i didn’t used to understand how a writer could be made uncomfortable by their own writing; i do now.
my previous post, gasp, popped from my forehead fully formed during a particularly frustrating day in traffic. i couldn’t believe this thing that was writing itself in my head but i chose to honour it and write it down anyway. [if you have not yet read gasp please do so, you will know by the end of the third paragraph if you can bear it or not.]
is it made more disturbing or less by the fact that i ate lunch as i typed?
is it made more or less troubling by the fact that it took fewer than twenty five minutes to write and that long only because i was interuppted by the telephone several times as i typed?
what about if i tell you that while i was writing it i did not believe i was turned on at all but then, when i went to the bathroom, i found myself wet through?
i deliberately chose not to comment at all as the comments came in. i wanted to see people’s reactions without benefit of my own colouring of the events as i saw them.
what intrigues me about the comments is the different interpretations you all put on what i thought was a very straight forward post.
let us be clear, that was rape with absolutely no consent whatsoever. the victim did not know the rapist nor did she do anything but answer her door when it rang. for me that was at least as important as what followed.
the true horror of the story, to my mind, lies in the forcing of her body to do his dirty work for him. he slicked her up with her own juices and let HER body and her struggles pleasure him as he stood there with her wrists over her head.
so i wrote it, i was shocked, and then i waited to see what the fallout might be.
interesting to me that at least some of you consider this to have been one of my deepest fantasies. it isn’t.
it was a post born of the road rage that becomes ever more common when trying to survive a trip anywhere in this city. it was born of money worries and hidden angers and various other little things that all seem a little easier to take now that this little piece of nastiness has left my fingers.
i still fully believe that it was a post worth writing and a post worth sharing. i wanted it to disturb you. i wanted you to feel arousal and to be upset by it. i don’t know why i wanted that but it seems to have been important.
furthermore i believed that the story was clearly non-consensual and yet at least one person considered it ravishment play. or shared a ravishment story while recognizing that this was rape. i’m not sure. that’s the part that’s neat… we all react to things from our own worldviews and we don’t always see what to others is clear and present.
god i love human social behaviour.
tito, if it’s ANY consolation? i don’t like the story either.
and then we get to the comment i was waiting for.
Holy fuck Girl! This just strips me down to nothing. The fabulous writing compensates for the uncomfortableness of the subject. Will I be stoned if I say part of me was turned on?
no. no you won’t. that’s exactly what i hoped would happen.
i wanted to twist perceptions and play with your minds a little. make of horror something that was nonetheless arousing. although i consider this tale to be nasty and awful i still think it’s hot.
and that, i guess, was the magic of it for me. that’s what actually made it worth posting in spite of my own disgust at the behaviour of the man in question.
so i guess now i want to hear from you. would you have posted it? are you glad that i did? if not why not?
