…that I am a whore.

It’s an eight-storey building that houses therespectables. We walk around the swimming pool enjoying the cool breeze as he runs his fingers along my arm and squeezes my ass with the other hand.
Night has long fallen.
We go up to his flat; on the 6th floor and in the elevator he keeps a suspicious amount of distance from me. We re-enter his house and he hangs the key behind the door as I walk to the middle of the room.
He’s rough and tall.
He throws me around the room and likes pulling my hair a lot. I can almost forget that I’m performing a service and not a mutually beneficial dating ritual.
I’m bent over on the futon in the living room and he’s entering me slowly, so slowly. He slaps my ass; I moan. He does it again; I push it up into the air to encourage him. He fucks and spanks me simultaneously. Slowly at first, testing the waters, then harder and harder. He runs his hands over the prints on my posterior.
He taps it gently. And after a momentary pause begins to slap it harder once again.
I see his trousers lying 5-inches from me, I slip out his belt and put it around my throat, I canfeel his grin on my back. He grabs the slack and starts fucking me harder. Sometimes, whores have real orgasms too. For a moment, we lose ourselves in the moment.
“Pay me,” I tell him in a harsh tone as we lay our backs, satisfied and breathing in sync, “I have to go.”
And before I go I look you in the eye one last time and we speak the language of gazes; I tell you that in some twisted way I now respect you more, you tell me in an evaluative stare that I am a whore.

He’s young.
That is basically the first thing anyone would notice about him. He still doesn’t really have hair on his face and he’s wearing enough cologne to attract the whole neighborhood.
It’s sweet, I suppose.
I can tell that he has just bathed; he’s fresh and clean.
Also rather considerate, you know.
But oh so young.
“How old are you?” I asked him basically within minutes of being alone in the miniscule room in that very weird hotel with the very pretty pink and black board upfront.
“23,” he says lazily toying with the buttons on my shirt.
“Are you sure?” I ask slightly suspicious.
“Are you sure you want to get paid?” he asks cocking up his eyebrow in a disdainful glance and pushes me onto the bed.
He’s trying to fuck me roughly and it would totally work if he had better tools to work with but it is over quickly and I’m not even fully undressed yet. I worry the whole night will be a series of mini-fucks (in so many ways). He’s zipping up and standing in front of the mirror carefully setting his hair back in place.
“Are we going somewhere?” I ask, slightly hopeful.
“No you wait here,” he says, “I’ll just be playing poker downstairs.”
Weird hotel, I think as you look me in the face before turning the knob and we wordlessly communicate; I tell you I’ll be waiting for you whenever you want more, you tell me in a possessive overview that I am a whore.

It’s the fourth time he has requested me in two months. I know he thinks he’s doing me a favour, but I really wish he would stop asking for me. Knowing exactly what to do with the man doubles his time and cuts my fun in half. I’m really doing more of the same work for the same money; I’ll take it but I could live without it. He’s friendly now and his moustache is bushier.
We usually have a drink of whiskey from a cheap tetra pack and he eats while I refuse food. After that I take my mouth to him.
Really, like all over him but eventually a lot morelocalized than that. He has told me before that his wife would never do that and “likes” it; liking is putting it a bit mildly, to be honest.
It always amused me that at the heart of it, it felt like the man only strays out of his marriage to have his ass licked.
Tiny little trouble maker.
Well that, and the spitting.
I do my dirty job and he finishes on my face. He spits on me and I get up and go wash up.
I pick up my bag and take a drink of water with one knee resting on the bed, you caress my thigh and look me deep in the eyes; I tell you that I understand how unfulfilled little needs may leave a man sore, you tell me in the licks of your lips that I am a whore.

He tells me he’d like to see me dance.
It’s weird but not as weird as requesting I wear a saree; not even as weird as retying my saree in the most revealing but aesthetically worst possible fold ever.
He dims the lights and puts on some (h-o-r-r-i-b-l-e) music. I inhabit a headspace so foreign from my own; but so familiar because I’ve seen it so many times before. I understand who he is; I should have understood right when he took me to that bar to have a drink. That “women-don’t-go-here-unless-they-intend-to-strip” bar.
I think of the women he wants me to emulate; artistic in vulgarity and I shed any classical dance training that may linger in my mind from years past and I dance with my cunt.
Just like those women; I abandon all shame and move my entire body. I don’t just dance for him, I dance at him. I let my clothes fall around me and I feign modesty as I wrap myself in his clumsy fold again.
I can see him enjoy it and it fuels me. I move toward him and the currency he was throwing at me he now slips into the folds of my clothes.
His eyes are red, his breath reeks of booze and the sex is awful but I’m wet, my body is eager and even that is more than he needs.
I retie my saree in knots even worse than yours as I head home and before I go I study your tired visage with mine; I tell you your cheap brand of perversion is liberating at its core, you tell me in a pout intended to demean that I am a whore.

I go home and sit alone just lost in so much thought.
I tell her that I should stand against the wall and take everything off. I strip down to the skin as I watch myself emerge.
“I know what you want,” I tell her as I smirk at the poor girl exploring her tired body. I run my hands all over the evidence of my day.
I forget all disgust as in memory it’s all so attractive. I repeat words and gestures into my own head as my fingers search for warm, wet shelter. I curse repeatedly and taunt myself with minute details of my night. I take myself back to times of wondering what is right and then pull myself back to abject delight. I moan and whimper and lay back on the floor while she scratches at my skin.
Right before I orgasm and you retire for the night I swallow your ineffable presence and we talk in my mind; I tell you that of us all your sickness still shows so much more, you tell me through the gush between my legs that I am a whore.

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The Orgasms Led Me Here.

Finding my clitoris was like finding a pleasure switch. That’s exactly what it is.
In the self-exploration of my newly-developing body when I discovered its actual purpose, I was humbled by the genius of the human form. And spurred on like a compulsive addict. For the kid that I was then, those orgasms being my first ever, were great.
Explosive. Surprising. Unbelievable.
Each one just made me want another.
I didn’t need restraint. It wasn’t like there was a limited stock of orgasms available to each person and I was using all of mine up. Besides, all the reason I need(ed) to do something that felt good, was that it felt good. They made me feel great after; rejuvenated, active, refreshed and satisfied.
This of course, eventually extended itself to my sex life. For a long time, sex without orgasms didn’t count as such. At one point, I referred to it as public service. Why do I need a sexual partner if s/he can’t even accomplish what I can do by myself? If I was making the decision to fuck someone for straight up mutual pleasure, I was entitled to my orgasms.

