Force [GRAPHIC CONTENT - TRIGGERING]
axlr
Registrant
Force is a funny thing. I read a story earlier tonight about someone who watched a video about a girl (they said around 19-20) who was dragged to a bed by her hair and violently penetrated. One hand slapping, the other choking, aggressive comments, she vomits and then it ends.
It's a description that leaves a pit in one's stomach. To know that these kinds of things happen and that they can end up regularly on porn sites as just some more exciting hardcore amateur footage to masturbate over, a quick stroke before it becomes cheap and the thirsty audience moves on to the next big thrill. Used goods are only good for so long. More angles, more videos, more stars. But no matter what changes, the force is always the same.
It's hard to use another person's story to talk about one's own. You mean not to devalue this person who you will never know, their name or their accomplishments or what their favorite song was, what kinda movies they watch. One can be torn into a moral conundrum over this.
But I live with it anyways. A crime needs a witness. It's hard to quantify how common force is. Most people have a 'force' story, from whichever side they were. Force feels good. Force feels right. Sometimes even for the one being forced.
There are a couple of anecdotes with force I can tell.
For around $25 (your guess is probably better than mine) my neighbor would carefully clean me out and then allow a man in a mask I had never met before to grab me by the arm and throw me onto a bed where I would be choked and slapped like any other person in a case of force. It doesn't leave marks like the movies say it does, not usually. Little bodies especially are more durable than people give them credit for. They have to compete with assault rifles these days, so it's easy to think they're all weak, but not even grownups can reliably win that battle. More than being unable to breathe was the headache. It felt like a bomb cooking. If they compressed the carotids then one would fall asleep and there would be no fun, even if it'd be a luxury to the victim. Escape is one of the best things that can happen, an empty bliss away from the storm that allows a kind of invulnerability to what's happening. The best moments can lie in this escape, just as easily as the worst moments are spent teary-eyed begging for it to come and save you knowing that if you have to beg then it'll never happen.
I did not often have to be dragged, I will say that much. I went to the bed willingly. Some wanted to drag, they wanted to feel like they were conquering something and that fantasy required immersion every step of the way. Asides from these cases, the only time I was dragged was when I got cold feet at the sight of four men, an encounter I've talked about before. Vomiting happened sometimes but it was often a technicality more than a brutality. Especially in the early days when I was more inexperienced with oral sex, it was easy for the adult sized penises (which even at modest sizes would basically be gargantuan for a four year old) to be rather hard to work with, no pun intended. The gag reflex I think was something they enjoyed triggering, the muscles contracting to give a pleasant feeling that contrasted well with the sensation of total control they wanted. Vomit was an accident that usually held things up, and warranted a smack or poke or some other kind of discipline.
It was easy to pass out at that age because the brain just can't handle being without air for as long. I often went out and came to long after the sex had stopped, sometimes fully clothed on the porch, or sometimes more disturbingly in my house. We had a German Shepherd, but perhaps she was out of the house or maybe even asleep upstairs. But the fact remains that my neighbor had come into my family's house and left, and I understood what he meant when he would do this, not necessarily a courtesy but a reminder that nothing was off limits and he could come and go anywhere he wanted. I would often be scared that he was in my room, but I would not dare say as much. It's normal to be scared of the dark at that age.
Other times I would willingly put myself in harm's way. Elementary school was a big time for little me. I wanted to prove that I was the coolest kid in kindergarten and what better way than to hang out with all the older kids who are practically knocking on puberty's doorstep. I spoke about it in a thread before, then had some realizations that it extended further than I thought, and then some worse ones after that. I have vague images of getting to know and befriend older boys regularly. I'm not ready to think about or go down those paths though. I don't know what that says for how they played out.
I can recall an incident that occurred when I was 9.
It's best to write in silence. Music ruins it. You need to be away from the present to remember and recall. You need to stare dead-eyed at the screen and simply let it come out. It won't happen any other way.
