once a week and always posting on the same day. While in theory that was a good idea, my life demands my attention to other things and sometimes I need to write about the stuff that I just can’t get out of my head. Today is one of those days. My mind is swimming in thoughts and ideas and memories and until I get them out on paper, I feel as though I will drown in them and not be able to breathe again. I’m longing for that breath of fresh air so I’m writing the thoughts down. Clearing them. Purging my mind of the details that plague me and render me completely useless in life because I’m so overwhelmed that I can’t properly function. I’ve been avoiding writing for about a week now. I’ve had things to write about, but I guess I just wasn’t ready. My Thursday therapy session revealed some new information that had me in shock for a while, then the shame came. It felt like something I COULDN’T tell anyone. It still carries an undesirable amount of heaviness, but I can’t get it out of my head. I’ve only shared this with one person after discovering it in therapy, and then I shoved it way down and decided it was something I didn’t want to deal with. Not now, and not ever. I was fine before pulling it out of the depths of my twisted brain and now it’s just sitting here, and I can’t get rid of it. This knowledge I have that I wish never would have revealed itself. It’s not something I even shared with The New Guy. Partly because it didn’t feel relevant, and partly because I was just flat out afraid to. I don’t even really know how I feel about sharing it here, but my writing has become my safe place. This feels like somewhere that I can truly open up and share what I need to. Since I’m having trouble functioning as a regular human being, I decided I needed to write it out. I need to process it. I’m not typically one to keep things to myself, so that tells me that this thing I’m about to tell you, is a thing of great magnitude and it’s something so very private. I’m hoping you’ll bear with me as I expose the inner parts of my very being. I know you’re probably tired of me beating around the bush. I guess I’m avoiding my own writing. Part of me DOES want to write about this, but the other part of me wants to continue to keep it locked away forever. I’m also tired of my brain being such an unsafe place for me right now…so I need to get it out. For those that read my last blog, you know that I am in the process of uncovering some disturbing sexual experiences from my childhood. The New Guy opened a door and it’s like I haven’t been able to stop the influx of painful memories that are barging in and interrupting my life. Funny that he was the one to open this door and he’s the one I DIDN’T tell about this new memory. I should probably tell him as it might be important for my treatment, but I just haven’t worked up the nerve. I see him again in two weeks. I MIGHT tell him then. Anyway, he opened this door and all these memories came flooding in and as I was processing, more memories came up. I’ve already written about all of this. What I have neglected to share is what came up after. I didn’t tell about what happened with my other therapist at my Thursday appointment that week. I told Thursday T about my session with The New Guy and everything that came up with him. She proceeded to pull out a timeline I made for her when I first started seeing her. She calls it a “timeline of bothersome events.” The stuff I talked about with The New Guy was on that list, but I had neglected to share something with him. It wasn’t intentional, I just didn’t think about it until Thursday T pulled out that list and asked me about it. When she mentioned what I wrote down, I remembered that specific part, but the more we talked about it, the more I remembered. I’m going to share this with you in the same way it came back to me. Thursday T asks about the time I was in the backyard and I pulled my pants down for a boy. He was a neighbor boy and he had a younger brother. Right after I pulled my pants down, my mom saw it and the boy had to leave. I remembered that I had touched his penis before. That was the extent of my memories. I then remembered that I was only in second grade and I didn’t go to daycare yet. This was before the other boy that I gave blowjobs to and the girl that asked if I was horny. This was different. I started to remember that the boy was older than me. He was maybe 12 and I was about 7. I remembered that he made me touch his penis when I didn’t want to. I remembered all of the times we were outside playing, and he would take me to the side of the house where no one could see us, and he would touch me and make me touch him. I remember not wanting to do it. Then I remembered the big thing. The part that was hidden from my own brain and I wasn’t even sure WAS a memory, but maybe something I made up. Thursday T reassured me that the way it came back to me, meant it was definitely a memory. It did happen. I remembered that we would all play house upstairs in my younger sister’s bedroom. Me, my sister, the boy, and his younger brother. I remembered that because the boy and I were the oldest, we always played the mom and dad. When it was time to sleep in the game (which seemed to happen often), the mom and dad would go into the closet to sleep. I remember that in this closet, the 12-year-old boy tried to have penetrative sex with me. A 7-year-old girl. The memory stops there. I don’t remember if he made it inside, I don’t remember if it hurt, I don’t remember if I cried. I do remember him trying to insert himself inside me. I also remember that nighttime in a game is usually not very long. I remember him telling the others not to come in the closet and telling them it was still nighttime. I remember that I wanted the night to end. Right now, this is my earliest sexual encounter that I remember. I don’t have much else to say about this. I just needed to share this because my brain couldn’t take anymore. I was also kind of hoping more stuff would come back when I put this down on paper – that didn’t happen. But then again, maybe that’s for the best. I need to clear some of this out before I take on more. In closing, I’m sorry this hasn’t been the uplifting blog I hope to someday bring you. I’m going through a long, hard depressive episode right now and I can’t seem to find my way out. I’m on medication to level out my episodes of depression and hypomania, but it seems the medication has left me in just a depressive state and the other medication isn’t helping with that. But, that’s a blog for another time. Thanks for listening, and I’ll be back soon, I’m sure. XO, Poppy
  2. Poppy_

    Puzzle Pieces

    This post contains very graphic references to sexual abuse. I ask that you would not read ahead if you are not in the mind to do so. Please proceed with caution. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Poppy, this isn’t a Friday! Speaking of Friday, where the heck were you this week?’ My apologies to everyone that keeps up with my blog entries weekly or those of you that were looking forward to a post from me. I was taking a small break from AS after some events that transpired and caused me quite a bit of emotional and mental pain. I don’t feel that I really have the liberty to go into much detail, but I was very hurt, and I needed some space to heal. I am back now and hoping to be as active as I was before my mini vacation. I’ve missed you all! Now, there isn’t much to update on as far as my dieting endeavor. I have lost more weight, though, so I am headed in the right direction! My glutes are also very sore right now and I’m tempted to stand up while I type, but… my laziness outweighs the pain so, seated I shall stay! Aside from that, I have no more lighthearted news to fill you in on. This weekend has been a lot for me to process and I’m hoping that by typing this blog, I can get some big chunks of this stuff processed and I can feel better. There have been some new realizations coming to light recently, and it’s been a lot for me to take in. I started seeing a second therapist this weekend. The reasoning for two is that my main therapist specializes in EMDR and my new therapist is really experienced with DBT – both are therapies I need right now. So, I am seeing the male therapist as a supplemental therapy along with my main therapy. I know – I’m all kinds of messed up. I was very nervous about meeting with The New Guy. I already knew him and his wife before I started seeing him for therapy, and I was already pretty close to his wife, but still – I was so nervous. Also, seeing a male kind of freaked me out. I have personal issues with most men, especially men that are in some sort of authoritative position, so I was very apprehensive to tell him about everything. I was so nervous, in fact, that when we first spoke about me doing counseling with him, he mentioned that his wife could be present if I wanted her to be and I immediately said yes. I found comfort in knowing that she was sitting right across the table from me. She already knew most of the information I gave, but not all of it. The conversation took an unexpected turn and I told him things I never thought I would tell anyone. I will get to that stuff in just a minute. I’m going to go ahead and insert a trigger warning here for references to sexual assault and CSA. Please don’t read ahead if you don’t feel like you are in the mind to do so. You can always come back when you feel you are in a better place. My appointment was set for 1:15pm. I arrived at the building and parked my car at 1:14pm. