Sexuality Happens

As some of you (all of you? many of you?) may know, I was sexually assaulted in college. I wrote up my story of being assaulted here, in recognition of sexual assault awareness and prevention month (April). Read it or don’t; it is out there because I feel survivors should speak up, if they can. Without our words, people can continue to pretend that it isn’t happening, that the numbers are wrong, that our friends and family members aren’t really victims and survivors of rape, assault, incest, harassment, and more.

There is a call out for women survivor’s stories (I am one of the first to point out the plethora of male survivors as well…but this specific project focuses on women). It’s called “Hear Us Roar“, and their goal is to collect the stories of 100 women (not just the story, but how you have recovered, who you’ve grown, and what you want to share with other survivors) by July 31st, turn them into a book by the end of the year, and use that book to raise a ton of money for sexual assault response and prevention charities, as well as to help other survivors get through their experiences, and realize that there is light on the other side.

If you are a woman who has experienced sexual assault, I encourage you to share your story. I know not everyone can…and that’s ok too. However, if you’re at that point please go to Hear-Us-Roar.com, and share YOUR story (by Thursday!), in order to help out women and charities all over the world. I know I submitted mine (and cutting it down to 1200 words was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done!). Please feel to repost, and tell your friends, families, readers, etc, about it.

My thoughts and hopes are with all survivors, regardless of sex, gender, age, orientation, race, religion, ability, or how it happened. We’re all in this together, and we’ll all pull through.

-Essin’ Em

Let me preface this: I do not believe in victim (or survivor) blaming, in any way shape, or form. EVER.

That said, many psychologists believe that people tend to fall into three groups (or just two, depending on who you’re talking to); predators, victims, and those in between. Many self defense classes teach you to take more of a predatory stance; how you walk, how you talk, how you act in a situation.

I’ve been wondering…do I give off victim vibes? Not really in a sexual assault, come jump me sense, but more of a…weak sense? I know that doesn’t make sense.

It’s recent events that have made me think on this. A few weeks back, a friend, C and I were at a queer party. A hoarde of drunken straight guys was there as well. They tried to dance up on some of us…our friend (a former pro-domme/roller girl) stuck them in the bathroom to stop them from bothering us. They came back. I kind of backed myself into a corner so that they couldn’t come up behind me, and kept dancing. Finally, we were ready to leave. I was trying to get to C and our friend, and the guys had surrounded me, and one blocked me.

“Excuse me.”

He didn’t move. I drew up some courage, and tried to be aggressive: “MOVE.”

“Oh really? That wasn’t very nice.” I was starting to get nervous now. Really nervous. In fact, more nervous than I’ve been around men in years. Worried for my physical saftey. My friend was on the other side, I didn’t know if she’d noticed my plight.

“PLEASE move?” He didn’t move an inch, until he went flying into a table and broke a chair.

“I heard her say please. You didn’t move.” My friend had gotten pissed, and solved the situation the old fashioned way. I ran outside and left. I was worried…what would have happened if she hadn’t been there?

I was so proud of myself a week or two ago. I was dancing at an after party; C and I had a girl sandwiched between us, and were dancing. A guy came up and put on hand on each of our (C and I) shoulders. “Looks like you could use a little bit of me in there.”

I grabbed it hand, not so gently threw it off my shoulder, and said “obviously, you’re wrong. Back off.”

I was telling this to K, and said something like “you would have been so proud of me” and then told the story. I finished it with “I know it’s not a big deal to you, but it was really a big thing for me.” He said he knew.

Why is that a big thing? Why is it this huge deal for my to defend myself, to keep others out of my personal space? Why do I rely on others to fight my battles for me?

I wrote about post a few days back about the woman who was making me uncomfortable. A couple comments asked why I didn’t leave earlier, remove myself from the awkward situation. It happened with a woman at Roller Girl Karaoke in Philly too. She kept stalking me around the bar, and while I felt that I had shown her I wasn’t interested, she kept pursuing. I have an issue with hurting people; either their feelings, or physically.

I also have an issue with authority, but not the normal “fuck authority” kind. Authority figures tend me make me feel timid and weak. I know that sounds weird. I told my friend (the “I throw men into tables before breakfast” friend) that I don’t take risks. She looked at me, and pointed out that I write a sex blog, I have naked pictures of myself online, I’ve fucked people I’ve just met, etc. She’s right. Those ARE risks.

However, I don’t tend to take risks that deal directly with authority. The two times I’ve been pulled over in my life, I started crying…not to get out of a ticket, but because I was upset. The one time I was called to the office in high school (for a non-celebratory reason), I was bawling. I don’t shout “fuck the pigs” even if I’m angry with the cops. When I get in altercations, I back down, and if I need to deal with it later, I deal with it through writing. While I’ll dance on the table at friends’ houses, and bars that allow it, I hate going out with really drunk people, because I don’t want to get kicked out of public places.

Maybe I do somehow come off as a victim, because I’m scared of hurting people, and terrified of getting in serious trouble (the kind that would come from punching someone in the face). Because I don’t want to seem like I’m over reacting when I’m uncofmrtable, maybe I just shut down, rather than getting myself to a safe place.

This is not good. I don’t want to rely on people to protect me. I can protect myself, damn it. I’ve taken self defense classes, I know how to rack someone, and as I recently discovered, I can call someone an ass to their face. I just worry that I’m going to continue to freeze up in these situations, to not do anything for a variety of reasons, and to set myself up for this treatment over and over again.

But how do I change who I am?

-Essin’ Em

I had sex. Really good, emotionally and physically fulfilling sex. With someone who is intelligent, witty, amusing, creative, and as it turns out, incredibly artistically talented.