It had been quite a while since the last time I had sex. In elementary school if you have an IEP then sometimes if you're particularly special you get a one-on-one who shadows you in the classroom to provide extra aid and make sure you stay on task. Most of my one-on-ones were women. I had a couple of men though sometimes. They were fine, but one was different. He was overweight, but youngish. Probably late 20s or early 30s. Latino if I had to guess, reddish brown. I remember his glasses, black. He was a nerd like me. I remember once in the library we were talking about the need to make friends and I spoke candidly of my desires to stay alone, and he told me about the one Twilight Zone episode with the guy who only wanted time to read books, found his time after the apocalypse only to break his glasses and was no longer able to read.
Another time I sat in this back office room with him for lunch, and I had "A Night To Remember" with me. It's still on my wall somewhere, I liked that book and reading about the Titanic, though I didn't care much for the non-chronological formatting.
These memories are different from the ones when I was 4-6. More regular, more grounded. The earlier ones envelop like stepping into a kind of bubble, very strong stimuli in comparison to my older ones. All memories have senses associated with them but the younger ones seem to get more real. This in a sense makes what happened with him easier to write about, there's less details to lash out at me. It is worse for other reasons though.
One day, I don't remember when, sometime around late April/early May 2015, I was in this back office with him. Was the second half of third grade after a big move down state so it was a new school and to make matters worse the one I was supposed to go to was closed for asbestos, so you had two schools' worth of kids crammed in one. Yet even here, anything could happen.
It was close to the afternoon, and I had been pulled in there for some reason I can't remember. The dialogue we shared escapes me, but he seemed to be asking me questions that I at first assumed were for some kind of test, but as he got closer and more personal I realized he was asking from something more unofficial. He eventually got up next to me, close enough I could feel his dark green sweater and dark blue jeans against my arms and legs. He wraps his arm around me, and he shows me a video. I can sort of smell him, I do little breaths to try and get an idea, unsure if he ever noticed that or not. Odd detail to recall. He shows me on his phone porn. This isn't where I got the story about the woman I started this post off with, but it may have been in similar spirit. I just remember distant images of anal sex, probably tamer in comparison. But he's showing this to me, and probably looking back and forth at my face, and he says things about how that's true love and how he wants to show me.
I then reveal to him the fantasies I've always had. I didn't remember what happened to me, but I always fantasized about a pedophile, and I told him that. Doing this might have made him act the way he did. He grew more frenetic, irrationally excited. He laid his hands on me, feeling me up and touching what he could. I got up from the chair so I could undress, a very strange feeling to first take my sandals off onto the carpet floor and then to fully disrobe and feel the cool office air on my skin, a very strange feeling indeed. I don't imagine that this stimuli did me any favors a few years later when I was in sixth grade PE and expected to take my shoes off and change clothes in front of my classmates in a similarly carpeted room.
I remember how he put his hand on my torso from an angle, really feeling it up. His mind begun to escape him. I may have been his first, or at least his first in a long while, and I don't think he had ever expected this situation to really happen. Or maybe it was a Jekyll and Hyde situation. Could have been both, I 'unno. Speculating allows me to have to avoid moving the story along. I won't have to talk about how much more frenzied his grasps got as he started to strain my skin, how his breath started to hyperventilate. I won't have to talk about how he picked me up and put me on one of those short little bookshelves, the ones with only two rows that don't go higher than an adult's legs. He put me on top of it and I could feel the coldness of it beneath my warm skin and my head and upper back starting to ache pressed up against the wall as he laid me down and pushed my legs up.
If you look at how cartoons depict these sorts of things, you can often find all sorts of expressive faces they put to depict the emotions. They're not necessarily accurate but they're not inaccurate either. In life, people might not literally make a grinning face with shark teeth but their eyes and their energy will give you the same impression. There are details communicated just in physical presence that are otherwise hard to describe any other way.
He goes down and starts eating me out (not without a quick sniff of my genitals first because of course), and I flinch a bit from the force. I'm supposed to enjoy this, it's supposed to be the fantasy, but I'm zoning out instead. The world gets weird. It gets more sensual, as though there's film grain around the edges. Your mind gets more carefree. I remember being somewhat self-aware, reflecting on my state of mind. Asking myself questions about what was happening and whether I liked it.
Then he leans up, spits on his dick, and jams it in.
Spit isn't enough to not make it hurt. I didn't realize though that his motions and his picking me up and moving me around weren't lovers gestures but force.