From that girl, somehow I have morphed into this one. The girl who went 191 days without an orgasm.
“How did this happen?” I asked myself this morning as I woke up still groggy from the great the orgasmic haze of 2015.
All I can tell you; it happened slowly.

It started innocently enough with 10 days in 2009. Back then, even holding out for ten days was tortuous. By the end of it I was counting down seconds until I would be free again. Ten days of mind-numbing arousal that culminated in one of the most intense orgasms I have ever had. It was one of those the world slows down and goes mute orgasms. If this is what restraint is about, I thought, I should look into this.
Fortunately, he had the same idea.
Ten days turned into two weeks.
Then into 20 days.
Then into a month.
At first I resisted vehemently, it was hard to bear. He wasn’t always around to control me, and the temptation to scratch that particular itch was great. I’m quite like Wilde in that regard; I can resist everything except temptation. Sometimes I gave in, and regretted it moments after. I tried to come up with diversionary tactics and even tried to use pain to achieve the same level of relief. None of those things worked, I just had to give into it.
Around that time, I started to notice two things. The intensity of the orgasms was waning, but the intensity of the arousal was starting to take on a life of its own.

During a weekend we spent in the mountains while I was 20-days into my no-orgasm cycle, I finally understood the phrase “ache with arousal”. I was so turned on, I hurt. Everything led me to the edge; his voice, his violent stares, one-word instructions, his gaze on my cunt, a strong gust of wind. I thought I had been uninhibited all my life, if that is the case, then that weekend I was utterly and completely shameless. Furthermore my hormones compelled me to confess my shamelessness repeatedly, and that too put me right at the edge. And the sex, it was a battle between his will and my pleasure centres. If you remove the culmination of your pleasure but retain arousal while being fucked, that is in my book the definition of feeling used. It probably isn’t actually being used.
Ten days later, I had the first truly bad orgasm of my life. For a few minutes it put me in an anhedonic state. The world didn’t go mute; it came crashing down around me. It was unbearable, like the neglect of someone you truly love.

After that we went straight from one month to two. I tried to rush it but I had to wait a few weeks for the shameless arousal to return. This time instead of just taking over my bedroom, it started to take a grip on my life. It started familiarly enough by me asking to rub myself against his feet and knees like a bitch in heat. Yet somehow it added an element of clarity to the sexual lens through which I see the world. Not only did everything in the world begin to turn me on, there was more beauty in it all than there had ever been before.
We began to consistently repeat our two month cycle and add a few days each time. The denial was wonderful, but repeatedly losing my state of sexual clarity was core-shaking. By this point, I had begun to assimilate the arousal into natural state of being. It came out to play like a violent monster inside the bedroom, but outside it, it acted like a magic elixir running through my veins.
I slept better. I worked harder. I exercised more. I experienced deeply. I related better. I focused easier.
And in reference to him, I became a docile, servile angel. I had always enjoy serving him, but the pleasure I derived from that was far from physical. Suddenly, even making him coffee and serving it to him had a delightful angle of physical pleasure.

The worst moment with orgasms came a few months after I moved to his city. By that point my orgasm routine was well set. We were down to about three or four a year. My relationship with arousal had taken on a spiritual path. And I don’t use that word lightly; in fact, I never use that word except in context of arousal. If we could all turn to hipster language and attempt to understand one-another as energies, I am sexual. I am sexual energy.
I distribute and channel my arousal to different facets of my life so I could approach everything with the same motivation as I approach my sexual needs. My job is sexual. Studying is sexual. If I really want to see the sexual in it, blowing my nose can be sexual. Such is the magic of arousal.
Which is why when he cruelly confiscated my arousal that day, my body reacted violently. Giant drums exploded in my head and streams of tears washed down my face. Everything hurt. The pit of my stomach, my clitoris, my fingers, my head. I couldn’t open my eyes and when I did, the world made no sense to me. And so I cried, I have no idea why, but I cried until I fell asleep.

After that orgasms became an instrument of torture. Just another place for him to exercise his sadistic desires. Patient as he is, he happily waited until I was in the state where I wouldn’t give it up for the world and snatched it from me. Each one turned me into a sobbing, emotional mess. Avoidance of orgasms became my religion. I began to guard my arousal as if it were my baby. And he played with it, routinely.
Every night after he was taken care of and we lay in bed to sleep, his fingers would find their way to my cunt and begin to tease endlessly. Hint: when you go a long, long time without orgasms, it is ridiculously easy to graze the edge.
He made me beg for denial. Each time I got close to the edge, I saw his face light up in pleasure as mine exhibited fear. He made me fight him not to make me come. I was truly terrified of these orgasms. They brought emptiness to my heart. Even if for a few minutes, it was a feeling too horrible to bear. And so I fought against it.
Until one day, my apparently disrespectful quest for denial annoyed him. Annoyed him so much that he said, “Fine, you don’t want to come, don’t come for six months.”

I thought he was kidding. Or at the very least, I believed he had announced that out of anger. Debilitating as those orgasms has been, I wasn’t sure even I could take six months of regular sexual activity, teasing and denial without probably accidently succumbing to pleasure. The first month is always the hardest. The temptation is the greatest when it’s still new, when there isn’t much at stake. After that it is like a homecoming.
The shameless arousal returned.
Then the servility.
Then the sexual lens.
Then the clarity.
And then the intense connection with everything in the world.
My baby was back in high-functioning mode.
But after that something new happened. Probably because the memory of my last emotionally-destructive orgasm was so cloudy in my head that my vagina started to remember it fondly. It made me beg for it. For two months, in what I thought would turn out to be an intensified stage of my sage-like arousal induced state; I turned into a desperate horny teenager. This arousal wasn’t shameless, it was shameful. And instead of exploiting it, as he normally would have done, he mocked it. Of course that only made it worse. Took it to the point where his laugh in my ear was all I needed to get there.
When the six months were up, I expected to worry about the orgasm I was to have. Instead I worried I wouldn’t get to have one.
I needn’t have worried though. He only wanted to give me time to beg; to remember I had done this all to myself. And so unable to take it anymore, last night, I begged. I begged and begged and begged. I spread myself before him and begged him to do whatever he wanted to get me there.
So he brought his mouth close to my ear and sniggered. He held me by the hair and laughed until my entire body was ready to explode. So close was I that I came the moment he put his fingers around my clitoris; giving poignant new meaning to the term pleasure switch.
I came, asked permission and fell to the ground all at the same time.
I regretted it instantly and violently cried myself to sleep again, retching at his touch as he held me in his arms.

I woke up with puffy eyes to a world that makes absolutely no sense to me.

On Damage.