Remember my post about Sex vs. Skin Hunger? Yes, same person. She was at this giant roller derby event I was working this weekend, hanging out with a mutual friend. Friend had to go, I offered to drive her home, if she oh, wanted to stay for the after party and dance it up. See my suaveness? She did stay; we went and saw the last bout of the night (and the Philly Liberty Belles won! Congrats), and dipping ourselves in the pool for a bit.

After party was wonderful; free food, a perfectly made grasshopper, and lots of dancing with friends, and derby girls from around the country. My newly found friend (we’ll call her C. For Crackerjack. Don’t ask, she just wanted that) needed a smoke break (yes, I know, I know. My new list of “nots,” but sometimes, it’s just worth it), and we wound up hanging out on a stoop outside, lying on each other again. It just felt good, and if it feels good, I say do it. I found out later that between the outside, and leaning on her shoulder inside, there were all these rumors abounding through the derby league, many involving us having sex in the bathroom (did not happen), or making out on the dance floor (also, did not happen).

Finally, it was late, and I was rocking 3.5 hours of sleep, so I drove her home. Due to a key mishap, we had to go meet her roommate in the woods, and then we finally got back to her place. Where she asked me if I wanted to come up. No one ever asks me that. But I (of course), said yes, and braved two flight of steps.

It was nice, hanging out. She’s incredibly talented in an artistic sense; I was just floored by some of her work. Beautiful. We talked, and chatted, and looked at interesting things, and by this point, it was really late. She asked if I just wanted to stay over…and after remembering that I’d left out extra food for the cats in case I wound up crashing at the event hotel, I agreed (of course). She handed me an extra t-shirt, and I change, and went to the bathroom. When I came back, she was in bed, toppless, and asked me if she could turn out the light.

I settled into bed with her, and took her arm flayed to the side as a sign that I could rest my head on her naked breasts.

Let me take a break from the sequence to remark upon her breasts. They were honestly the most perfect set of breasts I’ve ever seen. This is not hyperbole, it is the truth. They are the right size for my hands, they sit perfectly on her chest, they are soft and grabbable, and the shape that when people paint breasts, that they paint them. I’ve never really been a huge fan of breasts (other than my own) before….but by god, I wanted to just grab them. All the time.

Back to the story. So I lay next to her, head on her breasts, and ran my fingers slowly over her arms, her stomach, hips, neck, face, etc. It felt so relaxing, so safe, it was just wonderful. And then I asked her if it was ok if I took my shirt off too (I am all kinds of about consent), and when it was, I did.

Skin on skin contact is phenomenal. People who don’t get it on a regular basis (myself included), are missing out. It just feels so wonderful. We were there together, gently running hands over each others bodies, skin bonded together, and it felt so calm and peaceful. I didn’t have any plans to try and get her to sex me up (weird, I know), I was just enjoying being there so much.

I wanted to run my fingers over her breasts. I wanted to touch them, to hold them, to feel them. I didn’t know quite how to ask. I ran my hands through the middle, up her sternum, around the bottoms of them, but I wanted to be feeling them.

“What can I touch?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Anything, except I don’t want pressure of any kind on my neck.”

That wasn’t a definitive answer. Anything could mean anything that the average person wouldn’t consider sexual. Not enough consent for me to grab them. I kept on moving my fingers over her curves. I moved my hand closer, and tried to look at her questioningly, to get approval, but eye contact in a mostly dark room is iffy at best.

Finally, I asked. “Um, is it ok if touch your breasts?” Not the most eloquently phrased question I’d ever asked, but at least I’d have a straight answer. When she replied in the affirmative, I slowly moved my hands up. God, they felt just as wonderful as they looked. If I had breasts like that, I’d be groping myself all the time, every day. Seriously.

I’m always worried when I play with a new person who I don’t *know* to be kinky. I know what I like on my breasts and nipples; firm pull, pinching, twisting, biting. Most people aren’t into that, but I never know how hard is hard. Which is why I’m all about communication. So I asked her.

We were there together, moving, running hands and fingers over each other, my reaching over, and gently grabbing each breast, her running her hand down my back, making me shiver. It wasn’t even overtly sexual, it was just this…I don’t know how to describe it. It reminded me of a play I was in during college, called (interestingly enough, oh Dan Savage) “Savage Love.” It was a variety of poems and words, and each within a scene, and people moved throughout the building to see the different vignettes. One involved a group of us lying on the ground, entwined completely, gently removing each other’s clothing (not all the way), breathing heavily, writhing almost snake like. I felt almost the same way; the touch, the movement, the comfortability you feel with a cast you’ve been working with for weeks. It was similar.

I don’t remember who started it. I think she kissed me on my forehead or cheek. I don’t know. Suddenly, it was more sexual. Not overtly, not a hand shoved into my underwear, or lips pressing against each other. It just was. My breath intermingling with hers, both of us breathing heavily, I could feel her heart beating in her chest.

We actually didn’t kiss for a while. When we did, it didn’t feel like I’d been waiting forever, it just felt right. Our hands still moved over each other’s bodies, fingers occasionally intertwining with each other.

Again, I asked what was ok, what she liked. What was ok, because consent, even in a non-kink based scene, is so important. I wouldn’t kiss someone on the neck without asking (or at least asking what wasn’t ok), I wouldn’t put my fingers in their hair and grab, I just wouldn’t. What she liked because I was getting so turned on, watching how she reacted to what I was doing.

C liked having her hair pulled. And her nipples tugged, and licked and slightly bitten. She liked having her ears and her neck kissed…and bitten. Mmmm. Biting.

I was allowed to leave marks.

Some people bring out more of my dominant side. She is one of them. I wanted to bite her and leave marks. I wanted to wrap my fingers in her hawk and pull. Hard. I wanted to grab her breasts, and then, I wanted to do whatever she’d let me.

