[I cannot emphasize this trigger warning enough. This is violent, explicit, and very possibly triggering for those who have experienced sexual assault, rape, and other abuse. Please read cautiously, if at all.]
When I was six, I used to use my action figures to fight each other. Because that's what they did. They fought. So they'd punch and kick and presumably go "pewpew" or whatever and then make dying noises.
Except the girls. My Hexadecimal, my Dot Matrix, my April O'Neill. They were the sympathetic protagonists. Who got punched and kicked in their cunts, in their breasts, aching in pain. The only ones whose pain was real. But I didn't show any signs of being trans.
When I was nine, I used to be fascinated by fighting games like Mortal Kombat, Killer Instinct and Street Fighter. Mortal Kombat, especially, was notoriously bloody. And Sonya Blade, and later Kitana, were the token females. I used to be terrified of the game, but always peek. Hoping to see them. Hoping to see the move where Johnny Cage punched someone in the crotch, hoping to see it happen to Sonya. And then they'd get killed. Their hearts pulled out, their heads cut off, their bodies mutilated to the sound of their screams. And I'd want to throw up. And I'd hate myself for watching. And it was so sickeningly sweet. But I chose to be trans.
When I was ten, eleven, whatever, I started dreaming of Black Orchid from Killer Instinct. She was the whose "finisher" was to open up her shirt and flash the opponent who would have a heart attack. Maybe it was fantasizing, but I'm fairly sure it started as a dream. I'd follow her, fighting her way against the wolfman or the raptor. And as she fought, her clothes would be torn. It started with her breasts being exposed, bursting forth to her humiliation. And then her cunt, and fear filled her as the men and animals she was facing howled with blood and lust. And after a long period where she'd merely be attacked in her cunt and breasts, eventually it turned to rape. I was a twelve year old with a rape fetish. But I just "need a change" in my life.
When I was fourteen, fifteen, seventeen, I started looking for pictures of them online. "Hentai" was the word used for "erotic art." Cartoon porn. I'd use all kinds of rationalizations, going in through backdoors via hyperlink so I wouldn't have to lie and say I was 18 to get in. Because lying, because being dishonest was horrible. Because these were just drawings, not real women being hurt. And then, once in, there were all these women I'd fantasized about. Naked, often. The better pictures were ones where they were being penetrated. There was titillation in that act of penetration. But it was the facial expression that made the effect, that sealed the deal, something few "actresses" could truthfully accomplish. Their surprise, their pain, their fear, that's what resonated. I didn't masturbate. I just looked. And felt terrible all the while. But I am pervert.
I had wet dreams. I didn't know what they were the first few times; I thought I'd just had to go to the restroom and had been in too deep a sleep to wake myself up. But when I dreamed of Chun-Li being raped right before my penis started violently pulsing and I woke up to another grizzly mess, it became clear they were connected. It'd be years until I figured out that it was so messy because it was semen. Because I was ejaculating while I slept. Because even if I had no interest in orgasm, my body did. And because it was so dreadful to have these fits, I resolved to try and masturbate just so it wouldn't happen anymore. It took a long time to figure out how. To figure out the feelings. Because the act was not pleasurable. The trick, though, was in the screams. When Samus screamed as she was hurting, it opened me up. And I finally let go, a month before I turned nineteen. But I am a deviant.
It took me a few more years to look at "real people" pornography, and most of it still didn't interest me. Sometimes the moans and screams were nice; I could imagine women I was attracted to making them while I imagined having sex. And it wasn't in my hand on my cock. It was in their sounds. Their pleasure. Their desire. Soon, that was boring. I'd never been remotely interested in blow jobs. But I ended up watching one where the woman looked like she was having such a bad time, where her smile was fake, her enthusiasm was so fake, her entire behavior seemed to say "I hate having to do this." And we he came upon her? She smiled. With a frown. And the humiliation was enough. But I'm sick.
In therapy, I can barely even say "I want to be female." Because that's sick, insane, impossible. Even admitting it makes me insane. "When can you imagine being happy, with yourself?" Caroline asks. And I feel bad. Because I feel like she's saying I should have. Because I feel like she's saying I'm lying when I can't remember it. When I can't ever remember feeling anything other than this deadness to myself. And she eases me out of that shell. Gradually. And finally I have to tell her. I have to tell her of this horribleness. I'm so afraid she'll be terrified of me. Leaving me wouldn't be as bad as me hurting her with my immense perversion. I'm a feminist. With a rape fetish. And I walk her through it.
A woman is raped. She's screaming. She's in pain. Every thrust another violation, every tear another defeat. And she's laughed at. Cum upon. And left. Alone. Alive. Very alive. No blood, no bruises, beautiful still. But used. So utterly used and hurt and hollowed. And I am not the ones who leave her. I am not those callous, unfeeling men with their shrinking dicks, hurting her and walking away. I am her. Or I want to be.