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?
Definitely not.
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.
Daddy Damage.
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?

Symbols of Romance

His Belt
Because I’ve long associated it with the notion of domestic abuse. Because it rests wrapped around his waist and all I ever think about is having it wrapped around me. Because of the sound it makes when he pulls it out of the loops in one swift motion as I lay in anticipation. Because it hurts and it all just comes down to pain with me.

His Boots
Because I am envious of the ground they walk on.
Because I believe the only thing they were meant to tread upon is me. Because they are rough and well-used. Because of how degraded I feel when their dirty soles crush my face. Because of how sick it is when I believe I belong beneath them.

The Chains
Because of the music of their unrelenting clanging. Because I want to be his prisoner even though I claim my freedom is what I cherish most of all. Because of the weight of carrying them on me. Because I cannot be shackled with something so seemingly flimsy as scarves or rope. Because they are cold and unyielding.

His Knife
Because he is a hunter and I like knowing that. Because I never want to forget that he can actually kill me. Because there will be bloodshed. Because the blade will take on the temperature of my body and so will he. Because of the scars that will always decorate and desecrate my being.

The Toe Rings
Because they force me to conform to a tradition that makes absolutely no sense. Because they remind me that I actually say the words, “My body belongs to you.” Because the area beneath them is permanently scarred in the form of their existence. Because they are cheap and that is what I deserve. Because no one knows that aesthetics aren’t the reason I never take them off.

His Wire Flogger
Because it made me say that I wasn’t a masochist any more. Because I am actually scared of it yet all the while I crave its cruel bite. Because he made it with his own sadistically sociopathic hands. Because it makes me cry and beg like nothing else in the world. Because it’s for me and that’s not a good thing.

His Van
Because he doesn’t really need it for life, work or anything but torture. Because every time I see it all I think of is being tied up in the back. Because of all the abduction that has taken place in its allegedly safe confines. Because it is old and beat up and can fall apart anytime. Because the sound of the doors sliding shut only means one thing.

His Ring
Because it hits me square in the lip each time his swings his fist at me. Because that’s the only reason he wears it. Because it is permanently etched with my blood. Because it means nothing at all yet causes so much pain. Because it’s been inside every orifice I have.

His Violet Wand
Because no matter how many times he uses it on me I will still be terrified. Because electricity will always make me pee in my pants. Because I called it a hard limit once and he scoffed at me. Because he uses it to hurt me when I disappoint or anger him.

Him
Because his fists are my version of therapy. Because I sometimes still cannot believe that he is real. Because he really, truly deserves to be locked up. Because of his sweet, soft tone of voice when he is doing horrible things to me. Because I wear him all over my body. Because he camps in my head and revels in its disturbia.
Because he hurts me, and that means he loves me.

Trips to Disneyland.

There’s a point when the pain is just pleasure. It’s warm, fuzzy and comforting like a blanket.
There’s a point where whatever your orientation (masochist or not), self-preservation wins and begins to resist the pain.
And then there’s the point after that; the point of trauma.
Past the valley of tears, beyond the gardens of screams, across the river of fighting back lies the land of broken wills. Each time I travel back home from there it starts with me viewing it as a concentration camp I cannot get away from fast enough but sure enough, over time, there I am back on the same path again believing I’m on the way to Disneyland.

The first time I took a trip to “Disneyland” was in 2007.
My lover has buttons you do not want to push, it’s not like poking the sadist, it’s like prodding the man-eating tiger. But I hadn’t learnt this yet. I still hadn’t been introduced to his special friend; his temper. He was home working on a project and I was going home after a class when he asked if I’d drop some lunch off at his place. He has very specific tastes and he started to tell me exactly how he wanted his sandwich made. I retorted vehemently and told him I knew exactly what he likes and didn’t need his elaborate instructions.
I didn’t have much time so I told him to come downstairs and take his sandwich from me. He was waiting at the curb when I reached with thewrong sandwich.
Seemed like a little tiny thing to me so I told him to cut out the fuss and just fucking eat what I brought. That was the first time I saw his eyes go dark in the way that makes me pee in my pants even today. He turns from human to unforgiving, insensitive, unrelenting, unempathetic monster in a matter of one wrong statement. When that happens he doesn’t care where we are, he doesn’t care who is watching and he doesn’t care that he might break me.

He punched me in the jaw, I fell, he kicked, I got up and ran, he followed me to my car, he punched a few more times, I begged, he slapped, I opened the car door, he shoved me into the car, I screamed, he stuffed me with his foot, something cracked, I cried, he screamed, I turned on the ignition, he banged my head into the window. All the while explaining exactly why he needed to do this to me. Why? Because I could have just waited for instructions instead of being a smartass.
When I got home I noticed the severity of the bruising and obvious internal damage given that I couldn’t walk, sit or swallow without excruciating pain.
I was sure he would apologize by night, I waited, and he didn’t say anything. I didn’t know why I expected him to apologize, I mean, he beat and bruised me all the time anyway. Yet this felt, apology-worthy.
He sent me a text late at night.
Does it hurt?
Yes.” I told him
“Good,” he replied.
The next day he made me write an essay detailing why all that had happened to me had been my own fault.

My latest trip to Disneyland was in early 2014. I hadn’t visited in a long time because not only was I watching my reckless behavior (directed at the outside world), he had been watching his temper.
But I’m comfortable saying this now; an angry person will at best become a suppressed angry person. And a reckless person, well, time will tell.
We were staying at his place which is not something we normally do because it so out of the way (and in a neighborhood of especially nosy fucks). When we’re at my place he’s pretty obedient when it comes to my way of doing things because maybe, just maybe, he sees the hidden order in my chaos. At his place, his inner neurotic takes complete control and it’s best to wait until he tells you how he wants things before you start to do them. And I always do, except sometimes his elaborate drawn out methods of accomplishing little tasks annoy me and I do things my way and make sure they look like they’re being done his way.
It works fine, until you either get caught or (god help you) screw up something he gave you specific instructions to do some other way and then stand there and defend yourself. Which is why I should have cleaned his sink exactly the way he said I should and why I shouldn’t have blamed the sink after I somehow managed to not only clog it but cause it to overflow all over the kitchen floor. When he saw me in my predicament fighting the water he laughed, I was so relieved I immediately launched a tirade about how stupid his sink was and how he needed to devise a better strategy to take care of things.

