Men Are Right, Most Women Have Orgasms When Raped!
By: Moni Vazquez
Tags: Metoo, Self Improvement, Life Lessons, Psychology, Life

Self-improvement

What they completely miss is why. And it’s time women be freed from their guilt.

I had never been with a man, physically. I exchanged a few kisses here and there, and was entering the period where girls wonder what the fuss about getting a foreign tongue in your mouth is all about. I definitely had not had sex or intimate parts encounters. I wondered about it, obviously; my hormones were starting to change my body and invade my mind in forms I could not figure out. Life was racing in front of me and asking me to become part of a world I was not ready to enter.

Despite my desires, my childish body was shaping into a woman. Curves were rewriting my chest and hips, and, according to my parents, my remarks too. I was in that fragile state of non-being when I was awaken by hands grabbing my legs, spreading them open, ripping my underwear, and pushing a hard and unwelcomed penis into my anus. By the time I realised what was happening, it was over. Tears in my eyes were telling me a story I was unwilling to believe.

My sister’s boyfriend, my best friend, the only living brother I ever had, was raping me. In my their house. During my first sleep-over. He was raping me.

It hurt. The pain dug soul deep; I spent almost ten years lost in that hole and twenty years to find and fill it.

He said two things at first: “Go pee, it will wash off any sperm leftover.” and “Your sister is at work, don’t worry.”

And when I came out of the bathroom shaking like a leaf he added: “You do know that even if you tried to tell anyone, no one will believe you, right?”

Yes, I knew. Now I know I was wrong in my belief, but back then, I had not lived long enough in the grown-ups world to know the minutiae of assholes and their ways. I was unaware of any of my rights or of DNA tests, support groups or even the possibility of talking to someone that was not my parents. I knew one thing though: something so deep broke inside of me, nothing could ever fix it. I felt ripped apart into a million bleeding pieces.

“Get out now, I have to get ready for work and your mom might wonder where you are,” were his parting words.

I drove my moped to my best friend’s house and knocked at her window. She peaked her head out looking at me puzzled. I only said “our place” and left. She followed me to our ‘private’ bench, curious to know what was going on, and that is where I lost my last pieces of self. Instead of support and a shoulder to cry upon, I heard her say: “Cool, he’s super hot and now you are the first one in our group to have had sex!” She was very enthusiastic. She was already showing the signs of her psychosis, but I did not have that information at the time. I heard one thing: “Get over it.”

I tried, but as hard as I tried, he kept me prisoner for a full year. As I slipped into a place of oblivion to numb my internal pain, void of all the adolescent stuff, he made me his sexual slave. He had lived in our house for six years prior to moving with my sister in their apartment. He knew my parents, my family, our habits and, most of all, my father admired him like a god. A self-made man; from waiter to CEO in a few years. He was my dad’s dream of the son he never had.

Me? An unstable hormonal adolescent incapable of expressing a fully formed sentence without tearing up or having a muteness breakdown. My sister made me up to be a liar anyhow, in the perfect ‘older-sister-is-always-right way’.

That man was my hero. My adult support team. We did sport together; he taught me rock-and-roll and we learned to snowboard together when there were no teachers to show you how to use a table on the snow. He taught me back flips, and helped me with math, and listened to me cry over bff’s problems and dramas… I trusted him with my soul. And he took it.

And I gave it to him. I know nothing better than to do what I could to stay alive during his sexual abuses and live my story as close to normal as possible in the windows in between. And when I had my first orgasms, I sought to hide those burning tears about myself by digging even deeper pockets into my dying soul.

Guilt, loneliness, disgust, panic, nausea, more guilt, disappearance of any worth left… Death was what I wished. Silencing life.

I heard myself telling my mother I did not want to go with him; I refused to go snowboarding with him and it ended up in lots of screaming and more guilt, as she was letting me see how blessed I was to have him in my world, doing all these wonderful things for me when he could have been somewhere else.

I tried… I tried to whisper: “He is hurting me” as the flow of tears paints my cheeks again, but my mom only reads adolescent stubbornness in those all too common tears and sends me off with him. He smiles. I die a little more. And in the car, in a rest stop on our way to the slopes, I have my usual orgasm that frees me of him for the day, for when the whiteness of the snow will blind me from my heart and give me rest. Until we drive home anew.

One year.

