Boys Don't Like Whores

I showed her the bruises on my arms.  She shrugged and said, “Well, boys don’t like whores.”  Is it my fault that I drank too much?  Is it my fault that my shirt was low cut?  Maybe, but I didn’t want this.  She shook her head and said, “They don’t want women to be in control,” as though it were just a fact of life that boys can fuck around, but a woman who does the same is a slut.  The woman who expects control of her own body and sexual relationships is in the wrong.  Women shouldn’t expect gratification; women should only seek “soul mates.”  A man has needs, but a woman is a sinner.  Her desires are an admonishment and she should be shamed. 

I wonder if I was really ever in control though, and if I was ever getting what I wanted.  I know I wasn’t.  I wanted him, but he had rejected me.  I wanted to show him that I was desirable, so I let myself be had by any man who told me I had a pretty face or a hot ass.  When he said he was hurt and didn’t want me anymore, I accepted another offer, foolishly believing I could incite his jealousy and alter his mind.  That offer was more than I had bargained for.  I should be ashamed for trying to play these games.  If I had just been honest and said I’m sorry, I wonder if I wouldn’t have this surplus, gigantic grief now riding around on my back.

So maybe I was wrong then.  No, I know I was wrong, but that still doesn’t justify what happened next.  “Boys don’t like whores,” she said and that’s precisely why he was rejecting me.  I wasn’t his, and he wasn’t mine, but he didn’t want me to belong, however temporarily, to anyone else either.  I didn’t belong to them though; it was just my skin and I was still my own woman.  He was allowed his freedom, but I was denied mine.  I couldn’t have my cake and eat it too. 

Why can’t a woman have casual relationships? Why are women denied noncommittal pleasure? It’s not safe for us.  Good girls can’t afford to play the same games the big boys do.  We wouldn’t have to be so damn afraid if society changed.  If we stopped building up boys while berating women maybe there wouldn’t be such a perverse imbalance and abuse of power.  The boys couldn’t get away with it and claim we wanted it.  Girls can’t tease and girls can’t change their minds because such misdirection and indecision is worthy of retribution. 

I showed her the bruises, and even she blamed me.  “You should never have gone home with him,” she chastised, “You barely even knew him.”  Her warning then could not possibly alter the past, shake this fucking beast off my back, so what good was that? Women don’t need to condemn women even further.  Women don’t need to excuse men who don’t listen when a woman says no.  Why are we still making excuses?

Maybe I made him angry because I was a woman who wanted the upper hand.  Maybe I made him angry because I wasn’t seduced by his power or prowess.  Maybe I made him angry because I wanted to be safe even though I was playing these otherwise dangerous games.  Maybe I made him angry because I wasn’t falling in love.  He shouldn’t have expected me to swoon; this was never about love.  This wasn’t even about affection or sexual attraction.  Two intoxicated bodies momentarily finding each other for mutual satisfaction.  Nothing more.  I wish it were nothing more, but his lust turned to hate and I suffered for his ire.

I can still hear my own weak voice in my head.  No. No. No.  He didn’t listen.  Yes, I was already revealed to him and indeed his lips and limbs had already touched private parts of me.  The play became too rough and I didn’t expect another player on this field.  The whore doesn’t get to make the calls; she doesn’t coach this game.  She should sit silent and willing on the sidelines, and I didn’t.  Good girls keep their mouths shut; good girls don’t speak up.  Bad girls get their due punishment; don’t take it easy on bad girls.  And big girls, who recklessly believed they were in control, do cry when their bodies are being violated.

Stop crying, silly girl; I thought you wanted no emotion here.  If you want love and emotion removed from the equation, how can you be surprised when they are replaced with violence or perversion?  You shouldn’t be so irresponsible with things like your body if you don’t expect bruises.  Girls who make hasty decisions get hurt.  You should have just said you were sorry and went back home instead of into the arms of another.  You don’t have the skill to play this game with all the big boys.  You’re no contest, little girl.  Girls like you are easily taken.  Girls like you are whores, and boys don’t like whores.  That oughtta show you. 

I showed her the bruises and she showed me the standards of our society: “Boys don’t like whores.”  Men and women are still expected to behave to certain gender standards, and our society justifies any harm to the deviants.  We need to end these archaic expectations.  We need to equalize the playing field.  We need to stop excusing bad behavior.  We need to stop making the victimized feel guilty.  We need to stop condoning violence through acquiescence.  We need to stop admiring “big boys” and branding “bad girls.” Even bad girls feel the sting of the bruises, and an even greater ache from the agonies unseen.