The laughter turned to darkness in one split second. One moment I was standing there fighting with the faucet the next moment I was laying on the floor his shoe crushing my face. I didn’t think I deserved it so I did the one thing you shouldn’t do with an angry person, I fought back. Unthinkingly I slapped him. After that there was only blood and tears. I tried to unlock the door and run out of the house but even before I could get there I had passed out. I woke up still on the floor in more pain than I have been ever before, objectively that’s quite a whole lot of pain.
The next day he told me I didn’t deserve painkillers and then he let me stay in bed until I could move 24 hours later.

Why all this “Disneyland” talk all of a sudden you might wonder?
I’m aching to make my next trip sometime tonight.
sigh

Understanding “Reckless”

When I was 13-years old, I was running in the park one evening when a young man, possibly in his early twenties started to follow me around. He approached me, put his arm around me and said, “Want to have sex with me?”
I pushed him away and told him that if he didn’t want any trouble, he’d back off. I continued my run and noticed he was still right behind me. It was a big park, and it was getting dark. There weren’t many people around. I turned to the left, the part where there were no lights and almost never any people. I went to the most poorly lit corner and sat down. In that moment, I didn’t know why I was doing what I was; a strange sort of determination was taking over. As if the awareness of what I had to do had morphed itself into a physical sensation.
He followed me into the dark corner, put his hand on my face and asked again, ‘Want to have sex with me?”
In one moment, I stood up, a steam of rage escaping my ears, slapped him twice and punched him straight in the nose. He fell to the ground. I had blood on my knuckles and his nose was spewing like a faucet.
“Still want to have sex?” I asked as tears fell out of his grown-up eyes. He got up and ran away. Every giant leap he took satisfied my heart in a way I hadn’t known before. I felt empowered.
I walked home, and as soon as I got there I told my mother what had happened. She listened with a consistently souring expression and ultimately said, “You are too reckless.”
Little did I know, I would be hearing those words in that tone of disapproval from myriad sources for the rest of my life.

For a while, I took the word to mean I was irresponsible. I inferred from context that I did things that made people angry with worry and that emotion seemed so condescending to me that it was almost motivation to continue doing whatever the hell it was I wanted.
Soon enough, certain events transpired in our lives that led to circumstances where I had to take control of our household. My father wasn’t around, my mother was steeped in a deep dark pit of depression and physical disease, and my sister was a sensitive little child. Determined not to let either my mother’s or my father’s family take charge of our lives; I took over. I saw no other option. I met no resistance so I went on instinct and kept doing the things I thought needed to be done.
Years passed this way. I would spend my day in school, my afternoons taking care of my mother, the evenings making sure my sister got to classes, Friday afternoons at the bank, my Saturdays arranging to pay bills and sorting through the mail, my Sundays buying groceries, cleaning the house and catching up on doctor’s appointments for the family, late evenings walking the dogs, learning to drive, tending to the emotional issues of the family…
And my nights, mostly in bed with men who made me scream and smile.
If I were going out at night, I usually snuck out through the door upstairs that led to the service stairs, but when I came back I used the main door. One day, when I walked into my house at 6 AM to wake my sister up and get ready for school, my mother was already awake. More likely, she had never been to bed. She was sitting in the living room and as soon as I entered, she asked, “Where were you?”
“I was with some friends,” I told her.
“You’re lying; you were out having sex, weren’t you?” She asked, “Why don’t you just give it away to any man on the street?”
I was antagonized, I wanted to yell at her but I knew her, even then, it would be to no avail. So I silently started walking up the stairs.
“You know what,” she said and I looked back, “You are too reckless.”
I was confused. I thought about it, I believed that I was not irresponsible. I looked back over the past two years of my life and realized I hadn’t made a single mistake. Nothing I had taken on had negatively affected anyone due to my non-performance. Why then was I still being called reckless?
So I did what I should have done long ago, I looked up the word.
Apparently what I was, is defined as heedless of danger or the consequences of one’s actions. I sat down on my bed and thought about it.
“How many times in the past year have I mentally used the phrase damn the consequences?” I wondered.
“Only when you sing that garbage song you love,” came the response.

A few years later, I was at a wedding my friend’s house when her father who had always been very friendly, started coming on to me. His wife hadn’t lived in the house in years and by reputation he was known as slightly notorious (and that is putting it very, very kindly). Ours was a strange town; at 17 your fathers brought you drinks should you ask for them. And so he did.
One drink. Then another.
When he asked if I wanted another, I said yes. He said he had something special in his bar in the basement (we knew of everything he had in that bar, we midnight-raided it regularly) and I could come with him. I followed him away from the party and into the confines of that basement. That feeling, the feeling of unaware determination but physical awareness came rushing back. By this time I knew what to do with it, or at least it knew what to make me do. (Think felix felicis)
“Fuck the drink,” I told him as the headiness of it all came to head, “And fuck me.”
That night when I lay in my bed telling my lover over the phone about the things that I had done that evening, I realized, “damn the consequences” isn’t really a question you ask yourself. If only it had that much restraint, it might not even be a problem. “Damn the consequences” was the inexplicable physical sensation that overwhelmed in its determined quest.
Perhaps then, I was reckless.
I thought back to all the times I had done things in the heady grips of that sensation and the evidence was pretty incriminating. Reckless, as charged.
Two questions remained. Two big questions.
Based on the information I had, my recklessness had never gotten me into trouble and had at times even made me do what I still believe were the right things to do, so why did it always merit the tone of disapproval it was wielded with? And, was I in control of my recklessness or was it controlling me?

I didn’t deal with it or dwell on my questions. That is what I do; I wait for the answers to show themselves because they always do. It was a few years before one of the answers showed themselves, maybe both.
By then I was conditioned to giving into the call of recklessness unquestioningly. In fact, by this time that overwhelming physical sensation had started to manifest itself even before the situations to exercise it arose. And in the grips of one such episode when the need to indulge in reckless behavior was at its height, I got up in the middle of the night and walked out onto the streets.
It was 2 AM and exceptionally pleasant. It had rained all day and the sweet smell of moist earth was determining my path more than anything else. Or so I believed. I ended up in what can be referred to as a bad neighborhood. I had been there by night before, and nothing had ever happened. Emboldened by that information or determined by my desire to find trouble, I ventured on.
Without going into too much detail, I can tell you, I was attacked. Viciously attacked by a man whose touch I still sometimes use to induce nausea.
Hours later, drowsy, bereft of all my belongings and amazed that I was alive, I ran home the moment I regained consciousness and realized I was alone. The only question on my mind, “Had I gone out looking to be attacked?”