So I did. I kissed her, and bit her, and left these beautiful marks. I like leaving marks. A lot. Not sure why…but I do. Which is weird, because as much as I like getting marks now, I used to totally not understand the purpose of hickeys or wanting to leave marks, in general.

Her nipples were sensitive, but just the right amount. I do this thing with my tongue that she seemed to like, and her face, and the slight noises she was making set my clit throbbing. I really enjoy making people feel hot and bothered.

I asked if I could touch her over her underwear, and then eventually, I asked if I could take them off. With them gone, I had access to her completely.

I wish I’d had lube. I’m not used to playing with people without it. I need to keep a bottle of Aqua in my purse or something, just so I have it. That would be a good plan. Genius in fact. Anyways, I worked without it, and all I wanted to do was (after a while), shove my fingers inside her, feel her grip onto them, and fuck her.

Finally, I asked what I could do to her, and she asked how I felt about putting my fingers inside her. Perfect. I slowly entered her with one, and worked my way up to two, and was fucking her, and enjoying her reactions…

When she suddenly sat up, and grabbed my hand, and told me to stop. I did, of course, but was confused. Ok. My nails are currently ridiculously short (done to prove a point), so I didn’t think I’d somehow scratched her. I’d asked if the two fingers felt ok, and there had been a positive response. What the fuck had I done wrong?

She told me it was just something that had struck her in a not-ok way, a mental reaction, a trigger. I didn’t ask her what; people will tell you if and when they want to. I gently pulled out, and she had her arms around me, and I was doing ok, although slightly disappointed, but that’s my problem, not hers. We sat there, and got back to talking. I went to put my hand on her cheek, gently, the same way we’d been doing all night. She flinched and jerked away from it.

Yes. I understand that this is something that has nothing to do with me. Yes, I get that.

However, I don’t know if I’ll ever get that picture out of my head. Reaching towards someone, and having them jerk away from me. I felt dirty. And horrible. How could anyone ever think that I, nick named in college “Queen of Consent,” would ever hurt someone? I know that it was a natural reaction, and that we all carry our pasts on our shoulders (I’ve written about this a lot before), but I just felt this incredible frustration that it seemed that no matter what I did to try and make things ok and comfortable, and safe, I always did something that fucked things up. When I was with J, there was the issue during his period. With Dana, Miss Avarice’s girlfriend, it was accidentally making her cry (which turned out to be not my fault at all, but it still felt awful), and now I was making someone wince when I tried to touch her. I felt awful.

I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to roll over and go to sleep, to try and get the water filling my eyes to go away. I told her I was fine. She said my eyes (although how she could see in the dark, I don’t know) said something different. So we talked about some of it, about how everyone has issues, and sex fucks up people at different points, and we always learn about new triggers.

And then, she told me we’d better take care of some of this…frustration, that I was feeling. And asked if she could leave marks on *MY* body. Of course, as I am not going on vacation soon, the answer was yes.

I loved kissing her, feeling her hands in my hair, pulling my head back, teasing me as I wanted her to kiss me. Her biting my breasts, my stomach, my collarbone. Her fingers pulling on my nipples, her tongue working it’s way along my breasts. I felt her hand between my legs, and bucked up against it. It all felt so good.

I wanted to ask her to fuck me, but felt that might be uncouth. I didn’t know what she was ok with, and after what had happened, I didn’t want to push anything. She asked me what I wanted, but I didn’t feel right asking to have her inside, and I wasn’t really in a position to be thinking deep thoughts anyways, so I think I may have made the curved to finger sign with my hand. She told me that she’d like to be inside, but didn’t have gloves with her, and had a cut on her hand. I must have been really into whatever was going on, because I said something like “do you have cuts on both hands?” rather than just taking that as a no.

She didn’t, and felt amazing as she entered me. First with one finger, then two. Again, I wish I’d had lube with me, as lube makes everything better, but it still felt wonderful.

I was worried. I have only come once or twice without a vibrator or oral stimulation. She was fucking me, and rubbing my clit, and it felt so good, but what if I couldn’t get off? I wanted it so badly, first of all, and secondly, I didn’t want her to feel weird about it if it just wasn’t going to happen.

But it did. And when it did, it was amazing. I came…and every time she moved her fingers again even just a little, I would be coming and moaning and shaking all over again. I don’t know if they were multiple orgasms, because I usually think of those as separate, but it was wonderful. It went on for a few minutes, until I told her I couldn’t take it anymore, and then, even when we were kissing again, and her thigh brushed against me, I was getting set off again.

After a bathroom trip and more talking, I discovered something new I liked, that I hadn’t even considered before; get slapped on the vulva. It’s ridiculous; it hurts, and feels fucking phenomenal at the same time…to the point where I was actually able to come from it (I’ve found that once I’ve come once, I can do it more easily and in a bigger variety of ways). I really liked it, and will have to play with that more in the future.

C told me I was really passionate. I didn’t really understand what she meant…was it that I was loud, and didn’t hold anything back? Was it that my entire body shudders when someone runs their nail down my spine? Was it the marks I left on her chest and neck? It was a compliment I think, but I just wasn’t sure what she meant by it. But it made me think about how many people are scared to be loud, or make noise, or move, or really enjoy themselves. I’ve decided that if I’m too embarrassed to do______ in front of someone, even though that’s how I feel/it makes my orgasm better, than I probably shouldn’t be having sex with them.

We cuddled up and talked for a bit, and then her apartment mate walked in on us, both naked, which was amusing. She was having a hard time, and some guy trouble, so she came in and sat and talked with C. I tried to be help out, but I didn’t know the situation, so I tried to be unobtrusive and blend in, and eventually, fell asleep.

