thought process: body image history introspection thinking
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There’s some scars on my knuckles from where they hit the lights on the fly rail.
There’s some burns on my arm from popping hot oil.
There’s a scar on my right knee where I slid across gravel struggling to remove things from my life.
there’s a scar on my left knee where I fell, got back up, fell again, only to get back up.
There’s a scar on my spine from where the dr put Humpy Dumpty back together again.
There’s a scar on my forehead where I caressed the cement.
There’s a scar down my chest where I tore myself open with grief.
I watch these girls on american television. Models, actresses, people who are idolized for their perfect skin and well formed bodies. I can’t imagine how one could have survived so long so un-marred.
What kind of a life is lived without receiving any scars?
I was sexually assaulted once. I feel strange calling it rape. The thoughts in my head say that I didn’t fight back enough, I didn’t say no enough, I don’t feel scarred enough because of it, I became compliant too quickly. I initiated the sexual encounter with one guy. I put myself in a situation where I was alone in a parking lot with my money, keys, license, credit cards all sitting on the car seat of my open car while two guys didn’t listen to me when I told them no.
If this experience happend to someone else I’d be there with my flaming righteous indignation on their behalf. Since it happened to me though, I feel stupid calling it rape. I know people who have suffered sexual atrocities much worse then I. I almost feel like I’m making light of what they went through by putting my experience even near the same category. Every time we talk about being a sexual assault survivor at work I think about it. I almost think more about how to label my experience then I think about the experience.
I guess I should be thankful I’m confused more then broken. It’s been a long while and I still can’t tell the story without making light of how my moronic actions were instead of how fucked up THEIR actions were. I just feel a little sad when I think about Chris asking me if I was ok when I got back to the club, and me mumbling, “not really” but walking away from his “what’s wrong?”.
thought process: blogs body image daily life history thinking
I’m sure a ton of you are scoffing. If you’ve seen me running around naked or in silly outfits, or stripping through a window or talking up and participating in class, you’re probably doubting the sincerity of my title.
I’m very good at disassociating my actions with myself.
I can let over 400 people put their fingers inside me, but I can’t bring myself to kiss a play partner unless they make it 100% clear they want it. I can be front and center in a nude photo, but I still feel the need to ask if I can sit down near someone.
I think this stems back to being younger and growing up being told I’m repulsive. I always tried to walk lightly as to not shake the floor. I’d breathe softly as to not sound large, I’d suck it in when passing folks as to fit into smaller spaces and not even possibly brush them. I can’t even cuddle or hold someone for a long time as I feel like I’m about to pass out because I try to slow my breathing and I tense my body as to not put too much weight on them.
I think this is also rooted in my control issues as well. You can strip me down and degrade me as much as possible, but as long as I have control of my mind, I’ll always be thinking of ways to be less obtrusive. I don’t drink, I don’t get high, I don’t do hypnosis, I don’t orgasm around others. I don’t lose control of my mind.
If I sense even the slightest inkling that you may not want me around I’ll latch onto it.
The only time I feel like I can move past this is when working under the orders of others. When I’m volunteering or working, I’ll talk to people. I’ll assert myself. Only if I know I’m in the right.
I don’t play other’s games. You’ll sometimes see those “Player” guides talk about giving distance, insulting the person you are trying to pick up, etc… When people do things like that with me, it shuts me down. “ok, goodbye” is my response because I don’t want to force myself on someone.
Unfortunately, what I do could be seen as playing games, and I promis you I’m not. I give distance because I don’t know if someone wants me near. I insult people because I’m a jackass, and my version of courting someone still involves poking them and pulling their hair like a 12 year old.
I wish I wasn’t a social wuss. A million friends and acquaintances. I hold Everyone in my hands…. at arms end… away from myself.
(I’ll return to hot action and rehash some of my DOWF experiences for you kids maybe later… Sorry to be all deep and shit.)
I don’t have daddy issues like a lot of girls often talk about. My father was fantastic. In quite a few ways I was closer to him then i was to my mom. He was the house husband since he retired early and so he would drive me to school make diner and talk to me more often.
I miss that.
I couldn’t figure out why i liked my chiropractors so much at first. I feared it was something not quite right, maybe even dirty. Then i realized they had a sort of father like tone about them. They are both the right age, have children and scold me gently for causing myself pain. Then they cause me more pain, for my own good and sort of take care of me. They both have good personalities and one of them even had my dad’s radio station playing when I came in. It’s probably not appropriate to get attached to people like that, but what do you do when you just want that kind of relationship you had with your dad?
