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I need to remember that not everyone has dealt with sexual abuse.
I especially need to remember this before I tell people about my sexual abuse, because while I’ve told my small tale so many times that it causes me next to no discomfort to relate, it can cause great angst in those who hear it.
Perhaps I should make an even greater effort to remember this when it crosses my mind to let a lover know about the abuse. Maybe it’s something that should not be mentioned at all, ever. I’m not sure.
But because I have a big flappy mouth that sometimes operates without an effective filter to the outside world, I felt compelled to let slip the basic outlines of the abuse not long ago to my friend.
When I tell anyone these days, it’s with the matter-of-factness with which one might relate the story of an unfortunate automobile accident that happened decades ago; an accident that required surgeries and years of physical therapy but is now only a distant memory, occasionally causing short sharp pangs but nothing more. This was of course the way I related the story to my friend.
However matter-of-factly I endeavored to tell the story, my friend did not take it well. Really, really not well at all. Abuse is apparently something he’d never dealt with before, not in his own life or in the lives of his friends. Suffice it to say that he was quite seriously taken aback and the erotic usage of the word “Daddy” between us is currently on indefinite hiatus.
Dammit.
I tried to lead him through my thoughts on the use of that word in an erotic context. When he called me his “little girl,” was he thinking of me as his own daughter, I asked him. Of course not, he told me with horror. Nor did I think of him as my literal father, I explained.
I told him that I loved using that word with him because it evoked for me a lovely combination of power and protection, control and love, demanding and caring all at once. It holds for me the idea of placing my body in his hands and having him take care of it for me. I’ve had so little of that over the years. I want it, and badly.
He understood, I believe, the rational sense of my words. But it shook him enough that the next time we were together after my ill-timed telling, there were incrementally fewer hair-pulling-dirty-talking-ass-fucking moments and incrementally more gentle moments.
Not that there’s anything wrong with gentle moments. Not at all.
Sex is so messy. There are unexpected fluids, noises, smells and tastes. There are awkward positions, strained muscles, bruises, injuries. There are messy condoms and messy bodies. We clean up before and then end up in the shower again when it’s over. It’s messy for bodies and even more messy for hearts, perhaps.
Would it still be good if it weren’t so messy?