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there, but I saw other vehicles and got nervous. I was texting The Wife and telling her I was nervous because of the other vehicles, but she didn’t respond. At 1:20pm, I finally worked up the courage to go inside. I got to the door and it was locked. I called The Wife and she came to let me inside, then proceeded to tell me what office The New Guy was in and that she had to use the bathroom. I mean, of course she did. My only source of comfort was leaving me so she could pee. I walked into the office, which was a conference room with a long table, and The New Guy told me to sit wherever I liked, so I sat across from him. A safe distance and The Wife could sit on the end to next to me. We started on preliminary paperwork and The New Guy says he can’t sit so far away from me and moves to the seat I had reserved, in my mind, for The Wife – my safety blanket. Had she not decided she had to pee, she could’ve already been sitting there. I inch a little further away because, well, a male presence so close to me made me more nervous than I already was. The Wife finally comes in from her potty break and sits across from me. Although I had named her my source of comfort, I was immediately MORE nervous. My legs wouldn’t stop bouncing, my hands would stop shaking, and my breath was shallow and rapid. I finish all the paperwork and The New Guy says to me, “So, what’s up?” I had no words to use to respond. I mean, what do I say? Do I just spit out all of my secrets, or do I say, ‘not much?’ What answer was he looking for? I responded with a “you have to ask something more specific than that,” and he did. He asked why I was there. Truth is, I was there because The Wife said she thought he could help me. I told him that and he asked why she felt that way. I darted back an “I don’t know, ask her,” and, well, he didn’t. Instead, I told him that the first 5 sessions with main T, I barely said 4 words to her, and he said he didn’t want that to happen here. He switched gears a little bit and opened up an actual conversation. I don’t remember exactly what he asked, but I remember it got us on the topic of self-harm. I told him that I am a cutter and have been since I was 10 or 11. He asked what happened to me that made me hurt myself for the first time and why I was doing it. We talked about that for a little bit and then landed on my eating disorder. After that, we moved to alcohol abuse. This is where things took a turn that I didn’t expect. He asked me about the rape. He already knew I was raped, but he knew no details of it – just that it happened. He asked if it was violent or if there were weapons involved. I said no, but that I was very intoxicated and possibly drugged and consciousness was drifting in and out. He asked if the monster that did this to me, also took my virginity – I told him no. I lost my virginity when I was 11 or 12. He seemed taken aback by my response. I guess because I was so young when it happened. He asked if the boy was my age and if the sex was something I had thought about before or if I had been exposed to any pornography or anything else like that prior to my sexual encounter with the boy when I was 12. I told him he was my age, but it wasn’t my first sexual experience. He asked me to describe my other sexual experiences to him. This is the part where it gets pretty graphic and uncomfortable and BELIEVE ME, I was BEYOND uncomfortable when I had to talk about this out loud. I was also really ashamed. This isn’t a part of my past I wanted to relive. I proceeded to tell him about the boy I knew in 4th or 5th grade. The boy that wanted me to sit with him in the back of the daycare van after school and give him handjobs. The boy that would convince me it was okay and knew I couldn’t say no. The boy that only talked to me to get his fix. The New Guy asks how I knew what to do. I say I don’t know. Then he asks if this is my first sexual encounter. I tell him no – but the other one was with a girl. He asked for details. I told him about the girl I knew when I was 7 that was mt best friend at daycare. I tell him that we were watching TV while the younger kids napped, and she leans over and asks me if I’m horny. I tell The New Guy that 7-year-old Poppy didn’t know what that meant, so that girl explained it to me. I told her I didn’t feel that way, but she said she did. We went over to lay down beside the vending machines in the corner. I tell The New Guy that we put coats over ourselves and touched each other. I don’t remember if I told him that this became a regular occurrence, or perhaps he knew from the way I spoke about it, but this became something we did every day at naptime. It was routine. Prior to this, I had told him that I didn’t remember anything from before age 6. I really don’t. My memories there are completely blank. He thinks I may have been sexually abused before then and I just don’t remember. There were more situations like this when I was young that I negated to tell him simply because it didn’t matter. He knew the base of what he needed to know. I didn’t tell The New Guy about my dad’s girlfriend’s daughter when I was 10. I didn’t tell him about how she was much older than me and when I shared a bed with her, she would give me candy to kiss her and let her touch me. I didn’t tell him about how no matter how many times I said I didn’t want to do it, she pleaded with me to say yes. I didn’t tell him about how we got caught, and she didn’t get punished. I didn’t tell The New Guy about the other guys that I obliged with handjobs and lap dances and sex. I kept to myself all the other girls that touched me because I touched them back and I knew that meant it was consensual and it didn’t matter. The New Guy tells me this was all sexual abuse. That I was abused and taken advantage of and that people have been using my body for my entire life and it makes him so angry. He said it infuriates him. I told him that I told my other therapist about this and she told me it was normal. It was normal for kids to explore like this. The New Guy says, “it is not normal for 7 and 8-year-olds to be doing things like this,” and I was confused because I was told that it WAS normal. The New Guy says even now, my body is being used as an object for other people’s enjoyment or pleasure. I’m hurting all over right now. The weight of his words sits so heavily on my shoulders that I can barely hold my body up. I didn’t know that any of this was wrong or that I was abused – I thought it was normal. I feel dirty. I feel disgusting. I feel broken. I feel so, so alone. I’m too afraid to try to uncover the memories before age 6. There must be a reason why my mind has blocked this out. I thought it was because I had a crappy memory but now.. I don’t know. I never thought much of this stuff until The New Guy asked me how I knew how to touch the boy on the daycare van. I can’t remember if he told me what to do, or if it was my idea, or if I just ‘knew.’ I don’t know where I learned it – I only remember doing it. I don’t remember if at 9 years old, that was the first penis I touched. I don’t remember if the boy was old enough to get hard, but I knew he wasn’t old enough to cum. He couldn’t ‘finish,’ so we would stop when we got close to being at the daycare. I had several memories come back to me while I was typing that out. I had to put the writing down for the rest of the day so I could process. I am here now, and I’m going to share the new memories I have. Funny how that happens, right? New memories just come flooding in. Anyway, here’s what I remember now. When I was typing about the boy on the daycare van and how he couldn’t ‘finish,’ I was thinking about how there was no ‘clean up’ to get done before arriving back at the daycare. That made me remember that there WAS clean up to be done, but it wasn’t cum – it was my saliva. At 9 years of age, I was giving a boy blowjobs on the daycare van. That thought didn’t sit well with me. In fact, it made me so uneasy that it brought back another memory almost immediately after. For a while, I couldn’t remember if this was something I wanted to do or if it was something he told me to do. I know I’ve already mentioned that, but now I remember. I remember that every day I would get on the daycare van and hope to God that the boy wasn’t there. If he wasn’t there, I was free. On the days he WAS there, I remember my heart sinking to the bottom of my chest and holding back the tears because I didn’t want to touch him, but I felt like I had no choice. I HAD to do it, or he would be mad at me. I have always been a people-pleaser. My whole life has been about making other people happy. Aside from that, I HATED getting in trouble. I have always been a rule follower because I hated it when my parents were disappointed in me. This is another reason I KNOW that there’s no way I would have voluntarily put my hands on his organ in the back of a daycare van. It’s another reason I could never tell anyone and I lied about it when my parents asked me what was going on. I didn’t want them to be mad at me. I was talking about this with a dear friend of mine last night because I was trying to process everything. It seems the more I try to process, the more parts come back to me. It was hours after I decided to put the blog down, but there was another new memory. I remembered that not only did this boy want me to put my hands and mouth on him, but I remember that he put his hands down the front of my pants and into my panties. I can’t remember if I wanted this or if I asked him to do it. I don’t know if he thought he was being nice because of what I was doing for him. I don’t know if my 9-year-old blowjobs were too stale for him and he needed a little extra play to get himself going. I have no idea if I protested this. Perhaps that will come to me later along with more puzzle pieces that I can fit together to get a full picture. I don’t know if The New Guy was right. I don’t know if this was sexual abuse. I don’t know if I can claim that I am a survivor of CSA or not. Maybe this is something I’m rejecting because it hurts or maybe I still haven’t fully processed it. I DO know that I would not like any comments to reflect that it was NOT sexual abuse. I will gladly accept the support or your opinion on if you think this was, indeed, abuse, but I don’t need the invalidation right now. This is all still very new to me and I’m still processing things. My mind is too fragile to accept any negative feedback as it will impact my thoughts too heavily right now. I feel like I should go ahead and end this post because I could probably type all day. I want to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to every person that read this and is sitting here supporting me. Your kindness means the world to me. I’m happy to be back on AS and to be surrounded by such wonderful people. Thank you all for everything you do. Soon, Poppy
  3. myCatElton

    28 Days

    When I sleep with a man, I close my eyes. I do everything I can to make it be over if it starts taking him too long. I do this even when its my decision and I came on to him; but it always feels wrong. The sweating grosses me out, the body hair, the awkward humping like he thinks he's rocking your world when all he's really doing is drying my out and causing awful friction. When I close my eyes, I don't have to see him anymore, and it separates me from the situation. I wondered when I started doing that; coming onto guys and then waiting for it to end. When I was 16, my first boyfriend Parker took my virginity. Like most embarrassed teenage girls I couldn't look then, either. Then I got comfortable, and eventually I was confident enough to look, to take control, to fuck him back. It was all we ever did when we were together, which the horny teenager in me didn't mind a bit. But then weeks passed, and months. We were still only fucking. Not just once, but at least two times every day. I would go see him every day, pick him up, bring him home with me. Let him fuck me as much as he wanted, and then take him home again. It became routine, to let him have what he wanted even if I didn't feel like it. If I said no, he would keep asking. So I let him. When I couldn't stand him anymore, I ended it. He was the first boy I ever slept with, and he used me like a sex doll. And I let him. I gave him what he wanted, because isn't that easier than fighting it? I think that really created the foundation for other men to take advantage of me. Never by force, but coercion. If they tried enough, I would let them. If I knew that was what they wanted from me, I gave it to them. Again, and again, and again. Sometimes, it was drugs that convinced me. Or alcohol. Or both. They would get me fucked up and then I was even easier to convince. Friend gets me molly, and suddenly a little touching isn't as big of a deal. We're tripping on shrooms together, and the harmless back massage travels to my ass, and I allow it. Give me some painkillers, and I'll take my best friend's virginity. More painkillers, I let you do anal. Some acid and coke, I let you spit in my mouth and call me a w**re. At the time, maybe it even felt good. Maybe I wanted to do it, too. But I didn't want to, not really. I wanted the drugs, to feel better for just a while. I wanted the attention, because loneliness hurts almost as much. It was always him that wanted to. The dozens of hims that I barely remember or remember all too well; I knew what they wanted from me, what every guy always wanted from me, and I let them have it because it seemed like the only thing left of me to give. So I didn't fight, I just closed my eyes. In a way, so did they, because no one ever seemed to notice how much I was cutting myself back then. After a while, I tried to get better. I'd stopped being as reckless, tried to find someone that didn't think of me as a nice piece of ass to destroy. Tried to take better care of myself, and tried to push back the memories of all the things I let other people do to me. And I was doing alright, for a short while. I had just started taking klonopin for my anxiety, and had no idea how strongly it would interact with something to drink. I was on a tinder date, and between the two of us we finished the bottle. He was handsome, and older, and I was trashed. I got on top of him, kissed him hard. When I started to take off my clothes, and he politely slowed it down, then left. Told me maybe next time. Bet you we're expecting that; neither was I. I'd never had a guy turn down sex with me before. I was ripe for the taking, but he knew I was too drunk. He was the first respectful guy I'd ever come across. But then, I invited over my friend, Max. We had also met on tinder, but I hooked up with him roommate a few times and had made it abundantly clear that I was only interested in being friends. It wasn't that he was a bad guy or anything, but for the love of Christ his teeth were so repulsive, the thought of kissing him made me gag. So there we were, me already half blackout drunk, Max having his first drink while pouring me another. I told him all about how I'd just had the most wonderful date, and that we were going to see each other again soon. We chatted and drank and then I noticed how he was looking at me. How he was always looking at me. Then, I kissed HIM. There's a lot I don't remember about that night, parts that got left out because of the drugs. That, I do remember. I kissed him first. I still blame myself for that. See, when you get drunk while also on a benzo like xanax or klonopin, you don't black out entirely. At least, I didn't. While I was drunk, I was there, experiencing everything. It was only the next day that parts were missing, blurred out like someone didn't erase them properly. There were also parts that, for the life of me, I couldn't stop remembering. Images were playing through my mind over and over. Me kissing him, me leading us to my room. Him pushing my head down to blow him, it chocking me. Then it was me, laying on my stomach