The female action figure, the female video game character were my avatars. Able to feel when I could not. And part jealousy, part envy, part identification, part empathy coupled with immense self-hate and a fierce desire to be abused, for it is what I deserve, makes me feel so terrible for them. Makes me wish that *I* could be raped, that I could be penetrated, that I could be so hurt. That I could feel. And sometimes I am them. Or as close as I can (hah) come. And sometimes I'm watching them, crying for them, wishing I could help them. But I am them. Which is why no one finds these broken and violated women and tells them they're good, they're safe, they've been unjustifiably hurt but now someone will love them, someone won't leave them again.
No, they're alone. And I'm alone. Wishing I could be so raw. Wishing I could be so used. Wishing I could *feel* it. Because if I was to feel anything, it would be that utter violation, that dehumanization, that pain. Because there is so much pain I just can't feel.
But unlike them, alive and crying, I'm dead. I was born dead, a stillbirth. From the moment of my mother's first surprised words "It's a boy?!" From the moment whatever development in my incubation led to an anomaly sprouting between my legs. From the moment everyone saw it and knew I was a boy. A perfectly healthy, sane little boy who, out of the blue, decided to be a lady.
But then, you understand what it's like, right? You know I'm choosing to sin against God. You know I'm a pervert, a deviant, a monster. You know that if only I tried *just* *a* *little* *harder,* I could beat this thing. You know that it's best to humor me. You know that I'm exaggerating. You know that it's because I hate my father. You know that people make this stuff up for attention. You know that this is really hard on you. You know that I'm a gay man who couldn't handle the pressure. You know that it's just a passing phase, one of my bad days. You know that I can never be a real woman. You know that I'm choosing this.
You know me. Better than I know myself.
When I was six, I used to use my action figures to fight each other. Because that's what they did. They fought. So they'd punch and kick and presumably go "pewpew" or whatever and then make dying noises.
Except the girls. My Hexadecimal, my Dot Matrix, my April O'Neill. They were the sympathetic protagonists. Who got punched and kicked in their cunts, in their breasts, aching in pain. The only ones whose pain was real. But I didn't show any signs of being trans.
When I was nine, I used to be fascinated by fighting games like Mortal Kombat, Killer Instinct and Street Fighter. Mortal Kombat, especially, was notoriously bloody. And Sonya Blade, and later Kitana, were the token females. I used to be terrified of the game, but always peek. Hoping to see them. Hoping to see the move where Johnny Cage punched someone in the crotch, hoping to see it happen to Sonya. And then they'd get killed. Their hearts pulled out, their heads cut off, their bodies mutilated to the sound of their screams. And I'd want to throw up. And I'd hate myself for watching. And it was so sickeningly sweet. But I chose to be trans.
When I was ten, eleven, whatever, I started dreaming of Black Orchid from Killer Instinct. She was the whose "finisher" was to open up her shirt and flash the opponent who would have a heart attack. Maybe it was fantasizing, but I'm fairly sure it started as a dream. I'd follow her, fighting her way against the wolfman or the raptor. And as she fought, her clothes would be torn. It started with her breasts being exposed, bursting forth to her humiliation. And then her cunt, and fear filled her as the men and animals she was facing howled with blood and lust. And after a long period where she'd merely be attacked in her cunt and breasts, eventually it turned to rape. I was a twelve year old with a rape fetish. But I just "need a change" in my life.
When I was fourteen, fifteen, seventeen, I started looking for pictures of them online. "Hentai" was the word used for "erotic art." Cartoon porn. I'd use all kinds of rationalizations, going in through backdoors via hyperlink so I wouldn't have to lie and say I was 18 to get in. Because lying, because being dishonest was horrible. Because these were just drawings, not real women being hurt. And then, once in, there were all these women I'd fantasized about. Naked, often. The better pictures were ones where they were being penetrated. There was titillation in that act of penetration. But it was the facial expression that made the effect, that sealed the deal, something few "actresses" could truthfully accomplish. Their surprise, their pain, their fear, that's what resonated. I didn't masturbate. I just looked. And felt terrible all the while. But I am pervert.
I had wet dreams. I didn't know what they were the first few times; I thought I'd just had to go to the restroom and had been in too deep a sleep to wake myself up. But when I dreamed of Chun-Li being raped right before my penis started violently pulsing and I woke up to another grizzly mess, it became clear they were connected. It'd be years until I figured out that it was so messy because it was semen. Because I was ejaculating while I slept. Because even if I had no interest in orgasm, my body did. And because it was so dreadful to have these fits, I resolved to try and masturbate just so it wouldn't happen anymore. It took a long time to figure out how. To figure out the feelings. Because the act was not pleasurable. The trick, though, was in the screams. When Samus screamed as she was hurting, it opened me up. And I finally let go, a month before I turned nineteen. But I am a deviant.
