Updated: Oct 9
He took me into the dark narrow lanes behind the building. Slipped it out and asked me to hold. On that frightful night when my back rubbed against the ground and the definition of force was quite relevant, that was the night I understood why friction causes wear and tear.
Yes rape in marriage is real, rape in relationships is real too. At the age of seventeen or so when you are naive and ignorant, being called out as incompetent surely effects your self image. You start doing things to prove yourself. And in the process of getting validation you do everything in your capacity. Later it becomes a habit or worse, an addiction!
Having sexual intimacy in a relationship is good but it's always up to you. Determine your own pace. Ask for consent!
Sexual pleasure is equally important for all genders so is sex education. These
so-called taboos are supposed to be discussed. Teenagers and young adults in particular
should feel free in discussing Sex and topics around it. If in trouble, they should talk to an adult, seek guidance or any sort of help. These are the few facts that I wasn't taught. I intend everyone to know the basics of Sex Ed before entering into the beautiful world of pleasure. The more we talk, the more we normalize it, the better we become
Talking about rape culture isn't the most comfortable thing to do. We live in a society where women are supposed to be layered in every possible way. Be it clothes, thoughts, feelings, or even traumatic experiences. Realizing the pain and the depth of childhood sexual abuse is not something I seek for everyone to relate. Still it won't stop me from talking about it. Because I want to talk about uncomfortable things. I do! How else will the Truth ever be released?
Was that a nightmare? Or am I cooking it all up? How do you write about something that
happened a decade and half ago? Will my memory support? Or is it playing games? Self doubt is scary and toxic, it eats you up. And how would you come out to family when you aren't sure about what happened. It's just those blue pictures, montages of childhood, seems traumatic but is now walked over and paved.
I wore a kurti those days, an orange one with specks of yellow on it.It reached to my knees, and had a circular neckline, exactly an inch below my throat. The yellow symbolical of the Goddess Saraswati, of knowing and learning. Embodied on me it learnt exactly how it made no difference whatsoever if I wore a kurti or tee-shirt, the skin it covered was unfolded. The way I felt my flesh being grabbed. The cloth had no restraint whatsoever.
I was laying silently with my back turned towards him, we had just fought about how ‘depressed’ I was. He pushed his hands down my jeans. I didn’t dare to push him away. I did not dare to move. I pretended to be asleep, while I felt my skin feel the air, and the flesh of a hardened penis. My vagina responded on its own. I guess that is what biology is. It makes you responsive to sexual approaches, doesn’t matter if you want it or not. The waistband of my panties were stretched on my thighs now. Simple blue cotton ones. He pushed himself in. My kurti now bunched up and my jeans down.
In the morning, I had pulled up the very clothes, buttoned the jeans, a few stray threads on the button hole, proving the rush with which he had pulled them down. My panties were sticky, I felt disgusted with it sticking to my skin. When I went back to my room, I couldn’t get rid of the clothes fast enough. I couldn’t wash the dirt off me even after six hundred showers, I feel dirty. The kurti has been shredded. Self hatred has ways of manifesting itself, onto inanimate objects. The ones that bear a silent witness to the helpless silent cries.