Fat and Slutty

Trigger warnings for sexual abuse, rape, coercion, gaslighting, depression, bereavement, abandonment, infidelity, suicide.

I was asked today, in a comment on this blog, how I can have sex with a person with whom I don’t share any kind of connection. My short answer was that it is a hangover from past sexual trauma, and I’d like to delve into that a little more deeply. This will likely be quite lengthy, so get comfortable.

First of all, some background history type stuff. When I was born, my Mum had postnatal depression which has lasted for approximately 35 years, so far. My parents divorced when I was four years old. They were both having affairs, Dad moved out of the family home and went to live with his girlfriend – our 19 year old former lodger. Mum had a series of boyfriends and then met the man who would become my stepfather. In 1995, when I was eight, my Dad died in a tragic accident. My step-dad discouraged us from talking about it. When I was 17 he left and we never saw him again.

Two months after his departure, I met Ric. My home life was pretty horrific at that time. My mother was suicidal. My younger sister was not coping well either, I felt responsible for both of them. My mental health was diminishing by the day.

Ric made me feel special, loved, cared for. He lavished me with attention. I fell for him, hard. He was my first real love. It would not be hyperbolic to say I would have died for him. I know now that he love-bombed me, but I had no concept of that at the time. I was young, naive, and vulnerable.

Ric was the third person I had sex with in my life. Before I met him I couldn’t imagine sleeping with anyone I did not feel something for. It was absolutely intertwined with emotion. I had had sex on six occasions in total, with two previous boyfriends. I was incredibly inexperienced. I loved Ric, I thought I would have his children one day. In the beginning, I loved having sex with him. We learned and explored things together. It was fun!

Until it wasn’t. I didn’t have the terminology at the time, but I do now. Ric violated my consent. Ric raped me. When I stayed with him, he would always wake up wanting sex. I would tell him no. He would beg, plead, and whine. I can still hear his voice in my head, almost 20 years later. He would ask over and over again for hours. I could tell him no a hundred times, he was relentless. Eventually, he would wear me down. Eventually, I would say yes. Once he got that one ‘yes’, he was inside me. I would lay underneath him and stare at the ceiling, waiting for him to finish. There were occasions during sex that he would penetrate me anally without lubrication or warning. He would apologize afterward, saying he couldn’t help himself, I was just so sexy, wasn’t I glad he was so attracted to me?

This went on for months. His abuse was psychological as well as sexual. He lied, stole from me, and cheated on me. He would say a thing and then deny having ever said it. I became an empty shell of a human. So worn down, so confused, so desperate to have the version of him back that I’d known at the beginning. I thought it was my fault. My dad had left, my step-dad had left, and I was terrified that I would lose him too. He had become my entire world, and without him I thought it would end.

When he broke up with me, it was in a text message. He sent it from another girl’s phone. He sent it on the 10th anniversary of my dad’s death. He said it was because I didn’t trust him. I fell apart.

Then I found out about the cheating. There had been plenty of it, but the girl he cheated with most had been in a relationship too. Her now ex-boyfriend contacted me. He asked if we could talk, saying that no one else would understand what he was going through like I would. They had done this to both of us. We talked, and then he came to see me. I was so sad and so desperate for affection. I took him to my bed. We didn’t fuck, but we fooled around. He was good looking, and he smelled nice.

Two days later, I received an email from the girl. She said the three of them were in cahoots. They had sent him to see me and prove what a slut I was. He wasn’t attracted to me, he was repulsed. They had all been right about me, I was a disgusting whore and I deserved everything I got.

I was destroyed. I could not understand what I had done to deserve this level of cruelty. I wanted to die.

Instead of dying, I fucked. Everyone. Anyone. My relationship with Ric taught me one thing above all else: saying ‘no’ was pointless. So I always said yes. For the next ten years.

When a guy I knew at university let himself into my house in the middle of the night, got into my bed, and began to fondle me, I pretended to sleep. When I feigned waking up, I didn’t stop him. I pretended to enjoy it.

Any time anyone showed me the slightest attention, I went with it. If they made a move, I allowed it. I was passive. I was accommodating. It did not matter whether or not I was attracted to them. Whether or not I was horny. Whether or not I was in a monogamous relationship. If someone wanted to fuck me, I let them.

That’s not to say there weren’t times when I wanted to have sex. Absolutely there were. But there were plenty of times that I didn’t want to, and did it anyway.

About ten years after Ric and I had ended, I realized the magnitude of what had happened. I had rape counseling, where my thoughts and feelings were validated. Where I was taught that my ‘promiscuous’ behavior was the absolute norm for people who had been through this type of trauma. I began to heal.

However, an enormous rift had opened up between emotional connection and sex. I had learned to separate the two as part of a defensive mechanism. Sex was nothing but physical gratification. It was not a bonding exercise, it was not connective. Not ever, not with anyone, not even with people I loved.

Healing that rift has been enormously challenging, but it is beginning to happen. As I get older, I find that sex with someone I am connected to is my favorite kind. The sex itself may not be filled with emotion, but I like the intimacy of curling up afterward. Pillow talk. Snuggles. Things I didn’t give a shit about for over a decade. Those are the times I feel connected and emotional. That is how I bond.

I would like to experience emotionally-connected sex. I would like to love someone physically, in that manner. I don’t particularly like the term ‘make love’, but I can’t think of a better one. Perhaps one day I will get there. I would like to think I could.

Ric committed suicide in 2019. Weeks after the birth of his only child. It rocked me, and prompted me to go back to therapy. I did not mourn him.

My life thus far has had its challenges. There are times when I struggle. There are times when I thrive. I am okay. I can advocate for myself. I can say no when I mean no – most of the time. I am not broken. Most of all, I am powerful. And no one will ever take that from me.