Something happened to me after that. I closed myself off from the world and let myself believe that recklessness was the worst trait I possessed. I denied myself everything that I needed and wanted. I dwelled on the details of the attack until I believed that not only had I gone out looking for it, I had enjoyed it.
Ultimately, I realized that what was truly destroying me was not the grip of recklessness I had succumbed to but the pit of fear I had dug for myself because of what I had always known recklessness could lead to. I had been rewarded for my recklessness so many times in life but having been punished for it once had made me regret all other things I had so enjoyed. It wasn’t my fault that the streets aren’t safe, I have the right to safety in my own country. Crime like this happens all the time, but a million factors go into making you the person it happened to. I didn’t deserve it, but it would be ridiculous to say that I didn’t facilitate it happening to me. Not by being out in the streets in the middle of the night, but by believing my recklessness could never lead me to harm. And if that meant that I was indeed the person who walked out into the night looking for perpetrators, I had to take responsibility for that. My recklessness had owned me long enough; I had to own its consequences and assimilate those into the fibre of who I am.

Having lived through that, did my proclivity to recklessness disappear? No, it did not. But over time I developed or at least I believe I have developed an ability to discern when I should indulge it and when I should deny it. Still, I never deny it; I merely channel it into activities the consequences of which will come in small dosages as opposed to outright trauma.
I am still the person who would prefer to go with it each time it appears. I am still the person who goes with the feeling of damning the consequences when it absolutely overwhelms me. But that shadow of fear never goes away. Perhaps that shadow is what makes me believe, I know better because I know what can happen. It springs up and says no with the innate ability to overpower my recklessness whenever it doesn’t trust what I am to do.
That shadow is what reminds me to consider each time I take the plunge: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger only IF it doesn’t kill you first. That’s a big if, but I have to trust the shadow knows better than I do.

The Favour

“I need you to do something for me,” he says walking out of the shower with the towel wrapped around his waist.
“Alright,” I respond eyeing him with raised eyebrows, “What is it?”
“You’ll find out eventually,” he says, “Just don’t schedule anything for tonight and be ready by 8.”
I know what he wants; he wants me to beg for information, so I don’t. I walk out of the room and into the kitchen. Caffeine is a more important morning requirement than information on sick perversions borne out of the mind of a very innocent-looking man.
He gets dressed while I stand on the balcony reading the newspaper and drink my coffee. He eats his toast. Just as he is leaving I realize I cannot spend all day with no information whatsoever, I’m way too curious not to probe. Why pretend to be something you’re not?
“What do you mean by ready?” I ask as he walks out of the door ready to leave, “Are you taking me to another horrible party with boring people?”
He laughs, and slaps me jokingly, “You are so judgmental.”
He starts walking down the stairs; I follow him.
“But you still haven’t told me how I should getready?” I ask again as he starts running down the stairs.
“Don’t act like a child, you know what ready means,” he says turning around suddenly, “Now will you please stop following me?”
I stop in my place, put on an innocent face and watch him disappear from the stairwell. I sink down and sit on the stair, within minutes I am lost in my thoughts.
‘What could he possibly want me to do that requires getting ready? It has to be sexual, right? Oh lord. What if he’s tricking me into having dinner with his family? I would know if they were in town, right? Not his mother, please.’

A few hours later, I am at work and happily distracted from whatever it is that I’m not supposed to know when the phone rings. He almost never calls me. Not unless someone died, he’s urgently in need of food or he locked himself out of his apartment. I get up from my desk and go out on the balcony.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Wear your black dress,” he says.
“First of all, I’m at work,” I say slightly irritated, “And if you knew what you wanted me to wear why did you make me chase you halfway down the stairs this morning?”
“I like it when you chase me,” he says.
“Look, why don’t you just come right out and tell me what you want? Aren’t we too old for these games?” I say convinced that I have cracked him.
“What is wrong with you?” he says with feigned agitation that masks his mockery, “Can’t a man surprise his woman anymore? What is your problem?”
“My problem is that I know you,” I say in my best sassy tone.
“Good,” he says, “If you know me so well, figure it out.”
I walk back to my desk thinking, ‘It can’t be his mother, she’d have a heart attack if she saw me in that dress. It has to be another man. Or maybe it’s just him. Why would he want me to get dressed though? Maybe he wants to take me out? What would we do out? We’ll just end up bored and back on my roof in an hour like last time. He knows that.
And just like that, the work day disappears.

As I’m putting on the eyeliner and fishing out the only decent pair of heels I now own from the bottom of my laundry basket, the phone rings again. Twice in one day, this hasn’t happened in years. By this point, I’ve had the sudden bout of anxiety, and been past pretending I’m totally cool with anything that might come up and transitioned into the calm detachment phase.
I let it ring for a while and just stare at the phone. And then slowly as I watch myself in the mirror, I put it to my ear.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“To fuck some random guy?” I ask smirking at myself, “This is getting old love.”
“I sent you a cab,” he says, I can hear the smile in his voice, “His name is Lalit Aggarwal.”
“The car has a name?” I ask enjoying the mischief in my eyes.
“The random guy,” he responds ignoring my silly joke completely, “I’ll text you his hotel details. Oh, and he’s not paying you.”
I’m really enjoying this conversation now. I love his tone when he’s giving me details to do things; it’s authoritative but at the same time it’s gripped in intensifying arousal and a dash of shame.
“So I’m completely worthless now?” I ask lighting my cigarette and admiring the orange fire reflected back at me.
“Just go,” he says, “I’ll pick you at 11.”
I stand there and continue looking at myself for a while. I read the text he sends me and realize it’s a fancy hotel. Slightly disappointed, I throw a jacket over my whore-clothes.

I get to the hotel and tell the receptionist who I am there to meet. She gives me directions and steers me in the direction of the elevator. The elevator door closes and suddenly I realize I am nervous. I look at my reflection in the elevator doors and talk aloud, “You have done this hundreds of times before.”
I smile nervously at myself.
I haven’t done this in a long time though. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent all evening being so cocky and actually thought about this. Who is this guy, even? What do I say to him? Do I tell him who sent me? Why the hell does he always send me in with no fucking information? I’ll tell him who sent me, I mean, what other option do I have? Why would he give this guy his real name? Why do I always have good questions when it’s way too late to ask them?’