I realize it's force when he ignores my begging to at least slow down. I realize it's force when he ignores me and starts thrusting as fast and hard as he can, putting a hand over my mouth and practically covering my left eye with his thumb and index finger. I wanted so badly to enjoy it but it starts hurting and I start flailing, and he just presses his weight down on me even more, immobilizing me. I can't breathe but that doesn't really matter. He's not long, even if it feels like forever.
Then I'm left lying there in this awkward contorted pose as he looks about, pulls his pants up, and tries to get me moving again so I get my clothes on and the evidence isn't left lying around for everyone to see. I don't remember what happened after that, I guess I just went home and took a nap to try and forget it ever happened, and for a while that worked. I stopped seeing this guy for the rest of the year, maybe he didn't want to face me. I saw a nice woman instead. I think of this detail and think perhaps that's a sign that I was his first, that he was scared enough to disengage like that. He wasn't used to operating on that level, he was not yet a competent predator.
It's strange to think about how this story was apparently devastating enough I felt I had to include it here. I didn't even think of it when I started this post. My mind went to incidents of force from when I was smaller, when I was at the mercy of men who didn't know me and who were genuinely more physically aggressive. My IEP guy didn't really choke me intentionally, he didn't slap me, but boy he knew how to hurt. What made it worse is that he was somehow able to do what he did and remove any illusion or pretense that I could enjoy this, that I was supposed to, that I was allowed to. He made me think that I was bad at sex and undeserving. He took away what little gain I could have. From the old days of force, I could grow accustomed to my role as a slave and begin to enjoy it. I began to find a lovely desire in being dominated so ruthlessly and getting to surrender every aspect of my being to someone else. I became aroused by it even at such a young and allegedly innocent age. Small children can find pleasure in sex too. This took that from me though, and it forces me to confront an aspect I try very hard not to think about. It forces me to think about the reality of force. It forces me to give up the romanticization and to observe the reality of what happened. It forces me to accept that it was wrong. It forces me to have to answer "yes" when someone asks if I was raped. Mind over matter, you could put it, because I probably had instances where I actually bled that I enjoyed more than this time where I did not bleed much at all. It's weird what bothers one and what doesn't.
I don't know what became of that guy. Maybe he still works for the district. Maybe he moved, or maybe he died. Beats me. I didn't report it, so maybe he became an apex predator and it's all my fault because I didn't stop him when I had the chance. What ever.
It's a description that leaves a pit in one's stomach. To know that these kinds of things happen and that they can end up regularly on porn sites as just some more exciting hardcore amateur footage to masturbate over, a quick stroke before it becomes cheap and the thirsty audience moves on to the next big thrill. Used goods are only good for so long. More angles, more videos, more stars. But no matter what changes, the force is always the same.
It's hard to use another person's story to talk about one's own. You mean not to devalue this person who you will never know, their name or their accomplishments or what their favorite song was, what kinda movies they watch. One can be torn into a moral conundrum over this.
But I live with it anyways. A crime needs a witness. It's hard to quantify how common force is. Most people have a 'force' story, from whichever side they were. Force feels good. Force feels right. Sometimes even for the one being forced.
There are a couple of anecdotes with force I can tell.
For around $25 (your guess is probably better than mine) my neighbor would carefully clean me out and then allow a man in a mask I had never met before to grab me by the arm and throw me onto a bed where I would be choked and slapped like any other person in a case of force. It doesn't leave marks like the movies say it does, not usually. Little bodies especially are more durable than people give them credit for. They have to compete with assault rifles these days, so it's easy to think they're all weak, but not even grownups can reliably win that battle. More than being unable to breathe was the headache. It felt like a bomb cooking. If they compressed the carotids then one would fall asleep and there would be no fun, even if it'd be a luxury to the victim. Escape is one of the best things that can happen, an empty bliss away from the storm that allows a kind of invulnerability to what's happening. The best moments can lie in this escape, just as easily as the worst moments are spent teary-eyed begging for it to come and save you knowing that if you have to beg then it'll never happen.