with him behind me. I was too fucked up to do anything but lay there, too dizzy to move. I remember how much it hurt, how aggressively he forced himself into me over and over again. I remember him spanking me, and how humiliating it was. When the worst part happened, when he decided to take his too big c*ck and force it in my ass, I remember my face in the pillow, eyes clenched shut, almost screaming, my hand grabbing the blankets for dear life. I don't remember how it ended, or much of anything after that, except that I kept laying there, staring straight ahead, and tears hitting the pillow. He slept over, and the next morning, I made excuses about having to be somewhere soon and that he needed to leave. I went back to bed, in shock, and just cried. All day, I cried. Then, I decided to fight. I fought with him, over text, furious that he'd taken advantage of me when I had been so drunk, fresh off a date, after I had been so clear that I never wanted anything like that from him. I told his roommate, my friend, but he wasn't on my side. Said Max told him we were both drunk, that I kissed him first, that I wanted it to happen, but regretted it. Person after person I told, no one was on my side. Except for my roommate; he had been in his room, and heard all of it. I still think about how it must have damaged him, being a witness to something he couldn't stop. 28 days from now it will be a full year since I attempted suicide. I never make it to the one year mark; for three years I've come within a month or two but then relapse in the worst ways. It's like all the cuts I didn't make were building up until the pressure was so great that one touch of a blade to my skin left a devastating wound. The boy I had been on a date with that night stayed with me through the entire winter. I don't know if I could have made it without him. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but it was the worst time. I rearranged my room, made everything look different. I will never put my bed back in the spot by the window, because that's where it happened. I could never lay in that bed there again, knowing that's where my face had been buried in the pillow. For a while, everything was really difficult. Then I buried it deep and soldiered on, because there are always so many other things to worry about. After a while, and after being cut off by that group of friends, I moved on with my life. Then I started a new job, and he was there. He asked the boss to never schedule us on the same nights, because he couldn't stand to be around me, because I made HIM uncomfortable. He played the victim, telling all his friends I went crazy after coming on to him and all sorts of lies. He had his life, his friends, and I had panic attacks in the bathroom. My skin crawled when I saw him. People would say his name in conversation and I thought I was going to be sick. I couldn't keep working like that, and I couldn't quit the job, so I told someone. A manager asked what was wrong, so I told him. Nothing happened. I told the girls I worked with, and turned out, I wasn't the only one. Not one, but TWO other girls had been his friend, partied together, gotten way too shit faced, and woke up next to Max. Apparently, that was just "what he does". He targets women that can't say no. One of the other girls talked to a different manager with me, and still, nothing happened. Every feeling from that night came back into my life and I kept remembering my face in the pillow, the pain. No one did a thing to help me, no matter how many times I asked. I eventually was fired from that job after having a panic attack that sent me home during a busy shift. Fired because I was raped, and no one would help me. I think about how many other girls hes done this to, how many more there are to come. I want to report it, I want to put him away so he can't hurt anyone ever again. There are THREE that I know of, but even if they did come forward with me, who would believe us. Girls getting too drunk, having sex, regretting it. How do you call it rape if you didn't say no, if you didn't fight him off? My name, all of our names, would get dragged through the dirt. They would call us slutty, reckless, paint a picture of drug addicts and mental cases until no one took us seriously. And all that, for my family to witness? There is no justice for people like me, like the other girls. We elect rapists into our Supreme Court and then are asked why it is we didn't come forward sooner, say something when it happened. And besides, I kissed him first, remember? I kissed him first because since I was 16 years old, the world taught me to just give men what they wanted from me, that it was easier that way. How do you explain that to a court? To your friends? Your family? The most ironic part is, I'm gay. And when I'm with a girl, I keep my eyes wide open, and I never want it to end.
  4. CivilCybil

    My experience

    I want to share something. It may be a trigger warning for someone out here. I wouldn’t read this if you endured a rape that wasn’t based on intimidation. This maybe something that makes you remember something you don’t want too, or that you can relate to that may hash up those feelings again. Maybe someone can relate and helps them to know that they aren’t the only ones this has happened too. In either case, it is pretty intimately detailed, and please use caution when deciding to read this. My rapist didn’t threaten me. He didn’t hold a gun to my head, or a knife at my throat. He didn’t even order me around. He had simply cornered me. At the time, I weighed about 85lbs. I was recovering from having a long battle with pneumonia, and that had left me very weak and fragile. He was the maintenance man of the property I lived in. I lived in the camper next to his, and he worked on it a time or two before, knowing about the locks. He talked to me a good deal the day before it happened, and he expressed a very strong interest in having a relationship with me. I turned him down several times, explaining my loyalty to my boyfriend, and just being flat uncomfortable with his advances. The night of the rape, he knocked on my door, jiggled the door handle, and the door unlocked… something he knew he could do. He entered into my camper and started talking to me, the same he had tried the previous day. I was already in my nightgown and was heading to bed when he had come in. He held onto me, tried to love on me, and kept trying to kiss me. I kept trying to tell him no and kept trying to get away. But he was too big for me to fight with, and I froze in fear. All he wanted to do was show his affection to me and try to win me over, and for me to be in a relationship with him, and love him as much as he thought he loved me. The details got foggy from there on out. I don’t think he choked me or battered me in any way, but I think I shut down with the fear that I had. I had no bruises or scars to speak about and point to show what happened to me. The next morning, I got dressed, knocked the hell out of him with a cast iron skillet and ran away, barefoot and half dressed. All I could think about was to get to my boyfriend, but I had gotten lost in the new town. I had no one to turn too, and couldn't find my way. A cop stopped me. He knew what was wrong, but I was too afraid of the potential he had to harm me, that I couldn’t tell him what had happened. At the time, I didn’t even know that it was even an attack or rape. Now, I have a problem. My boyfriend is desperately trying to show me how much he loves me. He wants to be intimate with me and love on me. But the idea scares the hell out of me. It isn’t because I don’t want it, but because I’m scared of the potential of being vulnerable to the will of a man. I love him with all my heart and want to be with him, but how can I when I get so afraid of the potential I just freeze up like I did way back then? I have approached sex as a wham, bam, thank you kind of moment. I know it is needed, and sometimes I want it too, but the intimacy and desire to love someone that way is just too much for me to bare. The other thing about me… I was raised with a sexual predator as a brother. He attacked me physically and mentally starting at the age of eight, and it lasted until I left home at 16. The abuse was so bad that I had often thought about killing myself. Later, it came out, and he hit the national news that he was a predator. I finally felt some type of relief, knowing that my fears of him raping me had some basis, other than a figment of my imagination.