I get off the elevator and find the room. I remove my jacket and hang it over my bag. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Because, you know, these days the answer to everything is breathing exercises.
I knock.
A man in blue jeans and a maroon shirt answers the door. He’s old-ish. Looks 50, at least.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Aggarwal?” I say with my head down and eyes up, you know the look (it works very well when you combine it with a cock in your mouth), “Santiago Nassar sent me.”
(I had to change his name for the story, I made a literary choice.)
“He called me,” he says, “Come..come in.”
I’m surprised real names were given out during this encounter. I enter and look around. The room is clean and smells like all fancy hotel rooms do. Like boredom. I’m bored with this guy already. We talk inanity; names and weather. I can tell he primped..for a prostitute. He smells of cologne and his face looks washed. Even his mustache, is perfectly in place.
I move towards him on the chair he is sitting him. I stand in front of him.
“Do you like my dress?”I ask finding an insane-chirpy-whore-girl character.
“It’s very nice,” he says putting his hands on my hips. His touch isn’t bad but his look is killing me. Every man I’ve been with in this capacity share this look. I look down innocently and smile at him. This character is fun, she’s young and carefree.
“What do you like?” I ask coming close to his face, “Want me on my knees?”
He pulls me down towards him. I put my hands on his thighs and my face is his lap. I squirm all over him breathing him in.
My mind wanders as he’s undressing me.
Who is this guy? Why did Santiago give him his name? Oh yeah sweetheart squeeze my breast like a stress ball and lick. Lick me because such is destiny, I am yours to lick. No chance you’re going to be thrusting into me furiously soon, is there? Goodness this is still fun… is he, kneading me?

I walk out of the room and call him. He tells me he is waiting in the parking. I leave the jacket off and walk out through the lobby. I smile at a few people and play with my still disheveled hair. I thank the doorman and walk out into the parking. I look around for him. He finds me. I get into the car and take off my shoes.
“So what’s the story?” I ask looking pretty pleased with myself, “Who was the guy?”
“Business associate,” he says looking at the road.
“Seriously?” I ask genuinely surprised. He’ll go very far but rarely does work or family get involved in the mix.
“Yeah,” he says still dispassionate, “He got me a big order.”
“So I am…” I start when he cuts me off and says, “…a business favour? Yes.”
I make a face at him and a disapproving sound while I smile slightly.
“Shut up,” he says, “You love it.”
“Still…” I say blushing slightly, “It’s work. Why me?”
He looks at me and smilies that cocky smile of his that makes my toes curl, “Things took a weird direction with this guy and I realized, you’re the only whore I know anymore.”
Ah, the grown-up life.

Happily Ever After.

Once upon a time a young girl and a slightly older man were living happily ever after in their urban-variant of a perfect home. They didn’t have a garden but they had a roof that overlooked the rundown buildings of the city when there wasn’t too much smog to be able to see at all. She liked watching the city lights twinkle at her from a distance; he liked the soft silence of the night. They didn’t have children but they had adopted a diseased street dog that they would feed each night that they were home. They didn’t have unstained, satin linen but upon their rough cotton sheets they could never get enough of each other in the vilest and most depraved manners possible.
She didn’t have the airs and graces to make their house a beautiful home and he alone could not be responsible for bringing home the bread; together they toiled from morning to night to fulfill their dreams and fill their bank-accounts.
This was their bliss.

Late one evening as she dusted her bookshelf and danced around the room listening toMotionless in White awaiting the return of her beloved, the phone rang.
It was a menacing ring.
Sometimes certain times of day and a practiced instinct will tell you even before you answer the phone that the news isn’t good.
It wasn’t.
She knew that tone all too well. Death had come knocking at someone’s door too soon for it to be acceptable. Someone close enough to her love to debilitate him completely. He gave her the bad news and the familiar shock of terrible tidings took over her body. Chills crept from her neck to her spine and down to her toes. He hung up and she sat down on her bed to process all she had just heard.
She didn’t see him for two days.

She finally saw him again at the funeral.
He looked nothing like the man she knew and loved. He was gloomy and distracted. He didn’t say much either. That wasn’t like him; he was usually making terrible jokes and jumping around making people happy wherever he went. He was the harbinger of joy and optimism. Usually so familiar to anyone he met today he seemed like a stranger even to the one he had spent almost a third of his life with.
She stood by his side mourning his loss with him and trying to find the words that would heal him. But if you know this story and so many of us do, there are no magic words. She held his hand, he took it for a few minutes but his touch was so cold and compromised she realized she would have to let go. They stayed well into the night. Not saying a word to one another. Finally, people started to come up to her and urged her to take him home. He had done enough, apparently.
She took his car keys and led him to the parking lot. Usually he would insist on driving, today he slipped soundlessly into the passenger seat as she turned on the engine.
After her few attempts at conversation were met with silence, she gave up and focused on driving. In forty minutes, she was pulling into the perfect parking lot of their perfect home.

They went upstairs; she gave him dinner that lay cold and stale on the floor until she picked it up the next morning. She ran him a bath that he took silently. She made their bed and when she woke up the next morning he wasn’t in it.
For days this continued, long enough for her to worry and consider seeking help. Their perfect relationship turned into the silence of the night.

Ten days into the stony silence and stepping on egg-shells she decided she would have to come right out and have a talk with the man who usually had so much to say she needed earplugs by the end of the day. When he came home from work that night, much later than he usually did, she brought him his coffee and announced that she needed to talk to him. He looked at her; sinister eyes almost daring her to speak another word.
“You need to talk to me,” she said with a little more anger in her voice than she usually had. He took her hand way more gently than he ever had before, and in one swift motion dunked it into the still hot mug of coffee lying before him.
“No, I don’t,” he said pushing her onto the floor.

What came next can be extracted from the testimony of any textbook abuse victim.
Fists in her face until her jaw was sore, blood in her mouth that decorated the floor. His hands in her hair until her head hurt, palms raining down until it was fit to burst. Him pulling her back as she tried to run away; kicking her sides forcing her to stay. Blood from her nose mixing with her tears, her begging words exhibiting her fears. Resistance from her swollen lip as he pulled her by the hip. A teary instance of forced sodomy; not of lust but of sad desperation.
And after it was over, he lay back on the bed crying. She lay on the floor whimpering and alternating between silent sobs and helpless howls.
The adrenaline wore off and everything in her body began to ache. The adrenaline wore off and everything in his body was overcome by sadness.
And then she heard the rain.
Slowly it came on at first, she heard the first droplets falling, magic took over her feet as she felt herself get up and follow the rain outside.

She cried.
He cried.
The universe cried.
The next day they went back to happily ever after.

