#beenrapedneverreported

This post may not be public long.

This year the anniversary of my rape went by relatively smoothly compared to the last few years, which often saw me spiral into a dark place. The further I get from what happened the better I’m *usually* able to handle the fallout. Don’t mistake “handling it” with forgetting or being ok. I’ll never really be ok with what happened to me but I’m trying. Everyday I’m trying to make myself a little more whole.

And then the world exploded with triggering posts, articles, etc…all about JG (I refused to write out his name lest this get picked up in a search for him, BDSM and people’s opinions). Also this is about my visceral reaction to the overwhelming discussion around this situation, which is beyond triggering for me and so many others. And all of this has made me reflect on what happened to me in a way I’ve never really articulated to myself before.

When I was raped, I lost a lot. One thing I never spoke about was losing my ability to participate in BDSM.

In my short time exploring and playing I’d experienced a few different dominants and not once did I experience abuse. Not once did I ever fear for my bodily safety. Not once was I ever worried I would be damaged by these men, my play partners, lovers, friends.

One partner would slap my face and immediately choke me – causing an orgasm. Another put me over his knee and spanked me so hard and long that sitting was uncomfortable for a week. Daddy used a heavy flogger and thudded on me until I was so blissed out, I couldn’t speak. Bruises, teeth-marks, and pink skin were pleasant reminders after my playmates left. Those were things I loved. Things that brought me peace, excitement, and pleasure.

My rapist knew about some of my experiences. We’d met years ago on Lavalife in the “intimate encounters” section. We chatted, cybered if you will, off and on for years. Timing was never right and something about him (his lack of ability to spell and distance if I’m honest) made me reluctant to want to take it further. In one of my more desperate times, I caved when he asked me to go out. I didn’t intend to sleep with him the first night..but he was cute and I wanted to. I figured that would be it but he called again and texted and wanted to see me. I was flattered. We went on a real date. He came back to my place again but this time – I wasn’t in the mood. He kept asking about things I’d done sexually, with whom, he wanted to see the toys I owned. I didn’t want any part of this but he was taller than I was and pure muscle. I kept talking, hinting I had an early day the next day…it didn’t matter.

When he spanked me it felt horrible. It hurt. It scared me. When he pinned me down by my wrists I struggled until my shoulders screamed in pain. I was terrified. These are actions and experiences I’d had numerous times before and they aroused me but not this time. This was happening against my will. In the morning he woke and restrained me to my bed and I literally feared for my life. This is abuse. Violation. Rape.

In all my encounters in BDSM, I was never scared like that. I knew that it would never be out of control. I knew that I was safe but I enjoyed being hurt. I enjoyed letting my partner consensually hurt me for their pleasure as well. Sure there was always the fear that came before trying something new – I liken it to the adrenaline rush you feel before a rollercoster drops. You kinda want to scare yourself but you agreed to getting on the ride.

People who conflate BDSM and abuse have no idea what they are talking about. You may not like it. You may not view it as empowering – it was for me. I got to explore my sexuality and my desires in a way I’d never been able to do previously. There is freedom in surrendering to someone mentally and physically.

As I write these words I feel the longing…

I was raped and I lost my ability to trust completely.

Days after it happened Daddy and I took a trip to Niagara Falls together. I was physically a mess. Barely able to eat. Constantly in the washroom. And worst of all, this man I loved could not hold me. I was almost repulsed by his embrace because my body was broken. My spirit was broken. My trust was broken.

We never played again – I couldn’t, and our relationship changed.

I’ve tried to engage other partners but I can’t bring myself to go beyond hair pulling, the occasional nibble or a light spanking. I’ve lost a whole part of my sexuality and I don’t know if I will ever get it back.

So yes, I belong to the large group of those who have #beenrapedneverreported because who would believe that I didn’t want to be raped after hearing the types of play I’d indulged in? The “he said, she said” would never have gone my way.

This post is just one more piece of therapy I go through in the hopes that one day, I might get my life back.

I Am Not Trayvon Martin

…but my family is.

I have passing privilege. I look “exotic”. When people guess what my background is I get everything…Japanese, Native, Indian, Chinese, Italian, etc. the last thing people guess is the correct thing – Black. Trinidadian to be precise and English and Scottish on my mother’s side. So I could, if I chose to, walk through life pretty much as a white woman. I know I’ve shocked more than a few people when I say I identify as Black.

My paternal side of the family is unmistakably Black and they have faced discrimination that I will never know. I have seen the aftermath, the fear, the caution, the anger that comes with the profiling and judgement.

I’ll share a few examples:

People cross the road as D my 6’5″ tall, basketball-playing, university student male cousin walks down the sidewalk. He is one of the sweetest, gentlest young men I know.

Every one of my male cousins have been pulled over while driving for no reason. DWB (driving while Black). G had bought himself a used BMW for his birthday. He wasn’t speeding, no broken taillight, etc. nothing. The police officer demanded to see the registration and proceeded to interrogate him about where he got the money for the car, how could he afford it, where did he work, etc.

Coming back on a late-night flight from Jamaica to attend our cousin’s wedding, M was pulled in for secondary inspection. I don’t need to tell you what they thought she was trafficking, do I? Well at the time M was working for Citizenship & Immigration Canada so she played it out as the inspectors got progressively more aggressive with her saying they were going to run her name, she threw back what system they were using. Startled the inspectors asked how she knew and finally she pulled out her work ID. Instant attitude change. She was no longer a suspected drug mule. They let her go and said in the future she should just say where she worked.

And last but not least M and D driving down the QEW were pulled over at gunpoint because they resembled people of interest who had robbed a Subway. M was made to get out of her car with a gun pointed at her. Can you imagine that?!?!?

It’s incredibly sad that we are forced to rally around the unjust death of a young black man to bring about the changes needed to end the systemic and overt racism that our society is built upon. As Canadians we think something like Trayvon’s death could never happen here, please do not kid yourself. Canadians are very good at systemic and subtle racism. If you haven’t experienced it, you’re privileged liked me.