yellow

I find it amusing that in my dream, it was yellow curtains in the house. I hadn't thought of this, of where in my archived brain this came from, until I reread what I'd wrote. And it all came back to me.

My most vivid memory of the sexual abuse was the curtains.

It happened many times, in a multitude of places, but this one has always stuck in my mind as the worst of all of them. The other times were just improper bits of touching, a furtive fondle here or there before my parents came in. This one, however, was the big one. The brutal one. The one he had been waiting for. And for years, all I could really remember of it was the curtains in the bedroom, and the breeze billowing them out. Yellow, dotted swiss curtains, the hot stale air of a midwest July, and me, eight years old, with a man ravaging my mouth. I didn't cry. I didn't fight or say no. I can't fathom why. I never told anyone.

I often wonder how this affected my kinky desires. I mean, it obviously affected my sex life. I was terrified of boys for years. The last of my girlfriends to lose my virginity (to a date rape, but that's another story). I would hope that my submissive nature isn't directly linked to What Happened, but I suppose that's rather naive.

I do recall having a dream when I was four, something about bad men tying me up. I woke up and my panties were wet. I felt tingly and thought I'd wet the bed. I wonder now if it was my first orgasm (is there a Hallmark card to mark that occassion? 'On the Eve of your first Orgasm'). But I ramble. The only thing I can do now is own it. Hell yeah, I have baggage. Who doesn't? I used to feel like there was something really wrong with me that I get off on being controlled sexually. As my husband gently rubs my back at night, instead of thinking how sweet and gentle he is, I'm usually thinking how I just want him to throw me down and fuck me. And when he does, the mantra I usually repeat over and over is "hurt me."

Is it hardwired into my personality? Was I born like this? Or am I shaped by events I couldn't control. Hell if I know. But I do know that I could never be happy in a bland marriage of missionary sex.