The Vacation

Note: Fiction

We had been seeing each other for a few months when we decided to take a vacation together. Things between us were good. He was kind and attentive. And there was little conflict.
It was a departure from the kind of relationships I usually get into with emotionally abusive men who are unhappy until they have complete control over my life. He wasn’t like that. He never raised his voice, and he seemed to relish the fact that I am an independent woman and I don’t need a man to take my decisions for me. Even sexually he was like a whole other world.
Especially sexually.
With most men I had been with before him I had never felt that often-mentioned inexplicablespark that makes you weak in the knees. With them the sex had been almost like a ritual we were doomed to perform on a nightly basis in the interest of the health of our relationship. But with him, the sex was an adventure. I felt like I had been a virgin until he showed me just how much pleasure two bodies working in tandem could create. He made me do things I had never even thought to do before. He put his hands around my throat, he threw me around, he even struck me in the heat of the moment. He had toys that I thought were only used in porn; handcuffs, little floggers, ropes. It was all so exciting. There was nothing respectful about him inside the bedroom. And I could not get enough. He had in his fingers the power to turn me into a shameless junkie.
So when he suggested we spend a few days together in a remote fishing village that was famed for its pristine beaches, I was thrilled. Not wanting to seem overly-eager I told him that I would check my work schedule and let him know if I could manage to take the time off.
He told me to let him know as soon as possible.

Five days later, we loaded up his car and left at the crack of dawn for our vacation. I had packed two new bathing suits and way too many shorts and dresses. When he saw the size of my bag, he laughed and said, “You sure packed a whole lot of clothes for a week you’re going to spend entirely naked.”
I blushed and he kissed me before he picked my bag up and put it in the trunk.
The drive was lovely. I fell asleep halfway through and only woke up when we had arrived at the little cottage we had rented from an old French couple.
It was white, and had a slanting brown roof. Wind chimes hung in the porch and there were white flowers growing all over the little garden. There was a forest right behind the house, and somewhere in the distance I could hear the ocean. It was the most serene atmosphere I have ever woken up to.
I helped him unload the car and we settled into the house. I suggested we get changed and go for a swim before lunch. He suggested he bend me over the oak dining table and fuck me before we do anything else. His suggestion had more value to it.

We spent the rest of the day exploring the town, basking in the sun and indulging in fresh seafood. On the walk back to the house, we bought some fish. Once home he made us dinner while I showered and set up the table. After dinner, I poured us some wine and we sat out on the porch.
“I love how dark it gets here,” he said, “Living in cities, we don’t understand what darkness really looks like.”
I snuggled closer to him and told him that the dark still scared me a little. A silly fear that I had carried with me since I was a child.
“Don’t worry,” he said lifting me in his arms, “I’ll keep you safe my dear.”
The next day we went diving. An activity we both loved. The bottom of the ocean amazes me each time. I cannot believe it really is there. Each time I am surrounded by the ocean, it changes me. The world becomes much more significant than I am to myself. It puts me in a mood; turns me into a romantic.
We spent the rest of the day inside the house. So far it was turning out that he was right, I really didn’t need as many clothes as I had carried.

That evening after we ate, we lay in bed talking. I was tired and bruised, but sated. He was trailing my nipple with his finger when he said, “You want to take a walk?”
“Sure,” I said, “But can we take a flashlight?”
He laughed jovially.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “While you get dressed I’ll pack us an emergency supplies kit?”
I thought he was joking but when I met him at the door ten minutes later there really was a bag on his shoulders and a flashlight in his hands.
I laughed and told him I loved him. He hugged me and said he loved me too. We locked the door and left. He took my hand and we walked in the direction of the forest.
I finally understood what he meant by the darkness, I really couldn’t see a thing. He turned on the flashlight as soon as he felt me clutching his hand tighter.
For maybe twenty minutes we walked around in the forest when I started to worry we wouldn’t know the way back.
“Do you know how to get back?” I asked him.
“Of course,” he said, “Don’t worry.”
A few minutes later, he stopped and pushed me to my knees. I was slightly concerned about being outside but I knew there was no one around us so I took his cock out of his shorts and put it in my mouth. I love how it grew hard and thick in a matter of seconds when it was in my mouth.
“Love?” he said.
“Yes?” I asked while I stopped for breath.
“I’m going to blindfold you,” he replied.
I stopped short and stood up. It was bad enough that we were in the dark but being blindfolded in the dark sounded much worse. He must have seen my fear in my face because he immediately said, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but you never know, it might be another great experience.”
“I want to,” I told him, “But I’m afraid.”
He kissed me on my forehead, and said, “Don’t you trust me?”
“I do,” I said.

He didn’t just blindfold me, along with the blindfold he put a pair of handcuffs around my wrists and from what I heard he attached a metal chain to them. I imagined he didn’t ask permission because he had done that to me before. I remember realizing, in passing, that he had probably planned to do this all along. He strung me along, and I followed him. It was hard to walk while being led around with a line of sight; I stumbled and almost fell many times.
He wasn’t talking to me at all but I knew he was watching me because he caught me promptly each time I tripped. We didn’t walk very far but it seemed to take a long time.
My mouth was dry, and I wanted to tell him to remove the blindfold but before I could, he pushed me against what felt like a tree and began kissing me. His hand made its way between my legs while the other wrapped around my waist. Within seconds, I forgot about the blindfold, the cuffs, the darkness. I felt myself grinding against his palm while I moaned into his mouth.
A few minutes later he pulled me down to the ground. I lay on my back, and waited for him to climb on top of me. Instead I felt him standing behind my head whispering into my ear.
“You’re going to feel some rope on your now,” he whispered, “Don’t panic.”
I nodded my head slowly. I was way past panic, I wanted him to do whatever he wanted to me. I felt like I was high. Flying.
I couldn’t see what he tied me to; I could just feel my the cold metal pressed against my back while my ankles were linked to my elbows. I could move my feet just a little bit towards the inside and as much as liked towards the outside. My legs were spread wide open. He talked to me throughout as he worked the ropes, he stopped a few times in between and kissed me or ran his hands over my breasts. Or between my legs.

When he was done tying, he stopped talking. I felt him rip my clothes off my body, with what felt like a pair of scissors.
That frightened me. I suddenly realized I was about to be naked and tied up on display in the middle of nowhere.
“Please,” I said, “Stop, it’s enough, I am scared now.”
He didn’t say anything. He was done with my shirt and had moved onto my shorts.
“Please stop,” I said one more time. He didn’t respond.
I tried to get up but I couldn’t even angle my foot the correct way. So I struggled, I moved around until all my struggling resulted in the scissors poking me on my thigh. I screamed as I felt the sharp metal against my skin.
He pulled my shorts off. I was naked. I could feel the cold breeze all over my body.
“Love,” I said trying to be calm, “Please untie me, I am terrified, please.”
Once again, he didn’t respond. In fact, I couldn’t hear him anywhere around me. So I screamed. I screamed over and over again. It seemed that no one heard me. I began to worry he had left me alone in the dark, dense forest.
Naturally, I began to panic. I felt my heart explode in my chest. I could barely breathe and the more I moved the tighter the knots I was bound with became. I began to cry. For what felt like hours, I screamed his name. I thought I felt insects crawl all over me, I thought I heard wild animals in the bushes, I even thought I felt someone standing there and watching me.