We got a little over an hour for sleep before my cell phone alarm went off. After lazing around in bed, I convinced C that taking a shower together was in our best interest. And it was. Fabulous in fact. Not only did she look simply breath taking with the water pouring down her body, but soaping up each other’s bodies while pressed up against the walls was a great start to the day.

After a quick breakfast in the local diner, I had to run to make a bout I was reffing. I drove her around the block, gave her a quick kiss, and was off.

*This* is the kind of sex I want to have. All the fucking time (well, minus the triggering people part). When I say I can’t really have vanilla sex anymore, I don’t mean it has to be a full blown scene; it just can’t be completely plain. This worked. There was conversation, and communication and consent (my 3 C’s of sex). There was banter, and smiling, and fun. There was hot sex. There was touch. There was cuddling, and showering, and it was good. I felt comfortable sleeping in someone else’s bed (not often the case), and it was actually quite comfy (not always the case). I felt safe talking about what bothered me. I felt like I could ask for what I needed/wanted. I didn’t need it to turn into a long term relationship (not that it could, what with leaving). This was ideal, for me.

Strangely, I was thinking about the sex. It kind of reminded me of this one scene in the queer porn movie “Full Load.” Less fetishy, but more with the playfulness, and dominating-ness of both parties. Lots of fun.

Anyways, I have bruises all over my stomach, one underneath my breast, one on my collar bone, and possibly and hint or two of them on my neck. It’s lovely, and when I see them, I remember how I got them (one of the best part of marks!).

I saw her for a second at the after party last night, but I was tired and cranky and bitchy, and decided to go home and sleep. I hope to see her once before I leave to say good bye (and to be honest, I wouldn’t have said no to a quicky), but at least I got a text that was a nice follow up (that she was glad that I had decided to stay over), because I have this fear that I have sex with people, and they either a) get obsessed and stalkery, like my college boyfriend, or the woman at the sex club, or the derby girl, or b) they never talk to me again (like Julius, although that was just making out and gropage).

I’ve done well these last two months. Two good, albeit very different, nights of sex. With people I trusted. Good job me (although, I was telling a friend, how sad is it that sex is such a rare experience in my life that I get so excited and write about it, and such, pretty much every time I have it, because it happens so infrequently? Yeah).

And interesting people who I would now consider my friends. If only I had met cool friends like this before I turned against Philly.

-Essin’ Em

Note: As I re-read this, I realized that I wrote it without ever once using the word cunt. Interesting…I don’t think I’ve ever written about sex (either erotica or sex I’ve had) without using that word. I wonder why I didn’t use it here. Thoughts?

Note: I am now back from sleeping over with her. I spent my last night in Philly pressed up against her body, running my fingers over her curves. I’m glad I made that choice to drive cross town at 1am. Most certainly worth it. More later.

Here is another picture from back in the day in college for a fund raiser for the VDAY foundation. I like it :) Taken by Anne Bean.

Happy Nekkid Thursday!

In other news, tomorrow is the Day of Silence. Click on the banner to the right, or go to DayOfSilence.org.

There are only a few more days left in voting in the Sugarbutch Star Contest. Click Here to Vote (my idea is Shanna: The Diner on the Corner). I appreciate your support (plus it’s just a reeeeally hot story!).

Also, there is less than a week left in April; Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Mont. As many of you know, I’ve been blogging for GBBMC2008, and raising money for RAAIN. However, they’ve had a slight glitch in the system, and the box where you fill in the blank hasn’t been working. IF YOU DONATED, please let me know by commenting, or emailing me (essinem at GMAIL dot com) with your donation amount and transaction number, so it can count towards the contest. Click here for GBBMC2008 info and to see the amazing prize(s) I can win if you donate in honor of me. I know it’s a pain to email me, but I’d really appreciate it (I DO NOT need your credit card numbers, real names, etc, just your transaction number and amount). Even FIVE DOLLARS helps, both RAAIN and me!

If you haven’t donated yet, please click below. This money goes to help your family, friends and even strangers that are survivors of sexual assault and violence.

Donate here to help fight against sexual assault. Tell them I linked you (Essin’ Em or my blog name) and it’s for GBBMC2008. Then shoot me an email letting me know your transaction number and amount.

Otherwise, I’ve got a new hair color, new glasses coming in next weak, and a really hot, legit and far too expensive corset from Passional Boutique. Look for them in the future!

Essin’ Em

I posted this blog back on December 13th, 2007. However, given that it is Sexual Assault and Awareness Month, I am re-posting it, because I think it is very poignant to what is going on in our society. We always think of sexual assault as male on female, and MAYBE male on male. However, men can be sexually assaulted, both by other men AND BY WOMEN. Contrary to some legal definitions, erection DOES NOT equal consent. So as you think about preventing assault, and supporting survivors, please please please do not forget men who have been coerced, harassed and/or assaulted, for there is just as much, if not much more shame associated with being a male survivor than there is with being female. RAINN helps ALL survivors, so if you’d like to donate, please see the link at the bottom of this post.
-Essin’ Em

You know, after a conversation with friends the other night, and a talk with AAG, I’ve been thinking a lot about sexually assault, and unwanted sexual experiences from a different perspective.

I’m a survivor of sexual assault. It happened my first year of college, and while it’s not something you ever get over, I’ve done a lot of processing and work, and I’ve worked for sexual assault prevention groups, and on hotlines, and it’s not a touchy “I can’t talk about it subject.” It’s a big activist thing for me. However, it really gets me when anyone makes it a women’s issue, because it’s not, not from ANY perspective. It’s not only women that need to watch themselves, certainly the people who are doing the assaulting need to take the responsibility, but it is ALSO not only women that are the survivors (I like that term a lot better than victim) of sexual assault/violence/pressures/abuse.