It took me a few more years to look at "real people" pornography, and most of it still didn't interest me. Sometimes the moans and screams were nice; I could imagine women I was attracted to making them while I imagined having sex. And it wasn't in my hand on my cock. It was in their sounds. Their pleasure. Their desire. Soon, that was boring. I'd never been remotely interested in blow jobs. But I ended up watching one where the woman looked like she was having such a bad time, where her smile was fake, her enthusiasm was so fake, her entire behavior seemed to say "I hate having to do this." And we he came upon her? She smiled. With a frown. And the humiliation was enough. But I'm sick.
In therapy, I can barely even say "I want to be female." Because that's sick, insane, impossible. Even admitting it makes me insane. "When can you imagine being happy, with yourself?" Caroline asks. And I feel bad. Because I feel like she's saying I should have. Because I feel like she's saying I'm lying when I can't remember it. When I can't ever remember feeling anything other than this deadness to myself. And she eases me out of that shell. Gradually. And finally I have to tell her. I have to tell her of this horribleness. I'm so afraid she'll be terrified of me. Leaving me wouldn't be as bad as me hurting her with my immense perversion. I'm a feminist. With a rape fetish. And I walk her through it.
A woman is raped. She's screaming. She's in pain. Every thrust another violation, every tear another defeat. And she's laughed at. Cum upon. And left. Alone. Alive. Very alive. No blood, no bruises, beautiful still. But used. So utterly used and hurt and hollowed. And I am not the ones who leave her. I am not those callous, unfeeling men with their shrinking dicks, hurting her and walking away. I am her. Or I want to be.
The female action figure, the female video game character were my avatars. Able to feel when I could not. And part jealousy, part envy, part identification, part empathy coupled with immense self-hate and a fierce desire to be abused, for it is what I deserve, makes me feel so terrible for them. Makes me wish that *I* could be raped, that I could be penetrated, that I could be so hurt. That I could feel. And sometimes I am them. Or as close as I can (hah) come. And sometimes I'm watching them, crying for them, wishing I could help them. But I am them. Which is why no one finds these broken and violated women and tells them they're good, they're safe, they've been unjustifiably hurt but now someone will love them, someone won't leave them again.
No, they're alone. And I'm alone. Wishing I could be so raw. Wishing I could be so used. Wishing I could *feel* it. Because if I was to feel anything, it would be that utter violation, that dehumanization, that pain. Because there is so much pain I just can't feel.
But unlike them, alive and crying, I'm dead. I was born dead, a stillbirth. From the moment of my mother's first surprised words "It's a boy?!" From the moment whatever development in my incubation led to an anomaly sprouting between my legs. From the moment everyone saw it and knew I was a boy. A perfectly healthy, sane little boy who, out of the blue, decided to be a lady.
But then, you understand what it's like, right? You know I'm choosing to sin against God. You know I'm a pervert, a deviant, a monster. You know that if only I tried *just* *a* *little* *harder,* I could beat this thing. You know that it's best to humor me. You know that I'm exaggerating. You know that it's because I hate my father. You know that people make this stuff up for attention. You know that this is really hard on you. You know that I'm a gay man who couldn't handle the pressure. You know that it's just a passing phase, one of my bad days. You know that I can never be a real woman. You know that I'm choosing this.
You know me. Better than I know myself.
wow. This is incredibly powerful. Someone once told me that violent sexual desire of any sort is completely healthy as long as it does not hurt anyone, as long as you own it and it doesn't bother you. (and he is an expert in my book) You are real and I am real and we can own it. All of that guilt- I wish it had not been that way- I wish it was not still there creeping up when you least expect it...
Thanks for sharing this- I can only imagine how hard it is to write about it.
-Reid
Hi Juliet! I came from your comments on the Pervocracy.
This post resonated with me. I still can't fantasize about being the woman. I can only fantasize about the man who is raping and using the woman for his own sexual fulfillment. It's too hard, too difficult, too real, too emotional to be the woman, even in my fantasies. As long as I only fantasize in the male perspective, only watch porn with men masturbating or fucking each other, I don't have to feel those deeply disturbing feelings of wanting to be that woman. I am a feminist, a woman and brought up in this culture that sees women's sexuality as a threat. I am affected by that...
And still I found a man who could open me up, who could do these things with me, love me and use me at the same time. Hurt me and love me.
I'm really sorry about this: "From the moment whatever development in my incubation led to an anomaly sprouting between my legs."
You are not alone.