Let me start out by saying I do not understand the desire women have for the rape fantasy. It seems to be more common than I had once thought. In light of this recent discovery, I feel I must talk about it because it presents me with a very difficult predicament.
The idea of being forcibly taken, sexually, is something I have frowned upon as a man for as long as I can remember. I have never fetishized the act. I have a moral image in my mind that women must be respected and cared for, not manhandled. This, I feel, helps explain why it is that I am single and why it is I have been single for most of my life. I do not have a dominant personality, or at least not so dominant that it involves actually dominating someone, even in a role playing fantasy with a partner. In my mind, a woman who fetishizes rape has a paraphilia, one that hints at some kind of underlying pathology. For me, when a woman confesses a desire to be raped, it constitutes a red flag. I see scars and damage, not exploration. I see self-worth issues and a pathological form of submission. Because of one woman I dated, none of you will ever mention this fantasy to me without being questioned about your mental health.
Some men fetishize feet. Others, worn panties. Some men fetishize rough sex. It gives them a rush that other acts cannot. For me, I feel no thrill in dominance, no emotional rush. Fetishizing rape does not get me off. It may affect you in ways I cannot feel, but because I don’t get a rise out of it, the rape fantasy is not my thing. (And that’s okay.)
What is not okay is submitting myself to a partner who, through a traumatic event, now only sees her self worth in light of that trauma, pathologically desiring to revisit that event. It is wrong to make a woman who needs psychological treatment indulge in reliving the rape, even if she thinks that’s the only way she can experience sex. A fetish is one thing. The post traumatic manifestations are not considered a fetish, though. That is the line I recently had to draw.
My last ex was actually raped. She never sought out psychiatric counseling for the trauma. Because she divulged this information early on in our short lived relationship, every action where she appeared to become distant, to me, was rooted in this past event that had never seen resolution. To me, her scar manifested itself in unhealthy ways. Because of this woman, any other who comes to me professing a desire to act out a rape fantasy will be met with alarming concern, questions, and above all else, my clinical suspicion of a psychiatric problem.
She wrote out a long letter to me, a big step for her and for us as a couple. It was a powerful and moving letter and in it, she expressed an immense amount of hope in sharing her sexual desires with me. If you are a regular reader, you will already know she and I never ended up actually having sex. In her letter and in IM’s, she discussed things which bothered my clinical mind. She expressed a past fetish for urophilia, but admitted it was something she should put behind her. To me, urophilia symbolizes humiliation and quite often, it is a manifestation indicative of a past trauma. The story in my mind was falling into place. Her rape experience had damaged her. In addition to this fetish, she also fantasized about being suffocated, no, choked during sex. She wanted me to put my hand on her throat and squeeze. To me, this also signified some kind of a problem. Why was it that she seemed so adamant about reliving such a traumatic experience? Without going into all that is the victim role, let me just discuss my level of concern in context.
Our last real day together, a day I drove the two hours to see her, we went to a park. Even though the day was hot as hell, we were outside in the sun, in each other’s arms. On our way back to her house, I made a comment that, while admittedly poorly placed, evoked a reaction that was beyond acceptable. She broke into tears and accelerated from 55-ish to around 80mph on a two lane road. A curve ahead of us put me into a panic and gruesome images of the car’s tan interior flashed into my brain, my thoughts overwhelmed with the fear that she was upset to the point where she might intentionally drive off the road and kill us both.
After defusing the situation at an elementary school playground, a place I asked her to drive to after getting her to slow down, a place I only described as somewhere she felt comfortable, everything felt fine again. I professed my love again, but also voiced my concerns. I let her know that I was there for her through thick and thin. I admitted I was worried she would run on me at some point, but I asked her not to. She was open to the idea of therapy and she was thankful that I was with her that day. I also reminded her that in addition to myself, she had her mother and younger brother who both loved her very much, as illustrated by recent events in my presence.
As something of a surprise, she wanted to show me her breasts when we arrived back at her house. I took the offer cautiously because, me being me, I knew that once the shirts were off, all bets were off with regard to my self control. I warned her that she would need to be the voice of reason if she took off her shirt.
Well, after a long session of kissing and breast sucking, we were as close as any two people could get, short of having sex. I wanted to, but as we toyed with various positions, my boxers and her panties still attached to our persons, she guided my hand to her throat and told me to squeeze. I did, but slowly and gently. I was uncomfortable. I told her that I had never done something like that before and that I would have to ease into going that far, sexually. I flashed a condom and she quietly nodded No, so I kept my urges in check. Given her past, I did not want to feel as though I was pushing myself on her. I was under the impression that the right thing to do was to respect her space and take it slow, or at least as slow as she was going with me. I admit that in hindsight, that day certainly did not go slowly at all, but relatively speaking, I was fine with going slow. I knew that having sex with her at that point in time would have been wrong, but in hindsight, I probably should have. It would have probably saved the relationship. She wanted me to take control and to take her, not pussy foot around and play the good guy. I was supposed to take what I wanted, not ask for it. I’m sorry, but I am the asking type. I respect boundaries and require permission to cross certain lines. In light of her past, sex had to wait.