I’m not minimizing AT ALL, in any way shape or form what happens to women. AT ALL. Let me state that first. It happened to me. It happens to millions of women everyday.

It needs to stop. That goes without saying, and I will work to stop sexual violence against women until my last breath.

But we also need to think about men. Men are “victims” as well. I don’t just mean men that are survivors of incest and child abuse. I don’t just mean men that are survivors of domestic violence or stranger rape (5-10%). Let’s look at our social construction of masculinity and male (esp heterosexual male) sexuality in our society.

Imagine going off to college and wanting to not be sexually active, and still wanting to be “cool” and fit in. You go to a big party, you meet some “cool” new guy “friends” and suddenly, everything about being cool and fitting in is about sex. They introduce you to an older woman, maybe a sophomore or a junior, and she is all over you. She tells you she loves to deflower freshman boys (I’ve met women in college like this; they do exist), and to fit in with that crowd, you have to “prove” your sexual prowess. By this point, you’re drunk, and you’re scared, and you just want to make friends They show you to a room upstairs, shove you inside with the hot sophomore, maybe hand you a condom if you’re lucky, and lock you in, telling you to bang on the door when you’ve “done your duty and proven yourself.” You just want to go home, to get out of there, but don’t know how to do it without physically pushing this girl off of you. You tell her no, you’re not interested, and she asks you if you’re gay. You tell her no, you’re just not ready for sex yet. She pushes you onto the bed, takes your clothes off, gives you oral, and has intercourse with you. After you come, she opens the door, tells all the guys that you’re a real man now, and you’re finally accepted.

Things like this happen allllllllll the time. If the sexes were reversed, that might VERY easily been seen as date rape, or at least sexual coercion, but here, it’s generally seen as a guy finally manning up and losing his virginity in such an AWESOME way. I see it as a form of sex assault, to be honest.

Look at the movie 40 Days and 40 Nights. At the end of it, Josh Harnett ties himself to the bed so that he won’t touch himself (to fulfill the end of his Lent deal). His ex comes in and RAPES HIM. She has sex with him completely unconsentually as he is saying no and struggling. Then, his current girlfriend comes in and rather than comfort him, or help him deal with the situation, she tells him how “disappointed in him” she is. The movie completely makes light of the fact that a male was just sexually assaulted, because clearly a guy is “always” wanting it, and therefore cannot be assaulted.

Social and peer pressures make it hard for men to ever say no, especially in settings like high school, college, offices (rumor mills, the water coolers), construction sites, etc, where groups of guys “prove themselves” as men based on sex. If they aren’t having sex, they are seen as weaker, possibly as gay, not as “real men.” If they tell a woman they are with that they don’t want to have sex, sometimes she will feel unwanted, that she has done something wrong, that he isn’t “man enough”, that he is gay, that he “can’t get it up” etc.

Again, peer pressure and social conceptions pressure many guys into having unwanted sexual experiences that they aren’t ready for and don’t want to have. Some of these sexual experience a woman has can be placed at sexual assault, but I think it is very important that we won’t completely discount men when we talk about this subject; men are struggling too from this whole Tough Guise (thank you Jackson Katz) issue, and may need support in the same way that women do, but we are so quick to categorize ALL men as villians in the area of sexual assault and violence.

Just something to think about.

Essin’ Em

Donate here to help fight against sexual assault. Tell them I linked you (Essin’ Em or my blog name) and it’s for GBBMC2008
GBBMC2008 info

This morning I got back from PT, as always (on Tuesday/Thursdays). I went to the bathroom, got a glass of water and sat down at the computer to work, as always. Then, about an hour into it, I heard the doorbell ring. It was early, 10:30 or so, but I thought maybe UPS or the postal woman?

Not quite. A friend of mine stood there, tears streaming down her face, a few clumps of hair fallen out, holding her head. I let her in, and took her to my apartment.

She’s been having trouble on and off with her husband, and thinks he’d had a psychotic break. He’s been yelling at her since September, and has gotten more physical lately. Today, he started getting physical, and went on some psychotic rampage about people in his head, etc. She called the police to try and get him committed. They took him to the mental hospital, but since they hadn’t sent the form over first, the hospital refused to take him. The brilliant cops dropped him back off at their home, where my friends was sleeping.

Let’s just say that he wasn’t happy with having been taken away. He went off on her, throwing her against a tiled wall in the shower, sitting on her as he pummeled her stomach and kidneys (“I’m smart, I’m doing it where it won’t show”), and tried to throw her out the window. She got out and came to me.

I found her a glass of water, an ice pack, and a phone to call her mother (he broke hers when she tried to call 911), and I IMed my boss that I had a friend who had been beated up, needed to go to the ER, and get a police report filed, and that I’d be back later, and would make sure I got my work done. He responded “i think you have to, but it would not have been a case if you were in the office…”

What. The. Fuck. First of all, even if I had been in the office, if I had found out, I would have driven home to help her (except he broke her phone when she tried to call 911, so yeah). Second of all, what the hell does this have to do with me being in the office?!?! A normal response would be “take care of your friend, best wishes.” In a sex-positive office (which we’re *supposed* to be), a response might be “take all the time you need; is there anything I can do to help the situation?”

Anyways, while I was upset and my emotional side wanted me to say “fine, I quit,” I knew that taking care of my friend was was more important. I got her to the ER, and 14 x-rays, a CT scan, an ultra sound, and peeing in a cup later (and most of the morning and afternoon), she was released with drugs and orders to “relax” because that is so likely.