I miss my father.
A friend posted what he felt was the evolutionary development of a bunch of fetishes here.
(The link is for reference please if you choose to comment on his journal do not be rude.)
First I’m not sure if “evolutionary” is the right term. I think he’s looking to where nature is meeting nurture and what turn that takes due to society that instills specific fetishes into people. I’ve got a lot of thoughts about a few of the ones he’s mentioned but I’m going to break them down into their own posts. I’ve got the “rape” fetish down and the anal one is partly done.
I prefer to call mine a Force fantasy. That way I’m deferring it from actual rape. I’ve experienced non-consensual relations and I 100% do not fantasize about THAT. Rape means it’s unwanted. In my force fantasy, yeah some part of me wants the sexual interaction I’ll have, but there’s some logical structure keeping my wants in check. I use force becasue it still leaves the room for wants/desires but allows for the logic of “this is not right” to be torn apart.
As for it’s root… I think he’s close. Sex has so many rules and force just throws them out a window. There doesn’t have to be a courting. It can be fairly anonymous sex. (I bet most women who have rape/force fantasies probably don’t think about someone specific that they know, which is what over 80% of rapes actually are) A person can retain that air of proper pure behavior while still indulging in lustful deeds.
Also don’t forget that actual rape isn’t about sex or getting your rocks off, it’s about power. Some people crave that loss of control or power. Maybe becasue they get off on being dominated, or becasue they just want to have sex but can’t becasue the rules have told them it’s not ok, or becasue they like feeling humiliated, or maybe they get off on being desired so badly… I’ve also left this for the most part non-gender specific because I know males that have rape/force fantasies as well.
My force fantasies have absolutely nothing to do with babies. I actually have SEVERAL force fantasies stemming from various parts of my brain. In some I want to be humiliated. In some I want to be hurt. In some I want anonymous sex. When I was younger I fantasized about someone who desired ME so badly they would stop at nothing.
If the reasoning changes that much in just one person, imagine how much it changes from person to person.
thought process: body image daily life history photos thinking
With nearly any picture you see of me you can most likely tell at what point in my life you’re at simply by the color and length of my hair. It’s constantly changing. The most interesting by far though had to be being bald.
I had hair that was mid back length. It was dyed black. I quite liked having long hair but I was looking to change it and black would NEVER come out of my hair, so I’d have to grow it again if the change was to be the color. So instead I changed the length…
I had my hair chopped off and donated it to locks of love. It was a good experience.
Since I had my hair at shoulder length… I was curious to go further. I was in college, I didn’t have to impress anyone for a job, so I felt that if I was to do something drastic, this was totally the time. I needed my hair to grow out anyway, so…
I had my friends help and one late February day we chopped of all my hair, buzzed then shaved off the rest.
One of my main motivators was that I was curious to know how it FELT to be bald. The last time I was bald I was being cut out of my mom’s stomach. Really I don’t remember that. I wish I had known about the charity thing you can do with getting sponsors to shave your head. I should have done that and at least helped some sick kids in the process. Ahh maybe next time…
So what did it feel like? Cold. Like someone rubbed menthol all over my head. The rest of my skin was registering as normal temperature but this newly exposed skin was now unused to the temperature.
The social reaction was interesting too. I did this just before V for Vendetta came out so I got a lot of comments about being inspired by Natalie Portman. To be honest I didn’t know her head got shave until someone mentioned to me AFTER I did it. Other comments ranged from “that’s awesome” to “why the hell would you do that” and even someone went so far to say “why do you want to make yourself look like a boy” (they were drunk but they definitely got some interesting food for thought on that one.)
It was a good experience and I’d recommend it for anyone.
I watched this behindkink.com clip where Penny Flame talks about her sexcapades and how she is probably a sex addict becasue she dosne’t care about the people she fucks. She says she’s ashamed for not being ashamed. She talks about how she was seeing a therapist and she told him about a trip in which she fucked some people and at the end of the story the therapist asks her their names…
“-and what is the name of the dancing monkey?
-Italian dancing monkey
-and what i the name o the security guard?
-chocolate security guard”
I have to admit. I understand this. In my history my sexual partners have almost always had code names. “german dude” “air force boy” “forked tongue boy” “jazz guy” “the brit” “asian corvette” “rachel’s friend” “boring guy”. I think these names are importat though, becasue there’s a name ont hat list “keith” and I can’t for the LIFE of me remember who the hell that is.