hurt me, that it left me cold. Maybe I wasn't sure it would register: he hadn't appeared to believe me when I first told him to let me up. And maybe something in me agreed that such a response was incorrect.
Eventually, I got away. Stupidly, confused, I mentioned the incident to my boyfriend. Of course he was furious; I had to calm him. For my part, it hadn't occurred to me to be mad. That didn't feel as bizarre as it sounds -- on some level, I felt that the whole incident was reasonable, even if it hadn't turned out to be what I wanted.
Not then. Not with him.
te OK ok
After I cried my heart out in his bed, Richard was very kind. He brought me a glass of water and listened as I said a lot of bewildered things. When I finally ran down, it was
late; he invited me to sleep over, but didn't put the moves on me. The next morning, he told me he had work to do. Straightforwardly, I asked when I could see him again. He
smiled, said to email him, that we'd work something out.
The next few days -- weeks -- time, I don't know; however long it was, it felt like being put through a shredder. I couldn't think about anything but that night and how, through my turmoil and tears, I'd found a kind of exultation. I had been sober, prepared and clear- headed. I couldn't find a way around the brutal, uncompromising revelation that apparently, I wanted nothing more than to be subordinated, used, hurt. I actually wanted to be a victim.
I wanted to talk to someone, but wasn't sure how to frame my words. I was positive it would help to talk to Richard, but he was busy, and busy, and busy. I had a number of friends who I suspected were into hardcore BDSM; I could have called any of them. But it was one thing to be fine with other people doing it, and quite another to discover such a desire in myself. In another situation, I would have thoroughly deconstructed my obvious double standard -- but just then, it was a minor irrationality on top of one big chunk of insanity.
I considered asking my loving, liberal parents for advice and tried to imagine how it would go.
Mom. Dad. I love you, and I'm so sorry. I know you've tried to give me an independent, rational, feminist outlook, as well as self-esteem and integrity. Sadly, none of this appears to have taken; I guess I'm a broken mockery of everything you tried to instill. I don't want you to worry, or blame yourselves, but have you any advice on where to go from here?
No.
ok oe My mental images of that summer are hazy with remembered anger. As Richard remained occupied, I felt fury building within my fascination. I'm sure I felt like the
classical woman spurned: he was nice enough when he ran into me and told me he was there to talk if I needed it, but the evidence contradicted his words. For weeks after that
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