While there, we filed a police report, and there is now a warrant out for her husband. They do things very differently here. In Colorado, you can file a report, and decide whether to press charges later. Here, if you opt to file a report, you are automatically agreeing to press charges. I wonder how many batterers have gotten off the hook because their partners weren’t 100% sure they wanted them arrested, didn’t file a report at the time, and were then told later that it was “too late”…just a thought.

I took her to get her medicine, and to open her own personal bank account, so she could have her checks routed there, and move some of the money from the joint account before he drained it. Then I got her back here, and she slept on my couch until I had to wake her up (head trauma rule). In the meantime, I received an email from my boss regarding the incident that upset me. I’m sad, hurt, frustrated and angered by my company’s response to the situation, but this post is not about that. I’m sure I’ll write about that later.

While I’ve worked with many sexual assault survivors/victims, this is the first outright case of physical abuse in a relationship I’ve seen first hand, up close and personal. I have very conflicted feelings about it…

On one hand, I am horrified, as I feel most normal people who have souls would be. Watching the doctors poke and prod her to see if he ruptured her spleen, listening to her tell her story over and over again to doctors, nurses, cops, the hotline, seeing her tear up every time she realize another thing she needed to think about to break out on her own; it was heartbreaking. I felt for her so much, I felt anger towards him, I just felt sadness that this goes on in the world…and the more firm realization that domestic violence, just like sexual assault, can happen to anyone, regardless of age, race, socio-economic status, etc.

Yet, conversely, I also felt as though I was in my element. All my sexual assault hotline training flooded back to me. I took her to the hospital, I figured out how to get numbers for the local DV places, the legal aid place, etc. After we left the hospital, I took her to my bank to help her set up the account. I spoke with her mother and arranged to have her parents send money to my address, so that he wouldn’t get ahold of it. I had ice packs waiting, I brought books with me to the ER, I found her water when she need it. I held her hand when she cried, and made her laugh when I could. When the policeman finished taking information, I waited by the cruiser for him as he filed the report so I’d have the number of the case. I set her up on my couch, pillows and blankets, made sure she had enough food (I *am* Jewish!), and honestly, while I would never wish this upon anyone, I feel like I did the best job that someone in my shoes COULD do, given the situation.

What does it say about me that some of the best work I do is in panicky, emergency, possibly even life-threatening (there might have been internal bleeding) situations? That I do well under pressure? I was always the RA that rode to the ER with the kids who had alcohol poisoning, the girl who stayed up with the drunk kids, making them drink nalgenes of water and leaving buckets by their bed. My senior year of college, I was student teaching in the local high school health class when a girl fractured her femur. I sat on the floor with her, stroking her hair, squeezing her hand, talking to her about her love of cheerleading. When EMS came, they had me hold the IV bag as they strapped her to the board. When my dad died (I was 13), I went to the funeral home to help my mother plan his funeral because she was a mess, and didn’t want to think about police escorts, a tent for the cemetery, what type of coffin, etc. Even when it’s just me, when I’m hurt, I make sure to always say please and thank you to the hospital staff, to reassure everyone that I’m fine, to be the best patient ever.

Am I sick and perverted, because I (in my opinion) turn on and truly “shine” in the time of pain and suffering (my own or others)? What does this say about me that I’m at my best when the world around me is at the worst?

-Essin’ Em

Donate here to help fight against sexual assault. Tell them I linked you (Essin’ Em or my blog name) and it’s for GBBMC2008
GBBMC2008 info

This isn’t the story of someone walking home in the dark and getting jumped by a stranger from the bushes. Most sexual assaults don’t happen that way.

Nor is it a story of me going out and drinking/hooking up with someone who had been drinking and it just going too far. Some sexual assaults happen that way.

It also isn’t a story of my partner not listening to me, and doing something we had done before even though I said no this time. Sexual assaults happen this way a lot more than people realize.

No. This is the story of how friendship of sorts can lead sexual coercion and how that can lead to sexual assault. And how that can lead to survivor blaming.

I was 17, and it was the second semester of my first year in college. I had this friendship/crush thing with a guy from a different hall on the same floor all year, and it had been completely unfruitful. Occasionally we’d listen to the Smashing Pumpkins together (he let me burn all his CDs), occasionally we’d sit together in the dining hall, occasionally, I’d run into him at parties. He was always sarcastic, but also quite witty…and I liked him.

Winter break came, and I went home to Denver. One night, quite late (2am or so), he IMed me, which wasn’t abnormal. However, what *was* odd was how he was acting. He was being flirty and coming onto me….and of course, since I liked him at the time, I was the same way back. The conversation ended, and that was that.

Then I came back to school in January for the half-block (two weeks of a short and fun class before regular classes started again. He was there too…I saw him around occasionally, but there was nothing different about our interactions. Lots of sarcasm and wit.

One night, I was on my computer, and he IMed me again. He was being flirty again, and told me to come over to his room…he had a book he thought I would like. I walked over to his room, knocked on his door, and he told me to come in…I did, and he was sitting at his computer, naked as a jaybird. I turned around and high tailed it out of there, running back to my room. I was so confused; what the hell was that supposed to mean?

He was online again, telling me to come back, and that he was sorry, and clothed again. Stupidly, I decided to go back. It was half block, and no one was there, and he was being flirtatious, and I had liked him for months. So I went back.

This time, he had his clothes on. I think he may have been a bit tipsy; I don’t know. We sat and chatted for a little bit, and then we wound up sitting and talking in in his bed. We wound up making out, and I was shocked. I didn’t know what was going on…up until this point, I had kissed two or three people, and dated one guy; the farthest we’d gone was some under the shirt gropage and his mouth on my nipples. And here I was, making out in a bed with a guy who I wasn’t dating or even really close with, and now he had his hands under my shirt.