I did not often have to be dragged, I will say that much. I went to the bed willingly. Some wanted to drag, they wanted to feel like they were conquering something and that fantasy required immersion every step of the way. Asides from these cases, the only time I was dragged was when I got cold feet at the sight of four men, an encounter I've talked about before. Vomiting happened sometimes but it was often a technicality more than a brutality. Especially in the early days when I was more inexperienced with oral sex, it was easy for the adult sized penises (which even at modest sizes would basically be gargantuan for a four year old) to be rather hard to work with, no pun intended. The gag reflex I think was something they enjoyed triggering, the muscles contracting to give a pleasant feeling that contrasted well with the sensation of total control they wanted. Vomit was an accident that usually held things up, and warranted a smack or poke or some other kind of discipline.
It was easy to pass out at that age because the brain just can't handle being without air for as long. I often went out and came to long after the sex had stopped, sometimes fully clothed on the porch, or sometimes more disturbingly in my house. We had a German Shepherd, but perhaps she was out of the house or maybe even asleep upstairs. But the fact remains that my neighbor had come into my family's house and left, and I understood what he meant when he would do this, not necessarily a courtesy but a reminder that nothing was off limits and he could come and go anywhere he wanted. I would often be scared that he was in my room, but I would not dare say as much. It's normal to be scared of the dark at that age.
Other times I would willingly put myself in harm's way. Elementary school was a big time for little me. I wanted to prove that I was the coolest kid in kindergarten and what better way than to hang out with all the older kids who are practically knocking on puberty's doorstep. I spoke about it in a thread before, then had some realizations that it extended further than I thought, and then some worse ones after that. I have vague images of getting to know and befriend older boys regularly. I'm not ready to think about or go down those paths though. I don't know what that says for how they played out.
I can recall an incident that occurred when I was 9.
It's best to write in silence. Music ruins it. You need to be away from the present to remember and recall. You need to stare dead-eyed at the screen and simply let it come out. It won't happen any other way.
It had been quite a while since the last time I had sex. In elementary school if you have an IEP then sometimes if you're particularly special you get a one-on-one who shadows you in the classroom to provide extra aid and make sure you stay on task. Most of my one-on-ones were women. I had a couple of men though sometimes. They were fine, but one was different. He was overweight, but youngish. Probably late 20s or early 30s. Latino if I had to guess, reddish brown. I remember his glasses, black. He was a nerd like me. I remember once in the library we were talking about the need to make friends and I spoke candidly of my desires to stay alone, and he told me about the one Twilight Zone episode with the guy who only wanted time to read books, found his time after the apocalypse only to break his glasses and was no longer able to read.
Another time I sat in this back office room with him for lunch, and I had "A Night To Remember" with me. It's still on my wall somewhere, I liked that book and reading about the Titanic, though I didn't care much for the non-chronological formatting.
These memories are different from the ones when I was 4-6. More regular, more grounded. The earlier ones envelop like stepping into a kind of bubble, very strong stimuli in comparison to my older ones. All memories have senses associated with them but the younger ones seem to get more real. This in a sense makes what happened with him easier to write about, there's less details to lash out at me. It is worse for other reasons though.
One day, I don't remember when, sometime around late April/early May 2015, I was in this back office with him. Was the second half of third grade after a big move down state so it was a new school and to make matters worse the one I was supposed to go to was closed for asbestos, so you had two schools' worth of kids crammed in one. Yet even here, anything could happen.
It was close to the afternoon, and I had been pulled in there for some reason I can't remember. The dialogue we shared escapes me, but he seemed to be asking me questions that I at first assumed were for some kind of test, but as he got closer and more personal I realized he was asking from something more unofficial. He eventually got up next to me, close enough I could feel his dark green sweater and dark blue jeans against my arms and legs. He wraps his arm around me, and he shows me a video. I can sort of smell him, I do little breaths to try and get an idea, unsure if he ever noticed that or not. Odd detail to recall. He shows me on his phone porn. This isn't where I got the story about the woman I started this post off with, but it may have been in similar spirit. I just remember distant images of anal sex, probably tamer in comparison. But he's showing this to me, and probably looking back and forth at my face, and he says things about how that's true love and how he wants to show me.
I then reveal to him the fantasies I've always had. I didn't remember what happened to me, but I always fantasized about a pedophile, and I told him that. Doing this might have made him act the way he did. He grew more frenetic, irrationally excited. He laid his hands on me, feeling me up and touching what he could. I got up from the chair so I could undress, a very strange feeling to first take my sandals off onto the carpet floor and then to fully disrobe and feel the cool office air on my skin, a very strange feeling indeed. I don't imagine that this stimuli did me any favors a few years later when I was in sixth grade PE and expected to take my shoes off and change clothes in front of my classmates in a similarly carpeted room.
