Content Warning: Sexual Assault

 

 

The following is the fourth instalment of our second ‘Perspectives’ series. ‘Perspectives’ as a concept was born out of a desire to provide thought-provoking and relatable snapshots into students’ experiences navigating relationships, self-discovery, and other affairs of the heart. Our extremely talented writers continue to respond to the series and express themselves in ways that go above and beyond what we ever could have initially imagined. Please enjoy…

Alice, Sex and Relationships Editor

Karla and Shannon, Deputy Sex and Relationships Editors

 

I have always had a problem with penetrative sex. While I’ve had a series of “almost”s and “wait, was that in?”s in a variety of relationships. Largely any attempt was a disaster which ended in (at best) frustration and (at worst) tears. Physically, experiences with penetration have ranged from quite uncomfortable to deeply painful, and, by 2019, I had given up on it for the most part. 

If you had asked me about my sex life in 2019, I would have described it as something like this: a series of traumatic events with no real clear-cut perpetrators or Capital-B “Bad Men”. This would change in August of that year. 

From the ages of 17-20 two threads ran through my sex life– an inability to have penetrative sex, and a surplus of trauma. Both upsetting, but neither particularly obstructive to my daily life. This would change in August 2021. 

 

 

August 16th, 2019 

“So, what are you doing now?” I asked.

”I work in a consulting firm,” he said. 

”Oh, what do you do there?” 

“I honestly have no f***ing idea.” 

Retrospectively, I have come to view the rape within the frame of this conversation. Oscar* was deeply dissatisfied with his life; a man with a thick slab of rage under an ironic and detached demeanour which I found very attractive. Every time I replay the rape in my head (which is, still, unfortunately frequently) he always seems to be taking some of that rage out on me. 

We went back to his flat. He raped me—I’ll skip that bit. It was gross, I felt gross. When I got home I lay on my own bed and texted a number of friends about what had happened, secretly hoping they would tell me it was wrong. 

One of them (Sam*) said: God, where did you find this boy? 

I took the hottest shower I’ve ever taken and went to sleep. 

 

 

August 16th, 2020 

”Is sex off the table?” he asked.

”Yes,” I said. 

”Okay.” 

Anniversaries are very important to me. I like the idea of a notable amount of time passing by, and being able to recognise it. That’s all very well for birthdays and weddings, but probably somewhat more unhelpful when it comes to recalling traumatic events. I felt August 16th coming from months away, but refused to acknowledge it. I drifted through the days like I was sea-swimming when the water slowly pulls you away from where you waded in, and by the time you think to look up, your family have disappeared from view. 

I woke up on the morning of August 16th, 2020 with the aforementioned Sam. Sam is a good person and remains a great friend, but we should not have been dating. More pressingly, I should not have woken up beside anyone that morning. 

When he asked me ”Is sex off the table”, my ”Yes” was an easy way out of having to  explain my problem with penetrative sex. We did other stuff. I didn’t cry, but I did freeze up. 

This sex was, in hindsight, my incredibly stupid way of proving to myself that I was “over”  the rape. That morning with Sam, I was both clingy and cold, overly-affectionate and yet completely emotionally unavailable. He knew about the anniversary and was kind about it. I was glad to not have to explain myself to him, and to have someone who didn’t question my boundaries. I told him I was sorry about “the vagina thing”. He said it was fine. We lay there, friends in the recent trappings of lovers, with absolutely no idea what to do. 

A number of friends, including Sam, came to my house and cooked me dinner that night. I drank a bottle of wine and laughed and listened to music and really trusted everyone around me, in a way that hadn’t felt possible a year prior. I tried to forget about everything that was upsetting me, but a little discomfort hummed in the background. 

 

August 16th, 2021

”Do you want a receipt?” 

”Eh, no, we’re alright thanks.” 

Last month, on the second anniversary, I went to work. I had a very standard day at the office. I filed papers, ate lunch, sent out the post and generally made myself busy. 

On my lunch break, I very nervously walked into a sex shop on Capel street. For a few days, I had been testing the capacity of my vagina. I had learned that, with some lubricant and a few deep breaths, I could now get a few fingers in. I had successfully inserted a tampon for the first time in my life. I felt like I was going through a second puberty, unsure what had actually changed but completely fascinated by my own body.

Driver’s Licence by Olivia Rodrigo played as I paid for an insertable vibrator. The shop assistant smiled at me and I smiled back, revelling in the knowledge that he had no idea how big a deal this exchange was for me. 

The next part of the story is deliciously boring. I went to the cinema with a friend. He knew it was the second anniversary, and he didn’t say anything. It was a nice evening. 

When I got home, I lay on my bed again— the same bed from where, in 2019, I processed the worst thing that ever happened to me; the same bed from where, in 2020, I woke up feeling empty and needy and distinctly unhealed. I took the purple vibrator out of its packaging and applied a probably overcautious amount of lube. Time passed, and I came to the feeling of control, of agency, and of proper, healing pleasure. 

 

*Names have been changed