Right Here Now -- and Absolutely Happy

This post comes as a follow up to “Anywhere Other than Here.”  If you haven’t read it yet, I recommend you do so before proceeding.  I am honestly honored, but slightly overwhelmed, by the amount of personal messages I have already received in response to the essay I posted yesterday.  This post detailed the first time I was raped.  That’s right – this was just the first time, not the only time.  As was the case for some of the women who briefly shared their stories with me through various online messaging sources, rape was a painful experience that I had to suffer through on more than one occasion.  I say this with all sincerity and need every man and woman who reads this to hear me and accept this truth: No woman should ever have to go through this experience. 

What I already knew, but was reminded of in the hours that have passed since my posting, is that too many women have known similar pain.  According to the Joyful HeartFoundation, 1 in 6 women is a survivor of sexual assault, and every two minutes in the United States someone is sexually assaulted.  Further, like the situation described in my post, 90% of assaults are committed by someone the survivor knows.  These are numbers we need to care about. 

Your sister, your daughter, your best friend, the woman who works down the hall from you, the woman in front of you in the check-out line, the woman seated next to you in the church pew – any one of these woman could be a survivor who is silently suffering.  So many people responded to my post by describing me as “strong” and “brave.”  While I made my story public, these silently suffering women are no less strong or brave.  We are all fighting a hard battle – and we should learn to allow others to throw up their fists and fight alongside us to eliminate the frequency of date rape and other forms of sexual assault.

I know that there is great shame associated with rape.  But I think we need to question this – why should a woman be ashamed at being a survivor of rape?  What did she do wrong? The answer is nothing.  But, I didn’t believe that after this first happened to me.  I was nineteen then, and am into my thirties now.  I did blame myself.  I felt I had played a part in this wrongdoing against me.  I mean – I did kiss him.  I lay down with him.  I was initially warm to his touch – but when things changed, and I said no, he should have stopped.  He needed to stop.  It was many long months before I could even muster the courage to actually use the word rape – even just in my internal dialogue – and many more months before I could speak that word to others. 

When I publically posted my own tale, I didn’t consider the pain that it may have brought to the surface for many of my readers.  For that I apologize. I shared my story as a means of healing for not only myself – but others.  I wanted to stand up and say, “Yes. I was raped.  I’m not ashamed.  I did nothing wrong.  I am beautiful, smart, and intelligent, and he was an ugly monster when he did this thing.”  I wanted to educate and empower.  If you’ve been following me, remember that whole thing about education not being restricted to the classroom?

So, I shared my story.  Actually, I would encourage you to share it as well.  Post a link to this page on your own blog or add it to your facebook status or twitter update.  Then women and men can stand together and read about the ugly thing in an effort to end such sexual violence. 

I did something many years ago that may be considered completely crazy, but I forgave my abuser.  I saw him at a bar, and I forgave him for that afternoon.  I also let him know that what he did was in no way acceptable and it never, ever should have happened, but I also think that he didn’t fully realize what he was doing.  It was like he was overcome by some sickness at the time that led to this crime.  I don’t know if he felt any better, but I don’t give a shit because that wasn’t the point.  I forgave him to allow myself to love.  My hatred was only hurting me. 

 

Today, no one hurts me.  I am safe and loved in my home by my husband and adoring, wonderful children.  I don’t want to be somewhere other than here.  I don’t have to vanish to a finer place in my mind.  I’m right here now – and absolutely happy.  I accepted what happened to me, without condoning this action, and learned to pull strength and empathy from my experience as opposed to pity and misery.  Now, I can be fully in the moment when my husband embraces me.  I can be fully in the moment and blissfully happy when my daughter tells her younger brother “lub you.” 

I’m not chained to that hurt; I’m not a slave to that pain.  I am stronger and better – and I will never again be ashamed.  My hope for every woman who knows what I’m talking about all too well is that you dispose of your shame as well.  Know that you, too, are brave and beautiful and deserving of every happiness life has to offer you.  Together we can be strong.  Thank you, thank you, thank you for your genuine and considerate responses. 

 

Elise Lieberth - "You're Gonna Pay"

Bring Awareness to Rape.

 

Anywhere Other than Here

The telephone rang.  I groggily rolled over and reached for the phone.  It was already into the afternoon, but I still lay in my bed, covered by thick blankets and an even thicker depression.

“Hi, it’s me,” he said warmly. I wanted to believe he cared the way his tone currently suggested – but life liked to remind me otherwise.  If he cared, he would not have fucked her.  So, why was he still calling me?  My stomach twisted and I felt confused.  I should have slammed down the phone then.