I remember how he put his hand on my torso from an angle, really feeling it up. His mind begun to escape him. I may have been his first, or at least his first in a long while, and I don't think he had ever expected this situation to really happen. Or maybe it was a Jekyll and Hyde situation. Could have been both, I 'unno. Speculating allows me to have to avoid moving the story along. I won't have to talk about how much more frenzied his grasps got as he started to strain my skin, how his breath started to hyperventilate. I won't have to talk about how he picked me up and put me on one of those short little bookshelves, the ones with only two rows that don't go higher than an adult's legs. He put me on top of it and I could feel the coldness of it beneath my warm skin and my head and upper back starting to ache pressed up against the wall as he laid me down and pushed my legs up.
If you look at how cartoons depict these sorts of things, you can often find all sorts of expressive faces they put to depict the emotions. They're not necessarily accurate but they're not inaccurate either. In life, people might not literally make a grinning face with shark teeth but their eyes and their energy will give you the same impression. There are details communicated just in physical presence that are otherwise hard to describe any other way.
He goes down and starts eating me out (not without a quick sniff of my genitals first because of course), and I flinch a bit from the force. I'm supposed to enjoy this, it's supposed to be the fantasy, but I'm zoning out instead. The world gets weird. It gets more sensual, as though there's film grain around the edges. Your mind gets more carefree. I remember being somewhat self-aware, reflecting on my state of mind. Asking myself questions about what was happening and whether I liked it.
Then he leans up, spits on his dick, and jams it in.
Spit isn't enough to not make it hurt. I didn't realize though that his motions and his picking me up and moving me around weren't lovers gestures but force.
I realize it's force when he ignores my begging to at least slow down. I realize it's force when he ignores me and starts thrusting as fast and hard as he can, putting a hand over my mouth and practically covering my left eye with his thumb and index finger. I wanted so badly to enjoy it but it starts hurting and I start flailing, and he just presses his weight down on me even more, immobilizing me. I can't breathe but that doesn't really matter. He's not long, even if it feels like forever.
Then I'm left lying there in this awkward contorted pose as he looks about, pulls his pants up, and tries to get me moving again so I get my clothes on and the evidence isn't left lying around for everyone to see. I don't remember what happened after that, I guess I just went home and took a nap to try and forget it ever happened, and for a while that worked. I stopped seeing this guy for the rest of the year, maybe he didn't want to face me. I saw a nice woman instead. I think of this detail and think perhaps that's a sign that I was his first, that he was scared enough to disengage like that. He wasn't used to operating on that level, he was not yet a competent predator.
It's strange to think about how this story was apparently devastating enough I felt I had to include it here. I didn't even think of it when I started this post. My mind went to incidents of force from when I was smaller, when I was at the mercy of men who didn't know me and who were genuinely more physically aggressive. My IEP guy didn't really choke me intentionally, he didn't slap me, but boy he knew how to hurt. What made it worse is that he was somehow able to do what he did and remove any illusion or pretense that I could enjoy this, that I was supposed to, that I was allowed to. He made me think that I was bad at sex and undeserving. He took away what little gain I could have. From the old days of force, I could grow accustomed to my role as a slave and begin to enjoy it. I began to find a lovely desire in being dominated so ruthlessly and getting to surrender every aspect of my being to someone else. I became aroused by it even at such a young and allegedly innocent age. Small children can find pleasure in sex too. This took that from me though, and it forces me to confront an aspect I try very hard not to think about. It forces me to think about the reality of force. It forces me to give up the romanticization and to observe the reality of what happened. It forces me to accept that it was wrong. It forces me to have to answer "yes" when someone asks if I was raped. Mind over matter, you could put it, because I probably had instances where I actually bled that I enjoyed more than this time where I did not bleed much at all. It's weird what bothers one and what doesn't.
I don't know what became of that guy. Maybe he still works for the district. Maybe he moved, or maybe he died. Beats me. I didn't report it, so maybe he became an apex predator and it's all my fault because I didn't stop him when I had the chance. What ever.