The Construction of My Sexuality with men, part II.
Warning: This is not erotica.

I have learned in my life that sex is a weapon.
At some unknown point, early in life I taught myself how to use
the power of sex to fight fire with fire.
I have taken the strategy of the enemy who
used HIS sex as a weapon against me to try to take
away my pride, my self love and my worth
I have taken the strategy of the enemy by taking
my sex and using it to hit back even harder

(I still feel it in me when you get me off.
I still feel it burn inside me when it is hard to
see you walk out of the door until the next
time we get to spend time in each other's arms.)

Give me the strength to take on the world.
I lay there with "him", the "him" of the week,
our sweat dripping, skin sticking together.
I lived like this for years.
I binged for it when I couldn't get it. I used
it as a replacement for love shamelessly.

(You have taught me how much joy and wonder
there is in making love and I am absolutely indebted
to you for that experience, so real it rocked through
my entire body like something holy)

But there is this undeniable force and power
in fucking someone so hard that you both
cum harder than you ever have before.
There is a contentment and a satisfaction, from the release that orgasm brings
I learned this the first time I brought myself to an orgasm at the age of 5
to the first time I had a lovers cock in my mouth and loved it.
The triumph and satisfaction of being
responsible for making someone's entire
body shake with pleasure.

(Make me fucking cum you worthless
Piece of shit, and if you make me cum
then anything that you do or say after
this is all over will just bounce right off
my shiny new coat of armor.
The vampire makes her kill and she shreiks with
delight as she is recharged and replenished.)

The confusion I felt after my last

SEXUAL ASSAULT INCIDENT #4 (persisting endlessly and then taking off
the condom without my knowledge/consent).

How could I have been assaulted when I came so hard?

You liked it, didn't you?
You wanted it didn't you? Then why did I feel so
violated? Why did I feel so sick to my stomach
when I tried to think about what really happened?
Why did the idea of having even a tiny drop of his polluted sperm in my
womb make me want to throw all my beliefs against
abortion out the door?

I endured the two hour wait. I endured the pregnancy test and the HIV test and the too loud Jerry Springer TV blaring

from the corner of the Planned Parenthood . This is how I knew it was rape.

You putting my life at stake was not supposed to be part of our one night stand.

It was my kidneys that knew something was wrong
long before I did. They reacted to the assault by squeezing blood
into my urine. I would be sure to look back into the toilet and
see my trauma looking me in the face, screaming at me, drenched
in blood. It was then that I knew that I would not be able to let this one
slide into forgotten oblivion like the rest of them.,,

SEXUAL ASSAULT #1-classic date rape of an intoxicated teenage girl
I remember laying on my back on the cold sand of the
deserted secluded beach in Hawaii. Sick and disoriented
from all the alcohol. Young and naive seventeen, I laid there and
involuntarily accepted my fate, unsure of what I had done to deserve
this. No, it wasn't violent, and it thankfully
didn't last for very long.
A desperate instinct flooded me.
Out of the drunken confusion I tried to turn the situation around,
right after he came in the sand.
I flipped him over on his back, and straddled
him. I put him inside of me and tried desperately with no avail
to get back what he had just taken from me,
trying to use the same method of stealing pleasure that he just had.
For so long, I was ashamed that I made such
an attempt to get back any semblance of power. For
so long I left out this part of the story when I would recount
the incident to myself and to others..
"I didn't rape that girl."I could hear him saying,
"Ask her how she was riding me like
a horny cowgirl in a barnyard. She wanted it just as much as
I did." To him it was just another fuck.

SEXUAL ASSAULT #2-violated in my sleep by the
first person I ever fell in love with.
"Maybe he was trying to wake you up by making love to you."
My best friend David suggested trying to justify his brother's raping me,
"I mean, he used to tell me how he would wake his girlfriend Puna up
by playing with her in the morning."
It took me less than a second to flashback to that morning to
discard that suggestion almost immediately. I felt his heavy
body pounce on me like a tiger, sneak attacking his sleeping
prey. I didn't have time to react, I didn't even have the
conscious sense to take in what was even happening to me.
I felt his fingers penetrate my dry, unexpecting sex organ.
One or two strokes, clumsily hurrying through some sad
excuse for foreplay. Next I felt him thrusting in me from
behind. I remember laying there half conscious, trying to
make some sense out the rhythm that was rocking me to hell.
This was the first person I ever fell in love with. This was the
person that introduced the possibility and greatness of
having love in your life and now could this
possibly be? This can't possibly be happening. He would
never do a thing like this to me in addition to having
trashed my hopes and broken my heart so mercilessy just two
years before..