  5. survivor07

    Values

    He told me to lay back....I did. He rubbed my stomach....He put his finger in the middle of my chest and drew an imaginary line down my stomach and belw my belly button. I was wearing jeans. He undid the button and I didn't stop him. I should've pushed his hand away or hugged him to get him to stop. He undid the zipper and I didn't fight him. All I could do was bite my lip as I started to cry. His hands were so soft and warm. I could feel them inching closer to what I valued most. He moved around and I hated it. I couldn't wait for it to be over. I didn't understand how anyone could possible enjoy that.
  6. So I was spending time with my in-laws this evening... dinner (delicious), and company. I'm not sure what was said to make me feel this way... but I feel the need to rant a little... vent a little.. in a safe environment so that I won't hurt the ones I love. When someone hasn't been through a traumatic event - abusive parents, volatile divorce perhaps, sexual assault... something that changes how you interact with the world. Makes you inherently -dysfunctional... you are constantly having to ignore the inner voice, and even if you feel like you've buried it, worked through it, FINALLY are done with it... it sometimes pops up and is just as horrible as the first time. Yes.. these instances become fewer and farther between.. and don't last as long. But they still gut punch you. You still feel the rug pulled out from under you - the freefall. You still feel reverted back to that emotional age. Even typing it, trying to put it into words... my stomach drops.. my throat gets all tingly, like I could cry... well... my man.. my lovie.. HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THAT. He has never lived through that. I mean... yes, he has had difficulties. He has his own issues - everyone does. But he never had his parent abandon him, destroy his entire family... his world... at such a tender age. He never had his parent leave, move away, lie, seemingly give zero fucks about what his children wanted. We weren't stupid, we knew how to articulate our feelings to him, and we DID. Even when it was terrifying... right (or wrong) my mom made us kids tell him if we didn't want to see him. And we all went to therapy through the divorce, and me for years afterwards... But my husband has both his biological parents, still together, in his life. They both love him, support him, and have ALWAYS been right in his life/by his side... my mom was there... what we went through bonded her and us kids... So I guess what I'm getting at is... I get really frustrated because he really doesn't understand when I talk about what I went through... or when I say things like, "I'm broken", or "I will always be hurt on the inside... even if it heals a little... it will never go away" he tells me that isn't true, he doesn't believe me. So he isn't trying to be mean.. he knows I am damaged, am hurt, and has enthusiastically encouraged me to get counseling now... he has been, as best he can, supportive and understanding of what I'm currently going through... But he doesn't get it. HE DOESN'T. And he can't qualify it, explain it away, make it vanish, or "cure" it. I can't either... it's like I got my foot cut off... Yes I have a pretty good prosthetic foot.. and I can walk and function normally... but I have a stump. (Sorry if I offended anyone with a prosthetic foot!!) I will never have two whole feet. I will never be whole. My husband operates in the world from a place of love, trust, acceptance, and overall tolerance - again, he does have his own demons/issues... but overall he had a supportive loving childhood. I operate from a place of mistrust, constant anticipation and anxiety, fucked up sexuality and self-image and fixation on men... I can, and do, function very well. But I got married too young, I think... and I got married to someone better than me, someone who wasn't broken inside. I don't know... I'm just frustrated. Maybe I'm just irritable because of the humidity... maybe I'm just irritable because summer vacation is almost here and I've been super stressed all year... It just got to me, or it's getting to me... Anyway, I know I'm lucky to have him. He is my best friend. He knows me, has seen me in my weakest moments. He challenges me to be better. He stands up to me when I need to be told to think rationally. He loves me through my crazy shit... he is himself, and he's still with me. Remember that K-dog... remember that. Better yet. Go fucking tell him yourself how much you appreciate him.
  7. Kimberly122708

    Weekend...

    Waiting for the weekend to really "start". I have a friend coming upstate to visit me... someone who I haven't hung out with in almost a year, it'll be fun to hang out with her. Why do I feel so.. non-enthused? I have a long weekend... I don't have to go and be around P at my mom's house.... all in all a fairly good weekend... I guess I'm also really stressed about next year, upcoming summer break, summer school..... my job. I am happy I will be doing summer school - a little more pay is fine by me - but I get nervous about planning for next year. I never feel like I'm covering the standards which I am required to cover... I've also been thinking a lot about grammar, incorporating grammar and mechanics into my curriculum... but I didn't even understand grammar when I was in school. Yes, I am an ELA teacher, but my area of interest is in creative writing, or reading comprehension. Basically literature, discussing literature, and expressing yourself thru writing. I mean, obviously I grasp grammar... I write according to "the rules"... but trying to figure out how to teach those "rules" when I don't fully understand them is daunting. Part of my professional development this year was teaching grammar... and I just felt like I was not doing what I needed to be doing. I know it was fine... but I care about my job... and I care about doing everything to the best of my ability. Yeah... teacher thoughts.... sorry. It's like my mind just hovers in two spheres - sex and work. - - - - OK, now here comes some ranting/complaining/etc.... Sometimes I feel so invisible at home. I know G loves me. I know he does.... but when he is playing his videogame, reading about the game, or whatever... it's like I come home, and sit... waiting for him to pay attention to me. How can I get him to give me more attention without bugging him, pressuring him... or pestering him? He's pretty easy going... but when you "nag" him about stuff, he is more inclined to do the opposite... so how do I get him to pay attention to me. I've jokingly told him, I'm going to give you a word requirement - like you have to say 20 words to me a day. It was a joke... but he didn't think it was funny. So that's like... ok dude... I'm trying to communicate what I need. YES, I recognize that you need space, yes, you need to think and stew and not just hash it out right then.... but I get so frustrated... doesn't he understand that I need attention and communication???? I don't know, just frustrating. Like I said... I KNOW he loves me. - - - I've not brought up any of this.... sexual tension/frustration/etc with him since earlier this week... I am scared to open that door again... last time he was mad, frustrated, and we did get into a "fight", even though we were ok again by the time we went to bed. I worry that he thinks this is "over"... but I feel like it's kinda just beginning.... - - - Yeah so, my mom called to talk about our plans this weekend. We're meeting up at the lake house - no douche bag zone - and I just wanted to solidify when. Anyway, she tried to talk to me about it. About him. That she was proud of me for being able to talk about it, and that I tell my students about assault - that consent must be ENTHUSIASTIC consent, otherwise that is assault. Whether it is words, touches, or actions... anyway, that's all nice. It was, awkward.. but I appreciate that she at least brought it up... brought up that she is planning on firing him as soon as she has a replacement.. Ok... yeah... and then she goes into, and she's just telling me, "not that this is an excuse or whatever", but how he is going to church and going to counseling. What am I supposed to say to that... like, oh good for him? Or... I don't know... I just prefer that he not be in my life/mind/heart at ALL. And just think, he has sat there and told my mom of his horrible life... how he regrets how he's acted in the past(what actions.. who knows..), that he and his wife cheated on each other, yadda yadda.... I don't get why she wanted to tell me, and I don't get why... like... fuck him. I don't know. That's great that he can get help... that he can improve himself. Anyone can do that, and most "bad" people have had to go thru some kind of trauma... I am doing it. But anyway, I genuinely do hope that he IS trying to heal... everyone deserves that. But - I DON'T FUCKING CARE. But I do... kinda... I mean, I do and don't hate him. And I do and don't love him. - - - I was asking my sister if she remembered when P started like... showering me with so much affection... My best guess is 11 or 12. Let's say I was 12, or even 13 when he first touched me sexually, she said that then he would have been 16 or 17. And I'm almost positive we had sex when I was 15, so that would make him 19. Does that matter? It's strange how little of my adolescence is clear to me. I mean, I remember like... specific events... but the actual details and ages seem hazy. Maybe that's just normal... does it matter at all? I asked her if that was normal... me liking him, him flirting (kinda) with me. She said that when she was that age, an older boy would kinda "like" her, but she said the difference was that they never touched her - not even to throw her in the river. So that makes P pulling me onto his lap and hugging me... did he ever do anything more than that before he came to me on the couch... I don't remember. God I hate him, because it's like even thinking about that shit makes me feel all sexually flustered. I wonder if he knows that my mom knows as much as she knows... and she doesn't know much... or... I don't know if she knows the details... So when he's having those "heart to heart" convos about him improving his life... do they know how skewed my own life became after those first attentions... and the real shitter is that I did like it.. and that doesn't make me any less a victim. I never really realized that he was THAT much older, that he knew it probably wasn't ok... So since I... since I loved him, it's like... I can't hate him, but I do hate him, because all he ever did was hurt me, use me, and lie. Maybe that's what I'm stuck on.. I believed that maybe he would marry me... I imagined it back then. It wasn't just a one time thing, him telling me he would marry me, he did it a few times, and usually in front of other people.. coupled with the hugs or pulling me on his lap. Ugh, fuck him. I have to remind myself that the life, this real, healthy, generally happy life I have with my G is so much better than what P could have given me. He would never have helped me find myself, and work through my shit over and over and over like G does. That's the other fucked up thing - back to self blame - what right do I have to complain about what I have? What right do I have to think dangerous thoughts that seem so fucked up and shameful that I am doomed to wreck my relationship with G. But I'm not. I'm not. I have always been honest, will always be honest - as much as I feel comfortable... Shit, this is where I spew the thoughts as they come to me.. it seems really fucking dangerous if I do that to my sweet G. Yeah... should try to get into friend/hang out mode... lol
  8. Kimberly122708

    Lies...

    Last time made me so uncomfortable, driving down to the campground... imaging what P would look like, and what his reaction would be. It made me physically ill, but excited. I tried to explain that to my husband the last time we had a decent honest conversation, the other night, about all this. I can't tell him that I had a brief fantasy about P... about getting back together with him. I don't want that, not really. It's like when I think about P I get sucked back into being that 11-15 year old girl... I can't help myself, he is so tall and kind to me. He pays attention to me, he smiles at me in a special way.... (Am I wrong to say it's been a while since G smiled at me that way? That secret, you're mine; you're my girl kind of look/smile.) Anyway, I was all upset, freaked out, ashamed, excited, disgusted, hurt..... all that shit when driving down and thinking these things about P.... it wasn't like that anyway. He was going out past me as I was coming in saying something like "Hey Kimmy!!", and I said "Hey" back to him, but I am pretty good at putting off "DON'T FUCKING TALK TO ME" vibes. I almost feel like he swallowed the happy and excited greeting as soon as I passed the threshold of the door and into the store, or as soon as I responded. Not quite what I imagined. I didn't see him after that... But anyway, today I've been getting asked by my family if I am going down there this weekend.... I had originally planned to. I (sickly) kind of want to - to see him again... I don't know why. Either way, I have decided not to go. It's too fucked up. Besides, I'm already stressing myself out already with trying to figure myself out, and grow in my relationship with G.... I told my stepdad first, easy. Then I texted my sister (thought about talking to her on the phone.. but knew I would probably cry...) told her why. She understands and asks if I want her to punch P in the c*ck. I love her, I appreciate her support SO MUCH. I want to see her too (coming from out of state.. and my nieces..)... but.. anyway it's fucked up. Because how do I say; I think maybe I still kind of love him (gag)? Anyway, almost as soon as I got home, my mom was calling me. I knew, as soon as I saw who was calling, that she was going to ask if I was coming down this weekend. I immediately felt ill. I looked at G and said, I'm going to lie to her about why I am not coming. I don't know why I felt like I needed to lie about that. Happily... she didn't press when I said I wasn't able to. She also brought up that she was hiring a new boy... I wonder if she is hiring a new boy so she can fire P. Last time she said P's name around me, she looked at me kinda guilty and was like, "I'm only using him you know.." Maybe I'm reading too much into it... I feel MUCH better now having it out in the open that I am not going. But I don't understand why I felt like I should lie about it. TW What is wrong with a person when they have amazing sex with their partner... Passionate, where their partner is trying to accommodate and give them what they need. Exciting, thrilling, new sex - trying things with eachother that they haven't before... but it's not enough? I didn't cum, I couldn't... usually that doesn't happen... but I was really worked up and excited by trying the new things - plus I was focusing a lot on what we were doing, not just cumming. It was great... he is great. I know there is nothing "wrong" with me... but it's hard. It's like, he is everything I could ever ask for... so kind, so caring... tries his best to be understanding... why am I.... still.... like this. Ugh... I'm excited for school to be over soon, but I also worry about all the time I'll have on my hands. Not that I'm going to go out and do stupid shit... but I feel very overwhelmed and consumed by all I'm feeling.