But I didn’t.  I replied, “Hey.”  My voice was low and lacked enthusiasm.  I had nothing more to say to him.  I already did my cursing.  I already did my crying.  What did it all matter? It was over; we were over.

“Can you come over?” he questioned. There was not the tiniest trace of guilt to be found in his voice.

I denied his initial request, but he pleaded further and I was weak to his will. 

“I need to see you, Angela.  I need to say I’m sorry.” 

It had already been said.  Silly, empty words that left me feeling like a hollow shell.  Silly, empty words spurred by filthy actions that left me questioning my worth.  Why wasn’t I enough? What did I do wrong?  I blamed myself for his fucking indiscretions.  He promised to give me back my tee shirt, so I agreed to come.

He told me, “Honestly, I don’t even know where your fucking tee shirt is,” after I had walked in, and demanded it back, fully prepared to depart after receiving my belongings.  I stood there willing all of myself to remain cold and resolute in the presence of his deep brown, ever enchanting eyes. 

He sat down upon his bed, and begged me to take a spot at his side.  “Just sit by me a moment,” he requested while patting a place next to him on the mattress.   I shook my head no, although my more rapidly beating, and foolishly ignorant, heart wanted to say yes.  I continued to negate his request with silent shakes of my head, but I approached him more closely.  He reached out and gently grabbed my wrist, and I succumbed to him, joining his side as he softly stroked my stimulated skin.

I said nothing, but he poured out more pitiful apologies.  Soon, those eyes and his lies had convinced me not only to sit near him, but also to kiss him back as his full lips pressed against mine in a familiar fashion.  I knew it to be wrong, but it felt so right and I allowed him to lay me down upon his bed as he continued to send sweet, satisfying kisses from his lips to mine.  Quickly, this sweetness faded as my mind regained its command and I recalled how our relationship had gone so sour.  I asked him to stop kissing me, to allow me to leave this room now, and his life forever.  I attempted to rise up and out of his arms.  He made no grant of my request.  Rather, he pressed his body hard down upon me and continued to press his lips to mine, no longer returning the favor.

This felt horribly wrong.  My mind and body came into quick agreement and informed me: You need to go.  It’s time to go.  Forget about your shirt.  Just leave right now.

“Stop please," I whimpered as my body began to tremble with terrible knowing.

His callous hands traveled down along the sides of my chest and rib cage and up under my white linen shirt.  They cupped my bare breasts and his fingertips ran across my pale pink nipples.  His groping became more feverish and my awful fear became more real.  His hands had been here before and it had felt like home then – warm and comforting.  It felt distant now – cold – and I desperately wished for his touch to decease.  I asked him to stop once more, and again my words went unheeded.  His hands made rough and deliberate motions upon by bare skin.  My heart raced as the sound of metal in motion rose above my cowardly silence as he proceeded to unzip my pants with his left hand while using his right to hold my arm firmly down.

 

He used both hands now to slide down my pants and unzip his own.  I looked at his face, trying to meet those eyes and beg silently for sympathy.  I met a vacant stare, eyes that I didn’t recognize.  I closed my own eyes to what was happening here as I cupped my tiny, trembling hands over that which I wanted to keep mine.  Mine to give -- not to be taken this way.  I wanted to be safe; I wanted to be clothed and closed.  I wanted to be anywhere other than here.  I began to cry as I realized it no longer mattered how many times I repeated the word “no.”

He pried my hands away from that which they wished to protect, and I lay there exposed and vulnerable.  Insane disbelief rushed over me while he sunk his fingertips deep into my skin, holding my arms firmly in place as an assurance that he could continue with his wicked wishes. 

I turned my sobbing, soaked eyes up toward the heavens, and memorized each indentation in the white fiberglass panels of his suspended ceiling.  I just imagined myself any place other than here as his body shifted roughly and violently inside of me.  How could this be happening?  He was my first love.  How could I honor any man when he was the one to so ravage my body and my trust? I stopped wondering how this could happen and tried convincing myself that it wasn’t happening.  This isn’t happening now.  This isn’t happening to me. Anywhere other than here.  Anywhere other than here.  I repeated this phrase with each forthcoming tear.

Not a word or glance was exchanged after he had completed.  Completely lethargic and lost, I simply zipped my pants up, walked out of the door, and back to my car.  I turned the stereo off and drove silently back home – without my shirt, and without a piece of me.

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NO MEANS NO.

I hooked up with the folks over at yeah write again for their challenge grid.  They are all such stellar writers.  For some reason, this makes me feel incredibly brave in what I share through my words.  You should check them out!




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