This one is nastier than my normal fare. You’re not expected to enjoy it.
Being raped isn’t meant to be fun. Sure, I had the same rape fantasies so many women enjoy, that yearning for a strong relentless man to take me against my will, the imagined degradation more arousing than the act itself. But those fantasies should always stay that way; nobody pretends the reality would be like that.
In a way I was lucky. Being raped could easily have destroyed my self confidence, left me fearful of men, a perpetual victim at a psychological level. Instead, in a surprisingly superior alternative, I was gang raped.
I’d still have taken the “Not tonight, thanks” option, had it been available. If I had been given a choice.
Instead they overpowered me. If I’d been raped I would have felt guilt at not resisting enough, wishing I’d struggled more. You can’t struggle with a man on each arm, another two tugging at an ankle each, others watching and laughing. I could have shouted but there was nobody to hear, nobody that could come and help, so I saved my energy. They didn’t like that, they wanted me to scream. I didn’t care what they wanted; they were getting more than they deserved anyway.
Don’t ask me to describe the physical experience. Sure, they were kind enough to use sunflower oil. They weren’t kind enough to not need it. I started off in denial, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. It was happening, and that left me in horror, gasping as I tugged futilely with my held limbs. But by the time the third had dropped his trousers I’d come to terms with it, and that’s where the blessing of having so many of them revealed itself.
I got bored. Somehow my brain dissociated itself from the vicious misuse of my body and instead I ended up analysing the situation, looking closely at the men. It helped, later, when I described them to the police, picked them out of identity parades. It didn’t help at the time, when I actually laughed at one that couldn’t perform. He didn’t rape me, just kicked my leg. That hurt, but it’ll heal.
The final man was the one that really hurt me. “I don’t want no sloppy seconds,” he declared. Too right, although rather more than seconds. I could almost empathise with him on that. But not on how he chose to avoid it: He asked his friends to flip me over, and I lost a different virginity.
Even that wasn’t degrading. By then I just wanted it all over with, one way or another. But this last man didn’t use the lubricant, impromptu though it was. He used rough force, enough that it must have hurt him too, left me surprised he could continue after that initial pain.
He’s the one that did the damage. The others hurt me too; the police report included words like abrasions, bleeding, inflammation and some that were new to me like haematoma and hymenal cleft. Those would mostly heal, no long term damage. Not physical damage anyway.
That was the other part of the police report. More words like bruising and swelling, but also ‘fissures’ and the three that mattered: pudendal nerve damage.
The doctors tell me that those are the primary cause of my new incontinence. No, I don’t wet myself. The other sort.
They’ve promised treatment. Electrical stimulation, but they sounded sceptical even as they described it. Physiotherapy, possible medications, potentially even surgery. But none of that was possible until the other damage healed. The fissures are the key issue, even with care they’re going to take over a month, maybe two.
I can handle that. I might even be out of diapers by the time of the trial. If my lawyer lets me - she wants me to look like a victim. I might not have a choice; the doctors didn’t sound hopeful, even when they were trying to convince me.
It’s strange, rape fantasies never leave you in diapers. Let alone for life.