  9. Extreme content - mind rambles and just trying to work through this. Mother fucking fuck. I don't understand why these... memories... this.. .this fucking life altering moment when P fucking fuck face made me his. Sick, made me HIS??!?! I don't understand why these memories have now made me have to realize that I'm.... what.. what? So fucking preoccupied by sex and men sexualizing me? It breaks my heart typing those words. It breaks my heart because who the FUCK takes this shit and uses it in a way that is so.... misunderstood. My mom always used to tell me that she'd slap me if she found out I was having sex before marriage. Ha. hahaha. Sorry that I was not only having sex by age 15, but with multiple partners - unsafe sex I might add, until I met my G. At age 18. Anyway, why any of that matters, who the fuck knows. Why does this shit just open up another Pandora's box full of sexual desires and utter wanton fantasies that... yes, I knew I had them... but I didn't want to become consumed by them. I feel like I'm being consumed by them. I feel ever the more shameful about being... sexually excited by these things, these interactions... I'm trying so hard to be truthful and open through this healing process with my husband... but I don't know that he wants to deal with this shit... or if he can. Fuck this fuck that fuck everything.
  10. I might go down to my mom's campground this coming weekend, Memorial Weekend. If I think about it too long, my belly gets all.... filled with butterflies, gets upset. I get excited. Like I'm going on a date. I'm NOT. I am NOT going on a fucking date with him. I am married to a man, a GOOD man. I hate him so much for being in my heart still. I don't want to be.... excited at the prospect of seeing him. What kind of a masochist am I? Seriously, I am happy (aren't I?), loved, and supported. Blah blah blah blah blah. I fucking hate him. I fucking hate that the memory of him, of what we had, is still making me feel like a inexperienced girl. That I LIKE feeling this way again. I've been waiting to feel this way again. I'm sorry G, I'm so sorry you're with me... how could you still love me when I am letting my mind run free with these fantasies? I hate myself right now. I hate P, but I hate myself more. He didn't put these thoughts in my head, I am the one letting myself go down these roads.... I just wish I didn't have to deal with this. I want to see my mom/sisters next weekend... but I really don't want to be around him at all. Not only because I hate him, but because I am scared of myself being around him...
  11. So yeah. I am really embarassed to admit some of these fantasies...I am constantly thinking them, but I haven't admitted some of them to my husband. Some, but,not the ones I am afraid of, shamed by... Secretly thrilled by. It's like I got my first sexual awakening, and that's all I want, from anybody. Yes of course I want stability, yes I want a partner, YES I want all these things... But I also want to be overly sexual. It isn't enough, being in my monogamous relationship. BAD Kimmy..that is probably the most shameful thing I have admitted. I want to make it work.. Desperately. I want to fulfill my sultry desires in a way that still allows my husband to love me; without hurting him. I have thought about creating an erotic blog, like...to just unleash all these thoughts. Is it wrong that I am really thrilled by the thought of strangers reading my words and,being excited by them ? What the fuck is wrong with me... I feel like a predator myself. I have NEVER acted on these thoughts... NEVER even admitted some of them to living people... I am just scared, scared of me. I feel like this site is helping me find others like me, but it is also terrifying. I have never admitted these things to myself...so discussing them here makes them real. Why can't I just be happy with what I have?
  12. So, I'm trying to work through why I am like I am... is there something broken inside that led to this? Am I a perverted person? Is it wrong to be perverted? I feel like the right answer to that has to be YES. Good people aren't like this, proper, respectable people don't think these thoughts, have these desires. It's gross, I feel gross, because then by that logic... I AM wrong. Bad. I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say either.... so I guess I'll just go right into it... TW/GRAPHIC - you really don't have to keep reading. So like, ever since I knew what my parts were for, I was masturbating. I used all kinds of things, really anything that got me off. Bathtub, toothbrush and hairbrush handles, couches, backs of chairs, decorative glass bottles... and as often as I could get away with it. Again, that *get away with it*.... am I truly disgusting for being into masturbation? I walk a constant line of I think the thought, get turned on, feel shame, repeat. Then I discovered the internet and flirting online - nothing serious, I never was brave enough. Then boys started paying attention to me.... the dates are all so confusing, my teen years are all jumbled... Let me work through this... First "boyfriend" - 5th grade, Jarrod. We went on a date (with my family) and we got "married" on the playground. Not even hand holding. Then middle school (7th and 8th grade?) Brett. We held hands on the bus to Cedar Point, then we talked about it on AIM afterwards - sweet, innocent, and we actually kissed too! After being dared by friends, of course! So this is where it gets fuzzy... because I know this is when P and I first started interacting... or were we always? It seems like I remember being so young and having this older boy fawn over me. But when? P. He was my first real sexual encounter with a boy. I loved it - I think. I mean, I clearly remember him telling me "I love how you're shaking" (right now I hear him whispering that to me, and I feel warm - I hate myself) he touched my breasts and maybe fingered me, and it was the first time I felt a penis. Daniel - (but I honestly don't remember if he was before or after P....) we dated, we would go to the church's baseball field behind my house and make out. Dry hump, fingering and handjobs... he asked me for sex once, but I said no, and he never pushed. Why didn't I let him? (that's why I sometimes think it was before I was with P) - We also used my old elementary school playground as a secluded spot to mess around. Oh, it must have been 9th or 10th grade because I could drive and I would drive him home sometimes. So that was after I had had sex with P. Why didn't I let Daniel? Chris. Very sweet, and never pressured me. He was also older, but truly a gentleman. He had had sex before (I think) but he let me set the pace and wouldn't push. He offered stuff, he offered once to eat me out (in a teasing/off hand way) but I didn't get it at the time, and he sensed my inexperience and it never happened. I get it now. P. Letting P have sex with me on the night of Chris' dad's funeral. How much I despise that I was there. Did I let it happen? Didn't I know what an erect penis would do if it was near my vagina? But still, "somehow" it happened. Immediately afterwards I went upstairs and cried/puked. But didn't I also like it? Did I? I don't remember... Also don't remember exact dates, but also had a series of encounters with P. No relationship - just fuck buddies I guess. I sure wanted him to love me, be my boyfriend, marry me like he said he would. Not sure when/how that ended...but eventually it did. This is where I feel like I just... slept with anyone who would sleep with me. It's just a cycle of - date a guy who'll fuck me, fuck some guy for fun, use a guy friend who was really kind for sexual encounters with no real intentions, attempt and be rejected by other male friends for sex... I honestly can't remember who came before who... so I'm just going to do my best to