Conflicting Hearts (10 page)

The only way I can reach that place where the world slips
into oblivion is when I’m taken by force and allow myself to submit to a man’s
domination through his hands. It’s all I’ve known since I was sexually abused
as a child. It’s the only way my brain thinks. It’s the only way my body
responds. By force and bondage, not by love and sickening tenderness! I’m
screaming in my mind for more, but nothing happens.

Ian keeps trying, and I feel his mounting dismay. Again, I
encourage him to release himself. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out of me, his
face is shrouded in shame.

“Don’t stop on my account, please,” I beg him. I wrap my
arms around his neck and pull him back down on top of me. “Go ahead,” I whisper
in his ear. “Fill me.”

He looks at me hesitantly, but I know he’s about to explode.
He penetrates me again and resumes his gentle pushes. A minute later he grunts
and holds me tight as he releases himself into his condom. My arousal sinks
into the springs of my mattress, where all unachieved orgasms die a tortuous
death. This isn’t working for me at all. After years of sexual drought, I’m
still fooling around with myself even with a man in my life. I’m so
disappointed.

Ian doesn’t say anything. He’s clearly bent out of shape
again. Swiftly, he rolls off me and looks down into my face with an exasperated
expression.

“Boy, I’m really striking out in the sex department, aren’t
I?”

My lips curl into a pitiful smile. Inside my unsatisfied
whore is cursing him.
It’s you. You’re a bore in bed.
I turn my ahead
away, because I can’t stand the scrutiny of his blue eyes.

“It’s just me, Ian. I need a lot of stimulation. Some women
are like that.”

“Explain,” he says, pulling my chin back toward him. “I want
to understand.”

For a few moments, I stare into his insistent gaze. My heart
is pounding in my chest as the words leave my mouth. “I like it rough.”
There,
I said it, you satisfied?
I bitch at my inward demons.

His brow furrows. “Explain rough.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me, I want to know.”

“Gosh, what is this? Defined terms in a contract?” I sit up
in bed and scowl.

“I’m frustrated.” He huffs. “Because it’s obvious I’m not
giving to you what you need. Explain rough.” His face frowns as if he’s trying
to figure it out. “You don’t want me to hit you or anything, do you?”

“God, no,” I quickly say. “I’m not into bruising.”

“Then what?”

“Can we talk about this another time? I don’t feel
comfortable discussing it right now.”

He’s peeved. I’m peeved. I get out of bed. He gets out of
bed. The room turns cold, so I flip on the light and grab the sheet.

“Well, I sure ruined your visit tonight, didn’t I?” My voice
is curt, as I wrap the linen around my nakedness.

“No problem,” he says, in a pissed-off tone.

He stomps toward the living room and picks up his strewn
clothes. I watch him get dressed into his white underwear and pressed suit. He
remains silent, but I can tell by his hurried movements he wants to get the
hell away from me. Finally, the perfect specimen of a man is standing in front
of the door ready to leave, just like all the others.

“Maybe we’re going too fast. I feel like I’m running blind
down a road, and I don’t know where I’m going,” he rants. He lowers his eyes to
Whiskers who has emerged shaken from underneath my bed.

“Whiskers, don’t,” I say, grabbing him and holding him in my
arms. I don’t want to see cat hair on Ian’s pristine trousers. For some reason,
I’d feel guilty if I soiled him in any way.

“I have a tough week at the firm. Big deal going down, and
I’ve got a contract that needs negotiating. How about we take a breather, and
I’ll call you Friday or something.”

I pout. The poor man is wounded, and it’s my fault. “Sure,
whatever you say, Ian.”

“Nite,” he says through a clenched jaw. He’s gone. For a
moment I stand and look at the door flabbergasted that he abandoned me, but why
am I not surprised?

“Shit!” I bellow in my empty living room.

I set down Whiskers on the floor, and slink back to my
bedroom feeling like a whore. I’m devastated, angry, ashamed, and that desire
of wishing I didn’t exist flows through my veins. Heartbroken, I lie down on my
bed and have a good pity-party cry. An hour later, I disappear into the
blackness of my mind and fall asleep, exhausted and sore.

Chapter 9

Playing a Game of Hug

I’m inside the two-story, white house down the street from
where I live. My hand is being held tight by a teenage boy, and he is leading
me upstairs. We walk into a bedroom, and the door closes behind me. He smiles.

