The way we fuck is changing. It’s because of the rape, the torture, because of the strain of seeing each other 72 hours out of a month. I fear we are hurtling towards some grandiose rape fantasy where I where a black mask and break into the house and she screams and begs as I pretend to rape her. This is not unexpected; we’re not entirely unprepared. Fear is sexualized, traumas are sexualized. It’s a coping mechanism.
Rape victims developing rape fantasies or people in fear of rape, in awe of rape, needing the power of rape, cluster in little fetish subcultures where they play the rape game, the mighty magic safe word game. But I resent this coping mechanism. It has been thrust upon us. We had no say.
There are all sorts of maxims concerning the things people have no power over. "The two certainties in life are death and taxes". "You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family". "Life is a bitch, and the bitch is in heat". So now, to this list, do I have to add rape as sexual fetish. "All sex after rape is a desire for rape"??
Great wonderful, I’m sure the six year old version of me will be ecstatic to know he will graduate from the playground world of Transformers, He-Man, and other assorted branded kids’ fantasies to the wonderful world of Let’s Rape Julie! I have to explain rape to him first, which means I have to explain sex, but since the universe momentarily implodes to eliminate the paradox of meeting oneself at a different point in time this is all moot, or we’re trapped in a time bubble, a Donnie Darko scenario, and I’m perfoming this Moebius song and dance for the rest of eternity
It feels like I already have.
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