Sometime amidst my hopeless tears, I heard someone scurrying the bushes. It had to be him. I called out to him. I begged him to untie me and take me home. I heard someone walk towards me. I was elated. Finally, I was going to be free.
Instead I felt a firm slap against my cheek. It felt like his hand, but I screamed again. It had to be him, I knew, but what if it was someone else?
Within a matter of moments, I felt him lie atop me and begin to fuck me. I begged once again to be let go, I tried to close my legs and throw him off me.
But I couldn’t, he fucked me till he came inside me. He groaned like he always did. Even in my state of abject panic, I was relieved to know it was him. He got off me and walked towards my head. His cum dripping out of me onto the grass.
“Please will you untie me now?” I begged, “Just, take this blindfold off me, I beg you.”
He was still standing behind my head when I felt another cock being stuffed inside me. I remember that scream as being the loudest on of all. I hadn’t even heard someone else approaching me
I heard him snigger behind my head, I began to hurl curses at him.
“You will spend the rest of your life in prison,” I told him anger taking over me completely as the skill-less dick of a complete stranger rubbed back and forth inside me.
I felt his face close to mine. And then I felt duct tape being stretched around my mouth. I moved my face around violently, my mouth was my one recourse and I couldn’t allow him (or them) to take that away from me. Once he succeeded in getting the tape around my mouth, it was just one cock after another. The tears never did stop flowing.

I have no idea how many men I was fucked by that night. I have no idea when I stopped fighting them and just lay back and succumbed to them completely. I have no idea whether I was still being fucked when I passed out.
I just know that when I woke up the next morning I was lying naked and untied in the forest, covered from head to toe in dried semen with a note taped to my chest.
My eyes, puffy and swollen, hadn’t fully readjusted to the light as I pulled the note off my chest and read it.
Thank you, my dear, you were great.

The Anatomy of a Nightmare.

I know every inch of the place.
Well, I have always known it like the back of my hand. Now, I know it better, better than the back of my hand.
I know it like I know my mind.
It terrifies, attracts and humbles me all at once.

I know the wooden door at the entrance.
The only part of the arena that didn’t look rundown because it opens into the main house. Four light brown frames and a bronze handle.
The paint still shining. Perhaps it had received a fresh coat of varnish of late.
I remembered it as the place I looked for the moment I entered that house. My good sense telling me it wasn’t just going to disappear, but the relief upon seeing it each time, still there, defied all sense.
I remember it now as the moment of truth and conflict. The time when my mind screamed, “Flee! You don’t know what the fuck you’re getting yourself into.”
But my feet remained firmly planted in place; obeying only his gesture to descend into the darkness.

I know there are exactly thirteen stairs coming down from the door. Uneven in width.
I slipped on the seventh on the way down when I decided the only way to avoid sleep would be to run up and down the stairs to get some exercise.
I hurt my back. Only a little because the once-sharp stone edges of the stairs been rubbed off due to wear over the years.
He found me on the bottom stair; refusing to look back at him as I held my breath even though I could hear him, clear as day, coming down the stairs.
That bottom step where I have sat and smoked pot a multitude of times is now forever etched in my head as the place where the hair on my neck all stood up.
In terror.
And, arousal.

I know that bed. It’s not a bed really.
Just an old foam mattress from when my little sisters and I would play cards down there. I know the bed now as an instrument of mockery.
I never got to sleep on it.
No, I spent my nights on the floor, sleeping atop a thick bedcover that neither kept the cold from seeping into my naked back nor provided any kind of support.
I remember that bed now as the object responsible for all my aches. It was right there in front of me, no one could have stopped me from just lying on it for a few minutes to remember what comfort feels like but I didn’t. He camps deep inside my head.

I know the storage room in the back.
The white metal door rusted beyond all belief; the paint chipped off in most places and the blue lines that once decorated it reduced to mere aberrations in its now perfectly desecrated self.
The tiny room.
The roof still leaning like it always did. The walls; cracked and faded. As if the whole structure could collapse at any moment.
I remembered hiding in there with my sister; eating the pecans that were stored in the giant blue plastic containers. Our jaws sore from cracking the nuts open.
The room still smelled of pecans then, a few still lying strewn about at the bottom of those neglected containers that no one needed any more.
I remember it now as a chamber of suffocation and solitary confinement. A place where the only thoughts on my mind were of Florida prisons and building collapses.

I know the book shelf.
The books are all gone, of course. But I can always see them, as if I could ever forget the volumes upon volumes of psychology and economics textbooks that always left me with more questions than answers when I indulged myself.
It became my place of solace. I would sit under the shelf hoping it doesn’t fall on my head and kill me. I could still smell the books; the scent transporting me to a time when I had not a care in the world. A time when if I wanted to get up in the middle of reading The Rise and Fall of the third Reich and get myself a cup of coffee, all I had to do was turn the door knob.
Even though that was no place to hide, it’s in plain sight the moment you enter through the door, it was there I decided to hide. He could rape me all he wanted in that corner, he still couldn’t touch me.
Or so I believed. Had to believe.

I know my grandfather’s old study desk.
I remembered it as the place where we’d sit and he’d teach me about the Indian Education System, RAW, the Naxalites and atheists while the rest of our family bathed in the winter sunshine.
The wood was now merely a mass of splinters. It was softer too and fluffy. I’m sure there was some water damage.
I remember it now as the symbol of my paranoia. The object that transported me to an archaic period in time where I was convinced that my death certificate would read:
Cause of Death: Splinter

I know the bathroom.
Small, white tiles, no sink. Two taps and old-school plumbing. One golden faucet for the fresh, cold water and one silver faucet that was attached to the water heater that had only been installed because my grandmother was certain I would trip and break my neck carrying hot water down the stairs.
No one ever understood why I liked bathing in there.
The heater was long gone, my grandparents must have taken in with them when they moved out.
As if in cahoots with my captor.
Now that bathroom is a reminder of the privileges I enjoy in life, and the guilt I ought to feel for being so indifferent to my entitlement.
Sanitation. Water. Warmth. Comfort. Freedom.

I know the place, as I said.
I know every inch of it more intimately than I have known the bodies of myriad lovers.
Congratulate me now, for I have successfully converted my sanctuary into a minefield of nightmares.
(And isn’t that what every little girl grows up dreaming of?)