We nuzzled up against one another and just felt each other breathe for the remainder of that evening. After a while, I looked at my watch and knew it was time for me to leave. I had a two hour drive home and it was already 7pm. It would get dark around 8. We got up out of her futon and kissed some more. She hopped back down on the futon, her arms and legs positioned in front of me in a doggy position. She wanted me to slap her ass. My mind was already in a respectful mood, so I did not, but I was a little aggressive before backing off and getting dressed.
As I prepared to leave, one of the last things she did was grab my ass as I got into my car. That would be the last time we would ever see each other face to face. We broke up days later over the internet. She felt suffocated. She felt rushed. Given her actions on our last day together, the vibe she was putting out certainly did not conjure up the word suffocated. In fact, she had been down right forward. What happened was, the runner inside got the better of her. She was scarred and afraid, so she bolted on me. I made her face her demons and she wasn’t ready. That’s why she felt suffocated. It wasn’t about me. It was about her inner struggles.
Ever since, I have kicked myself for not being more forward on that day. On one hand, my moral side knew better, but in hindsight, she wanted it and I would have been happy to oblige. She would have been my one in a million kind of experience, or at least that’s my impression. God, she was beautiful. Underneath that beauty was a mess and knowing what I know, part of me questions my own actions and the other part can only wonder what an amazing relationship we might have had.
Damnit. I’m crying now.
Back to the topic at hand.
When I think about that day, I see what it is that has kept me from getting women all of these years. I have read so many profiles in online dating. Quite a few women are very sexual on OKCupid, especially with regard to their Match questions. They often admit to liking their hair pulled, their asses slapped, their bodies ravished to the point where a rape fantasy begins to materialize. Sometimes they admit to wanting the rape fantasy. I believe there is an actual Match question about it.
So what I’m finding out is, women, maybe not all women, but a surprising number, want to be dominated to the extreme. They want a man who will give that to them. They want the sex that way. They are not the women who profess their need for the last good man. What I’m learning is, the “good man” thing is so not true. The bad boy is what they want, regardless of age.
I don’t know which way is up anymore. While some women say they are being honest with us, behind closed doors, how many of them have this fantasy?
My gut tells me to respect them. I’m wired to be respectful. I’m not wired to grab them and toss their bodies around like a toy, at least not yet. I don’t have the experience to back me up in the sex department. Until I venture that far with someone, I won’t know for sure. The only woman I’ve ever had sex with was submissive and sometimes zombie-like in bed.
So looking back, now I feel regret. Had I been the dominant male, my ex wouldn’t have felt suffocated. She would have probably felt secure and submissive. It was my emotion that set off the runner in her. It was my respectful good guy nature. While she called me a good man and smiled while doing so, I don’t think she was as forthcoming as she should have been. Had she allowed me room to take an interest, maybe she would have enjoyed what I could offer her.
I know women won’t like me saying this and I admit I know they don’t want to be cheated on, but I have a bad feeling they enjoy being a victim. I have a feeling they do enjoy being mistreated on some sort of masochistic level. My clinical mind still views this behavior as a sign of underlying pathology and it worries me. It doesn’t excite me. I do not want to be another guy in a line of other guys who has roughed up a woman to the point where she actually likes it.
I’m torn. I could share this kink with the right woman, I’m sure. I just can’t read it. I don’t know how I should see the world now. The word confidence is now intertwined with dominant, strong, overbearing, and forceful. I didn’t know what women wanted in me prior to this post, but after this post, I almost don’t have any hope left. Even if I had the mind for it, I don’t have the body for it, unless you’re like my ex at 5’2 and 100lbs. Then, maybe I can envelop and overpower you.
If I could talk to my ex about this, I would. I want answers. I need explanations. I need honesty. Our conversations were that open, so I know the her I fell for would have no problem talking about it. Unfortunately, the woman who felt suffocated will not be able to have this conversation. I have nowhere else to turn but here.
Dating this woman has influenced the way I feel about violence against women. I am more outspoken regarding things like physical abuse and rape. I don’t want to pay for the hell someone else put a fine woman through and I certainly don’t wish this hell upon anyone else. Enough women have been through the traumatic experience of rape that I cannot, in good conscience, ignore the possibility that this fetish could represent something worse. Two kinds of women have this fetish, but because one was actually assaulted, the other must be approached as if she may have been traumatized. One woman has completely changed my perspective.