We’ve all got it. And the longer we live the more of it we accumulate.
I know, I know, we sort ourselves out, we learn to live with things and perhaps the wisest of us all assimilate our damage into our personalities and use it to our advantage (and sometimes to the advantage to the rest of the world).
But it doesn’t just disappear. It doesn’t evaporate into nothingness. And the one place I’ll never be able to hide my damage?
In my cunt.
Am I saying each and every one of our sexual preferences or proclivities is a function of damage?
For instance when I say I like pain it’s pretty straightforward. It’s clear, cut and dry (nah, not dry). It feels good. Therefore I like it. I always have and I’ve long maintained that such a proclivity is genetically transferred.
But then I like specific acts of pain. Specific implements. Some, of course, based on experience just simply feel better than others. Whips over paddles. Needles over clamps.
Then there are the others.
Being punched in the face and kicked on the ground. That’s about violence and not pain. Perhaps it stems from growing up in a violent atmosphere. Or from the need to surround myself with anger because it’s always been there (kind of like a security blanket) and it’s hard to imagine an existence without it.
Belts. That one is not about the leather, the implement or the sensation. It’s about the fact that I associate it with domestic abuse. And in my world domestic abuse is a part of love. The romantic essence of it even.
Instigating anger that leads to harm not hurt is obviously about a death wish. On the one hand I fear sudden death, on the other I want to keep myself in such close proximity to it that it seems like I control it.
These things aren’t about masochism. At the very least, not for me, I don’t buy it.
Then there’s the rape and abuse.
To suggest I was born with a desire for sexual violence and consent violation would be farfetched, even for hyperbolic me.
Nothing wrong with playing rape, nothing wrong with playing abuse, in fact, nothing wrong with enjoying genuine rape or abuse (see, I have to say that) but for the life of me I cannot believe it is natural or normal to desire these things. We can express and explore these desires in a healthy way. Are the desires themselves healthy? Sue me, I say not. And therein lies the allure, even.
I know what it is for me.
I enjoy rape probably because associating sexual pleasure with it makes memories of sexual violence enjoyable as opposed to horrifying. I may as well call it a coping mechanism. Sexualize all that is hard to emotionally process.
I like abuse because i believe it is a manifestation of love. Because of a little corner of self-loathing (oh, it’s real) that believes I deserve angry violence.
I trained my vagina to like these things.
Perhaps not consciously.
Maybe my brain tricked my vagina into liking these things. But it happened. And there’s no going back. Maybe not because it’s not possible (though I highly doubt it is) but because I don’t want to.
Not one little bit.
And who can forget the most common, overexposed and clichéd damage that afflicts women everywhere.
You think it isn’t real?
Just ask my cunt.
I’m not looking for my father (figures) to show me love or affection. Not exactly, anyway. I want them to show me what i believe to be love and affection. I can enjoy the rest (the cuddles and the kisses) but it isn’t real until there’s violent, aggressive sex involved.
There are two things to that.
The ever-famous, I want to know daddy loves me and approves of me (in the manner which I call approval).
Sick, I know, but it’s going to get sicker.
I want him to show me I’m a woman by.fucking.me.into.my.place.as.one. Mostly because my own father saw me as a boy who grew up to be a man. It’s all career, finances, investments, education, unemotional behavior with him. So elsewhere, I seek to be a just a broken, domesticated, violated cunt for him.
I told you, sick.
Does that stop me? Nah, I’m turned on as I write this.
So when you tell me you’re fucking daddy but it has nothing to do with your father. Perhaps it doesn’t, but it’s unlikely that I will believe you.
And then there is perhaps there is my most maliciously expressed damage of all.
The befouling of innocence.
Some score keeping, disgusting part of me believes that I was denied my childhood. That part of me cannot remember ever having been innocent. Perhaps I never was. So the notion of it, disgusts me. I have to believe it is put on in all cases (except children, and that’s probably why I hate them too).
So I seek young, innocent, barely legal women so I can take their innocent morality and convert it into wanton depravity.
Because nothing is real expect that, nothing else is honest is what I tell myself.
Maybe I am right, but it’s more likely I am biased and vengeful.
So maybe me (and a lot of us here) express our sexualities in a healthy manner. But whether our sexualities are coming from a healthy place is a different matter.
Some if it, sure, we’re all wired differently.
But I know when I say my love is violence that’s about my fucked up and not about my sorted.
And because of that, each time I come across one of you; I look, I absorb and I wonder— What’s your damage?