“You like candy?”

In his hand is a really big candy bar in a brown wrapper.
It’s chocolate. I like chocolate.

“Sure, can I have some?” I reach out for it.

“Not until we play a game.” He takes it away and sets it on
top of his dresser.

“What game?”

“I just want to hug you, is that okay?”

I don’t understand why he wants to hug me. He’s not my
brother.

“Where’s my brother?” I feel scared.

“Don’t worry. It’s okay,” he assures me.

I look toward the window and want to go.

“Come here by the bed so I can hug you.” I wonder if I
should do what he tells me.

“Do you want that candy or not, Rachel?”

My eyes see the candy bar lying on top of the dresser. I
really do want it. “Yes, please.”

“Then do what I tell you, and you can have it.” He holds out
his hand toward me. “Come here.”

Slowly, I walk over to the bed and stand in front of him.

“I’m going to lift up your dress so I can feel you when we
hug. Is that okay?”

“I guess so.”

He lifts my dress up, and then gently leans me back.

“I want to hug you on the bed, but we need to take your
panties off too.”

When he pulls them down, I don’t understand why, but I don’t
say anything because I want the candy. My tummy and bottoms are bare. The boy
grins as he looks down at me on the bed. I watch him unzip his pants and pull
out something long and big. It’s a part of his body, and it’s ugly. I don’t
like it, so I close my eyes.

“Be still and quiet, Rachel. I’m going to rub myself against
you like a hug,” he whispers.  

I do as he says. He lowers himself on top of me and holds me
down on the bed. I can’t move. This doesn’t feel like a hug. He presses that
big, ugly thing on my tummy, and rubs himself against my body. He slides it up
and down and it hurts. It’s warm and hard. He goes faster and faster, and I
whimper.

“Just stay quiet,” he tells me. He sounds mad, so I do as he
says. “I’m only hugging you, Rachel.”

He brings his hand down to my bum. I feel him touch me
between my legs with his fingers, and I feel funny inside. I’m tingling in my
body.

The boy rubs faster and faster. He closes his eyes and then
he groans loudly. When something warm spills on my belly, he stops moving. When
it’s over, he stands up and looks down at me and smiles. His face is red and
sweaty. I watch him push the ugly thing back inside his pants. I’m glad it’s
gone. I don’t like it.

“Don’t tell anybody about our little secret up here, okay?”
He grabs a tissue from a box and wipes the sticky stuff off me.

I nod my head. “Okay.”

He pulls my panties back up and my dress down. I stand up
from the bed.

“Can I have the candy now?”

“Sure, here you go.”

He hands me the big candy bar, and I smile. I don’t know
what happened, but I now have candy and something inside of me feels good.

“Thank you.”

“Want to come back again? Did you like that?”  

“I guess so.”

“Good, when you do, I’ll have another candy bar for you
after we play our little game.”

“Okay. Can I go home now?”

“Yes, but don’t tell anybody about our secret. Promise? If
you do, there will be no more candy.”

“Okay. I won’t tell anybody.”

* * * *

I wake up in a start. The red numbers on the clock show two
in the morning. My hair is wet from sweat, and my body is aroused. I know why.
I’ve had another dream. It’s too hard to dismiss, and I lie quietly in bed
waiting for my arousal to subside, but it doesn’t. It increases. My heart
pounds in my chest, and I ache for release.

My eyes are closed, and the door to the dark room in my mind
opens. My tormentors start their usual taunting and tempting to succumb. I’m
stimulated because of the boy that touched me and held me down in his bed.

Just think about him hurting you,
the voices start
.
Go ahead, touch yourself. You know you want to, because it feels good and you
need it.

My self-hatred grows. I’ve been masturbating since I was six
years old. One pedophile stamped my brain with his revolting desires, and I
haven’t been the same since. I was introduced to the male penis and sexual
arousal when I should have been playing with dolls. He rubbed himself against
me time and time again, fondled me, and I prostituted myself out for a
chocolate candy bar each time he invited me to his bedroom.

I’ve since learned the sick word for what he did to
me—frotteurism. Why psychiatrists give it a name, I have no idea. Some men get
off rubbing themselves against others against their will. Why don’t they call
it what it is? Sick!