I told him I felt uncomfortable, and he slowed down for a second, but then moments later, both hands were under my shirt, grabbing my nipples and breasts. I froze for a bit, stopped kissing him, but he didn’t notice, and he dragged my shirt over my head. I was in my PJs, so just a black v-neck shirt and sweatpants. I remember he remarked something about “no bra, eh? What does that say about you?” I was still frozen, not there with my body. It was so odd…I couldn’t move to leave, because, as silly as this may sound, I was afraid of losing his “friendship” and didn’t want to be thought of as prude.

Then he lay back, and took off his shirt, and put my hand at the waist band of his sweatpants. He didn’t have anything on underneath. I told him him I wasn’t ok with this, but he said it was no big deal and I’d be fine. I didn’t know what to do; I had liked him for months and months, and here was my chance…but I was hating myself every second for not bolting. I felt nauseous and queasy, and still, I stayed.

He took his pants off, and put my hand on his penis. It was the first time I’d ever seen an erect one in my life. I couldn’t believe it was soft and hard at the same time, and for a second, I forgot about being scared. It was so interesting. And big. Later on, I estimated it was about 9 inches…which is fairly large, especially for the first one I’d seen. I even asked him if that was average, and told him it was very intimidating and I was a bit terrified. He told me it was bigger than average, and I remember letting out a breath of air and saying “thank goodness.” He laughed it me, and then put his hand over mine, and started stroking. I pulled my hand away, telling him I wasn’t ready for this. He said that a hand job was no big deal, and pulled my hand back. He started stroking again.

I was ok with kissing. I wanted to go back to just kissing. Or bolt out of there, but I didn’t want him and the world to think I wasn’t a “normal” college student, wanting to have sex here and there and every where. He told me he was a virgin, but that this wasn’t anything, and i was time I made a better use of my lips than talking and kissing. He put his hand on the back of my head, and guided it to the heado f his penis.

Yes, I could have bitten him. Yes, I could have pushed him off and ran. But I was 17 and scared, and thought that maybe this was how college relationships went. I thought that if I did this, maybe he’d like me, maybe we could date, maybe it would be more than just sarcasm and Smashing Pumpkins. So I stayed.

I started to give my first blow job, not knowing a thing about what I was doing. He kept his hands on the back of my head, pushing me down, telling me what to do. I shook him off a few times, telling him I wasn’t ok with this, that I felt uncomfortable. I had tears in my eyes, and a giant lump in my throat. He told me that since I has started all this, I had to finish, that I couldn’t just leave. I didn’t know what to do, so I figured if I just kept going, he’d finish, and I could leave.

I kept going, his hands pressing on the back of my head…it seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than 45 minutes. He told me he didn’t think he would be able to come, and that it was good enough, and I should go. To have a good night, that he’d take care of himself.

I left, went back to my own room (no roommate yet), and cried. And cried. And cried. I felt violated, I felt as though I’d never be ok again. I curled up into a ball, an cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I started my next class; Human Sexual Behavior. Every mention of penis, oral sex, sex, etc, grated on my nerves. I kept thinking back to the night before, reliving every second, thinking about what I should have done right, how it was my fault, how I should have left, how I should have run, how I should have hit him, how this, how that.

Later, in the afternoon, I called one of my best friends in tears. We talked for a while. Then I sat and spoke with my other best friend. We talked a while too. It helped, but I was desolate for a few weeks. I’d see him in the cafeteria, I’d see him walking in the halls to class, I’d see him out at parties, and worst of all, I’d see him in my dorm. Everytime I saw him, the guilt would start up again; it was my fault I felt this way, if only this, if only that.

It took me months to really get back to my normal life. I hooked up with a prospie (prospective student), and he helped. He didn’t want anything from me; he just wanted to make out, and go down on me (in a study lounge to boot!). Then I had my first college boyfriend, and we took it a bit slower.

Since then, I’ve always gotten nervous going down on people; regardless of their anatomy. While I’m ok with a bit of a neck massage, or hands playing with my hair, I totally freeze if there is any pushing on the back of my head. I try to tell my partners about this first, to make things a bit less complicated…I don’t want to flip out during the middle of sex.

I didn’t share my story at Take Back the Night that year. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t even ready to march or to go to open mic night. My sophomore year, I went to Bitch and Animal who played, and then I went to the open mic, and shared my story with everyone for the first time. By then, I was part of the on-campus sexual assault hotline, and sexual assault prevention group. They were the only ones who had heard my story at our retreat…them, and my two best friends. Suddenly, over 100 people knew. Some of his friends were there…they just didn’t know I was talking about him. I was in Germany for TBtN my junior year, but senior year, I was ready to go all out. I was on the planning committee, I made a t-shirt for the clothesline project, I heard Alix Olson perform, I went on the march, I handed out candles, and I spoke up again at the open mic. It had taken me much time to heal, and even more to move on, but then I realized, that it is only when survivors speak out, that people realize what is happening.

My ex from my senior year of college, when I told him my story, told me that it wasn’t *really* sexual assault, but just an unfortunate misunderstanding. This was the same guy who told me rape is only from strangers, and domestic violence is only physical, never mental or emotional. Clearly, I cut him out of my life pretty fucking quickly. It’s now a question I ask potential partners; what are your views on sexual violence and preventing it? Some people I’ve talked to blame me; it was my fault for not leaving, that it’s not assault because he didn’t hold me to the bed and fuck me. I tell them I felt that way for the first few months, until I realized I had said no, and told him I wasn’t ok, and I wasn’t ready, and to stop…and he laughed, told me I was too innocent, and to get over it and just do it. He told me I couldn’t stop. He had his hands on my head. He was in frat, and could have told the campus about me. He was holding our supposed “friendship” over my head (literally and figuratively) until I blew him. HE made me do it, HE made me feel like crap for a long time, HE fucked up how I act in sexual situations, and HE is responsible. I am a survivor, and I should not be filled with guilt.