He ignored me that entire day, at a sunny but dark 4th of July
barbecue. I never confronted him about what had happened that morning,
except in a very very casual reference almost as if the whole thing
were a joke. Again, I used my sex to regain any semblance of power
and control that I could.
I can remember coming back into the apartment after
swimming alone, thinking or not thinking about what I was about to do next.
I lay my wet body across his and we soon began to fuck like rabbits.
Ah. Sexual pleasure. Some response. Any response.
Anything would do at this point. Finally. I was human again.
I needed something like this to make sense out of all the madness
that just happened.

I remember asking him afterwards to take a
shower with me.
That's what we used to do all the time
when we were in love with each other.
I was so surprised when he hopped into the shower after me.
But he cleaned himself off, without even touching me, without even
looking at me. He rinsed off the soap and hopped out way before me without
even eye contact, without any hint of connection, compassion, love,
friendship or respect. I supposed he once had these things for me, but it was painfully obvious that he had none of these things for me any longer.
What an insult to the idea of intimacy he had once helped me create.
Only three years ago this same boy was barely sixteen, and I had him on his knees,
lovingly shampooing and brushing my hair in the bath.

I remember how I finally did make sense of all the madness.
I remember the drive back to Berkeley, grabbing "my dick",
thinking to myself with satisfaction,
"I just got laid."
I blocked out the rejection from the shower incident.
I blocked out the rape.
And I said it with justified contentment as if my so called
"retribution fuck" could erase the fact that he had raped me the previous morning.
And the saddest part was I believed it, and that thick defensive coat of armor
remained intact for at least another two years. The most ironic part
is that my so called 'retribution fuck" did erase the fact that he had raped me,
but only for him.

"I didn't rape that girl."I could hear him saying,
"Ask her how she was riding me like
a horny cowgirl in a barnyard. She wanted it just as much as
I did." To him it was just another fuck.

It was when I turned 18 that I started to abandon my sense of "femme" identity. It had gotten me nowhere up till then and I grew more "masculine" to try to gain control and power in the world. I cut my long hair off. I grew out my armpit hair. I wore all men's clothes.

I don't have self blame about anything that has happened--
but if this pattern of sex power behavior had not already been set
then perhaps my body and my mind would have allowed me to lay there
and play as dead as I felt and maybe then my perpetrators would know their names.

One day I was backpacking in Australia,
I was a naïve empress
just beginning to feel (too) safe again in the world.
I was walking through town,, caught off guard in front
of the wrong guy whose eyes lit up when he saw that
my emperor's clothes barely covering my naked body,
so quick was he to take the opportunity to take advantage
and assault me for the third time in my life.

(SEXUAL ASSAULT INCIDENT #3-sexually molested while
receiving a massage from a man working at the youth hostel I was staying at)

I remember being in a dark room, trying to prove to you how strong I was. Trying to prove that I could hang, that I was not intimidated by your advances. You showed me videos of girls you had taped bungee cording naked. (I didn't even question why) You asked if you could give me a massage. I said Yes. You asked me to take my shirt off and lay on my stomach. It felt good at first. I was so relaxed I almost fell asleep. But then my eyes opened startled each time you grazed my nipples with your hands that were supposed to remain on my back. I remember thinking that I needed to get out of here. But I was so sleepy. You had tranquilized me into submission with your manipulative hands. How did I let things get this far and how can I stop things from going any further...I sat up suddenly and forced myself into consciousness, bounded towards the door and threw it open. I can still remember you laughing as I flew to my escape.

It was a sexual assault. It was traumatic. It was not my imagination.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder had me driving the rental car down the wrong side of the Australian street because I feared returning back to the hostel the next night where I knew I would have to see him again. It was a small country town and there was only one hostel open. I escaped a potentially fatal head on collision but ended up backing the same car into a fence. This man's massage violated my body and my trust so deep that I would never let a man massage me again for years afterwards. Massage therapists had to be female, and the only men who massaged me were ones that paid me the same price as a lapdance to massage me. This is how I began to regain my power.

THIS IS MY "POLICE" REPORT. (the only report I ever made) READ IT AND Feel the strength of my survival.