I’m angry, and the torment in my body continues. My hand
creeps down, and I fondle myself. I’m wet, aching, sore, and hurting. I just
want to make it go away, but it won’t go away until I take care of it. I’ve
tried, time and time again, but my flesh is stronger than my spirit, and I
can’t resist.

In the darkness, I close my eyes and stir my imaginations.
I’m bound by some stranger with no face. The abuse begins, and I submit and let
the man do to me what he wants. I hate it, but long for it. He violates my body
and tells me that I’m worthless. This is my punishment for being a bad little
girl.

I imagine the pain, the bondage, the forceful grasping of my
flesh, and to my utter shame, I enjoy it immensely. A moment later, my body
responds to the captivity, and an overwhelming orgasm rages through me.

My fantasy has conquered me. My abuser has won again by
arousing my needs. I hurt myself, because I don’t know any other way. At a
young age, he taught me how to enjoy sexual arousal through self-gratification,
and nothing I do will make it stop. When the dream comes, I’m at his mercy once
again.

At last I feel the comfort flow through my stressed body,
and the dark desire slips away. My tormentors return to the closest of my mind,
taking with them the little girl. I turn over on my side in remorse and
disgrace for what I cannot overcome. It’s all I’ve ever known. It’s all I
respond to—bondage, hurt, and being forced. How will I ever tell Ian what I
want him to do to me, let alone why? He will be appalled, and I will lose him
for sure, if I do.

My eyes lift to the clock on the table by my bed. The red
numbers stare back at me. It’s two-thirty in the morning. I try to go back to
sleep, but I can’t. After tossing and turning for another hour, I crawl out of
bed, start a pot of coffee, and wander over to my computer and turn it on. I
wonder if Ian has emailed me. The coffeemaker slurps its last drop into the
carafe. I pour myself a cup and add some powdered cream. Afterward, I wander
back down the hall to my small desk.

I sit down and know in my heart nothing awaits me. Sure enough,
there is nothing. No notice of Ian’s mail, and my heart sinks. This
short-lived, tumultuous romance is going nowhere, and he’s probably
reconsidering suing my ass for running into his spiffy car.

There are no words inside of me to type him a note either,
but I click on his page and see his status has changed to, “in a relationship.”
A relieved grin spreads across my face. Maybe there’s hope yet, and for the
next few minutes I struggle whether to change mine from single to match his. As
soon as I do, I’m sure all my nosey friends at work will be asking for
specifics.

“Oh, what the hell,” I mumble.

Afterward, I pop over to one of many pages and groups
created for those who have suffered childhood sexual abuse. One that I frequent
now shows over seven thousand thumbs up. I shake my head. My eyes scroll down
the wall, reading comments from suffering men and women. It validates to me
that I’m not the only mental case around with sexual issues.

There are so many tormented and hurting people that it makes
me sad. I wish I could help them, but I can’t. What can I offer? Comfort? A
hug? Hang in there, it will get better platitudes?
Heal thyself
, my mind
reminds me. How, I have no idea where to start.

There are snippets here and there from counselors and quotes
from books on how to win the battle. Funny thing is, I’m not sure if I want to
beat this rap. That’s the sad part. After struggling with myself for so long,
I’ve decided this is who I am and not much can be done about it.

Over the years, I’ve read about women who have the same
tormenting need for bondage. They seek sexual relationships with dominate men.
I know there are males in the BDSM community who would do to me everything I
crave. However, I’m afraid to go there, even if the thought is pathetically stimulating.
There is a word for people like me with bondage and pain
propensities—masochist. I can barely admit the dark truth to myself.

Conversely, I want to pollute dear Ian enough to bring me to
that edge where he’s forceful and hurts me so that I can scream underneath him
in utter pleasure. Perhaps I find it more comforting to cross that line with
him instead. All he knows is smooth-going sex, tenderness, and respect. I’m
horrible. I’ve been corrupted, and now I want to corrupt another human being
with my unusual desires.

I’m so damn conflicted over the entire thing that I stare at
my computer screen and zone out for a few minutes. Ticked off at my state of
affairs, I walk away and crawl back in bed. For the next hour and a half, I
stay in the dark trying to sleep but get nowhere. I decide to stay put, until
the alarm goes off, and I need to get ready for work.