Sexual assault doesn’t have a pecking order. My experience isn’t any less that someone who was forced to have intercourse physically against his or her will, and it’s not any more than someone who has their partner do something that they don’t want to do, or someone who has to hear sexual comments every day at work. We’re all in the same boat. It’s a different experience for everyone; I do not claim to know anyone else’s hurt, their anger, their pain. But I do know that they feel it, and that everytime someone expresses disbelief (“but he’s your husband” “but she’s married!” “but I know him, he’d never do that” “but you were drunk and slutty and asking for it”), it rips yet another hole on the inside of that person.

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. Share your story; make your voice heard, and support your friends and family. The best thing you can do for a survivor is believe them and listen to their story. Sexual assault can happen to anyone, and in a variety of ways. Don’t make assumptions about anyone, or their history. And if your partner is a survivor, please, tell them it’s ok to go slow, to talk about things, to not do certain things. Let them know you’re there for them, and that you will do everything possible to make them feel safe.

No one can ever erase our pasts; they are there to stay, whether we ignore them, embrace them, or feel guilt over them. However, we CAN change our future. Spread the word about prevention. Learn your local laws. Volunteer for local hotlines and shelters. Donate to RAINN (see below). Listen. Talk to your friends; let them know what assault is, and how to not be a perpetrator or survivor. Support people. Speak out.

This experience changed my life…and while I would never want to relive it, it certainly change the direction of my life for the better. I don’t know if I would have spent 3 years running the sexual assault response hotline, I don’t know if I would have decided to go to grad school for Human Sexuality Education, I don’t know if I would have been able to speak up and speak out about sex, both in the real world, and on my blog. Things change us, but they do not break us. We will survive, and we will persevere.

To all the survivors; my thoughts are with you.

Essin’ Em

Donate here to help fight against sexual assault. Tell them I linked you (Essin’ Em or my blog name) and it’s for GBBMC2008
GBBMC2008 info

April is National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.

April starts tomorrow, for those of you unaware.

This obviously is a month/cause that is very close to my heart, for a variety of reasons.

One amazing group that works their ass off for this cause is the Rape and Incest National Network (RAINN), and is a great resource to give to anyone you know who may be a victim/survivor of assault. Their hotline is 1-800-656-HOPE, and their site is www.rainn.org.

In honor of this month, and Carly Milne’s new book (pictured above), they are launching the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, hoping to raise money for RAINN, and notoriety about sexuality, sexual assault, sexology, etc.

How do you come in?

a) Tell your friends and family about RAINN. It’s an extremely important national organization.

b) Go here: https://donate.rainn.org/ to donate (s in https is crucial). Tell them I sent you (Essin’ Em) and that it’s for GBBMC08. Donate as much or as little as you can afford; every dollar helps.

c) Blog about this on your blog.

d) Tell people (if you are) that you’re a person they can talk to about sexual assault if they need an ear.

e) Know resources in your area to give to sexual assault survivors/victims.

f) If you have a story, and are willing to tell it, do. It won’t stop until people speak up and realize what is happening.

g) If you are not ready to tell your story, support those who do.

Throughout the month, I’ll be blogging (as usual) about sexuality, and will have a link on each page to donate to RAINN. I ask that you let them know you were sent by me and that it’s for GBBMC08, both so that they can measure how well this type of fundraising works, and also so that I can be entered to win cool prizes.

I will tell my story. I will tell of my 3 years working for a sexual assault prevention and survivor hotline group. I will talk about jokes people make about assault. I will talk about consensual sex. I will write about sex.

Again, please donate if you can: https://donate.rainn.org/. And if RAINN isn’t your cup of tea, or you have no money, please donate your money or volunteer hours to your local sexual assault prevention programs/survivor hotlines.

Together, we can do something.

-Essin’ Em

The other day, I was watching a re-run of law and order, and it brought up something that has been bothering me for the last few years…

Why do have a statute of limitation (5 years in most states) on rape/sexual assault? We don’t have one on murder/homicide, and to be honest, I feel that sexual violence can affect people just as much, if not more, than death. Many survivors have talked about how they feel that they are dead inside, that being assaulted has completely taken away their life.

Yet after 5 years, a sexual assaulter/rapist gets off scott free. There can be damning evidence, like DNA tests, multiple witnesses, even a confession of the rapist, and yet they cannot be prosecuted for their crime.

What is it about our society that makes sexual crimes a lesser offense than many other crimes? Sexual assault is under reported, under investigated and under prosecuted…and more over, after 5 years, we say it is a moot point, when it affects the survivors for their entire life. It’s not like survivors stuff identifying as survivors after 5 years; why do the perpetrators get a “get out of jail free” (literally) card?

Any thoughts?

Essin’ Em

I’m a day late, but I just wanted to remind everyone that December 17th is the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers. (You can read a little about it here)

Rather than just a day, many people think you should recognize the whole week as ending violence against sex workers.

Annie Sprinkle’s 10 suggestions for participation
Annie Sprinkle offers Ten Things You Can Do to Participate

On December 17th, people around the world will be calling attention to hate crimes against sex workers. Here are some suggestions and options for ways to participate. Or by all means, make up your own.

10. Read Daisy Anarchy’s poem” Green River Cry”, to yourself or to friends, or at one of the public events. Or email it around.

Please do something, anything to help prevent and stop all of the violence against sex workers in our society.

Essin’ Em