go through them... Chris2 - Actually respected me and tried to love me. I used him. Let him finger me and get me off, but not actually date him. I feel really shitty about this... he was genuinely a nice guy, and I feel really bad about leading him on and using him like that. I burned a bridge there. Nick - Also used him for sex. I didn't ever actually LIKE him. He was annoying, immature, and frankly... a little stupid. He was willing to mess around with me, though, and had a nice body. So that whole thing was pretty much me using him for sex, maybe he thought we were dating - I didn't really care. Campground guy - I don't even remember his name... but I met him at my mom's campground, hung out all night around a fire with him... and the next morning flashed my panties at him and his friend on the swing by the river. We exchanged numbers, and I drove 2 hours to visit him on three or four occasions (he never drove to see me, I just realized... what a fucking dummy I am). We watched porn together, we got eachother off orally and with our hands. We did stuff while his friend (the one I flashed) and his girlfriend did stuff - had sex? - on the other end of the basement. I clearly remember his friend commenting on how he liked how loud I was. I feel sick that I am almost proud of being like that... and still kinda like it? Don't know why that ended... but I do also remember once leaving his house at like 4am after his mom called down the basement stairs "Campground guy, it's time for your friend to go home." Your friend. Ha. Warren - younger than me. Inexperienced, afraid to even let me touch his naked penis or see it. Believe me, I tried. Lots of phone sex, parking behind the old school to make him cum in his pants. His mom hated me, or at least I felt like she hated me. I broke up with him after a while... Looking back... I wonder if I dumped him because he wouldn't have sex... Ryan - I really liked him. He was just the right amount of physically attractive, aloof/di*k, sensitive, and dangerous. He had a utility van, and we would fuck in the back of it all the time. We went on dates too, but I was always fast forwarding in my head to being dominated by this guy. I remember setting up an elaborate lie so one weekend when my family was up at the campground, we stayed at our other house alone. I went to Germany that summer as an exchange student.... sidestory - I got drunk at the disco one night in Berlin, and one of the other US boys, Kurt, came back to my hotel room with a US girl, Tracy. We got in bed and started making out... did I make out with Tracy? If I did, I let her do most the work... I wasn't/am not into girls... Maybe she left at some point? But I know I jacked Kurt off and he fingered me. It ended when another student came in the room and was like, "Mr P says everyone has to go to their own rooms!". I'm terrible. Nothing more after that. I came back to the US, and Ryan dumped me the next day. Ironically, or was it karma, he had cheated on me while I was gone with an ex girlfriend, and he was getting back with her. Café Guy - Another one whose name I don't exactly recall...I met him at a café in highschool listening to a local band play. He showed interest, which meant I was all about it. We left the café and found a path in the woods (how fucking stupid can I be). We went in the bushes and made out with some heavy petting. He broke my bra in his efforts to get it off, and I left it in the woods. I don't remember what friend it was, but some friend admonished me about leaving with him that night. Then we started "dating", or at least he wanted to be dating. He was nuts. His family was extremely religious, and he was constantly asking me to attend church with him. I found it weird how he was so religious, but not above having a quickie (and I do mean quickie..) in his parent's house. We also were messing around in his car in the church nextdoor to my house and a cop was called on us. The cop made him get in the cop car. He said Café Guy said I was his girlfriend, and was I? I didn't want to get anyone in trouble, and I was mortified, so I said I was, even though I didn't consider myself that, or call myself that. The cop asked where I lived, and I said nextdoor... He chastised me, told me to go home. Let us off with a warning I guess. I couldn't let café guy into my house seeing as my siblings were home, but it was summer, so we fucked in the backyard on the trampoline. I ended up basically telling him to fuck off and leave me alone- that we weren't dating and I didn't like him. I feel bad because I used him for sex, and then ditched him when he wasn't getting me off anymore. And then there was my G. I knew I was going to this college, and a friend offered to have me come visit him. You know, check it out. SIDEBAR - is it interesting that this friend was best friends with P growing up? Does that matter at all? - So my best friend came with me, and we three were hanging in a hotel room. My friend suggests we call his friend G to hang with us. We call him up, go to his house to meet him, and he comes to the hotel room later. Of course we were drinking, I don't really remember who started hitting on who, but I'm sure it was me. I basically threw myself at him until he relented and had sex with me. But I had to convince him, he was very apprehensive of having sex, but in the end I got what I wanted. I immediately pursued G, and we started dating, and we've been married 7 years. Looking through this, having actually had to stop, rewrite, think back, rewrite... I am realizing how intertwined my natural(?) sexual urges were fucked by being used by P. Like... instead of just being a super sexually driven woman and being healthy in that... I feel disgusting for being that. I still enjoy sex, masturbating, fantasizing, reading erotic literature sometimes online. But there is always this underlying shame in it all. Then I get scared. I've almost been married a decade, and I've never been with one guy for this long. Recently G and I met some poly people. They were fun, different, exciting. Their "leader" - why didn't I see how fucking despicable he was- took an interest in me. Commenting on my body, lingering hugs, flirty texts hinting at a dom/sub thing. Basically inviting us to play with them. G wanted nothing to do with that. He let the leader do his flirty shit because he knew I wanted it. I feel like such a shitty human being for putting him through that - for having the audacity to do it and know that if our roles were reversed, I would raise holy hell. It's terribly unfair to him, yet he still loves me. We ended our "friendship" with them when their creepiness and cultish vibe, and utter toxic controlling leader showed his true colors. You know, telling me that if a woman was elected president, we were basically asking for terrorist attacks(the fuck?) and telling me he was sorry I didn't love myself enough to wear high heals, revealing clothes, and do my makeup and hair. Again, the tangled web where he acted just like my father - why didn't I see it? Ah... because he was offering sexual attention. I don't know if this forum is the right place for this. I don't even know what I want to get out of writing this. I just want to live free of shame. I don't want to hurt my husband or disrespect him and our relationship. But I am sexually frustrated and I'm nervous about it. I'm scared of myself. I'm sorry... if you read this, I understand if you find me gross. I kinda feel gross right now. Plus now P is back, so I'm remembering our trysts (did I just call them trysts?!)... not that I didn't before... but before it was in the past, so I felt safer looking through the window of time. Why can't I just be me and be ok being me? I don't want to be ashamed, but I can't stop these thoughts/fantasies.
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