And then they broke up. And then I am free. Free to live my story in an emotional cage of disgust for myself and distrust of any human being. I am a walking dead, all too happy to slide into the deepest part of life when my sister imposes drugs on me that summer. A relief, in many ways. At least my new prison was now a prison of complete silence, where life was not invited and ceased to exist. I was free to obliterate my existence.

Except that life had different plans, and I met love, and although I lost that love too, it gave me a hint of what life could have been, could be. I spotted a beam of light in my darkness, enough to guide me out of despair. Years of climbing steeply upwards finally brought me back to a new beginning, a place from where I could look at the horizon and decide which direction I preferred to go: I chose to live. I wanted to dive into every experience life could offer.

First, I had to heal some wounds and find answers. I became a psychologist, a neuroscientist to be precise but also a licenced psychologist. I still found no answers. I still did not understand. I still felt guilty. Piles of publications describing survivor’s guilt, vulnerability’s guilt, fancy gilt names but none was helping me.

And then, the finest day of my life arrived. The worse therapist I ever had, gave me the freedom I was longing for. She told me something that, at the time, was nowhere to be found in books, research, or even whispered amongst psychological environments: most woman that are raped experience orgasms. It is not a manifestation of weakness; it is a sign of strength. The body is trying to prevent pain and igniting lubrication mechanisms. Female lubrication will make the experience less painful and shorter, by helping the male obtain what they want and, literally, get the hell out of me.

When you can’t fight, you need to help yourself in the only possible way.

Orgasms are a self-defence tool. They are not voluntary; they are a reaction; the same manner we retract a hand from a hot stove. It does not indicate pleasure.

Let me repeat this: it is not a sign of pleasure!

That day occurred in 2003. I have since spoken about this too many women in different countries and cultures. It is, really, a little known fact. Women are too scared and feel too guilty to admit an orgasm during a rape. We cannot fathom looking at it ourselves, let go saying it out loud. I myself am not sure how I built the courage to declare it out loud to my therapist, one I disliked by the way. Maybe that was the trick. I cared so little for her I found the courage to heal myself through her.

Rape is not just a penis forcing itself into a vagina or anus. It is an ultimate abuse of physical strength forced upon a woman; it is the ultimate weakness. Let me repeat it:

Rape is the ultimate weakness.

When a man cannot obtain something he desires, he uses his physical strength to obtain it. There is zero merit in it. We have to start seeing it for what it is. The way of the insecure.

The sad part is, he did not really obtain it. They never do. He penetrated my body, but he did not obtain anything else from it. My admiration, my love, my friendship; everything was lost the second he did that. And I believe he lost himself too. I believe his life was ruined the same way mine was. Regardless of his guilt or not. I trusted him.

Him, and people like him, create an illusion of power we have to break.

If, as women, we stop the trauma; we take away their power. We dissolve their illusion. It will go from rape to penetration without consequence. They might take our body for a few minutes, but not our lives. Not our self worth, our dreams and desires. Not anymore. Never again.

I don’t feel guilty anymore; I am free. Wounded, but free. Sometimes it hurts like an damaged knee before the rain comes, but it is not the driver of my life. I can see images of my abuser (the internet is a very accessible place) and what I feel is sadness. I feel sad for so many years of my existence taken away by one man’s inability to be stronger than his animal needs.

Self proclaimed religious men punish women for ‘being too sexy’, but they completely ignore their inability to deal with sheer animal instincts, and channel them into something more productive than raping a child. Sexual instincts are simply energy for life. Men can, and need to, learn to support life in more creative ways than killing and raping. Let’s get this evolution thing happen and move to a more mature type of human.

Let’s break the myth together and pop the bubble. Having an orgasm during a rape does not show we are having pleasure, it shows we are in pain. It is our right to ease the pain.

If you are one of those men, help the next generation not make your same mistakes. Help them know better.

If you are a woman that has experienced an orgasm while being raped, congratulate yourself for finding a coping mechanism. Do not feel guilty. Feel proud for doing the only thing you could reasonably do: protect yourself.

If we work together, the coming generations will stop using sex as a power of submission tool used by men who feel weak. We are the #metoo generation responsible for our own legacy. We have to unite our voice and share our experience. If we keep hiding, we perpetrate what men like Donald Trump and his legacy want: fill their ego with the illusion of power. We need to stand up. For us. For our daughters. For our sons.