Some of the worst memories of my life are stowed inside pieces of paper, locked up so that they stay out of mind but still in reach. I need only to flip to the page to access the memory.
It’s kind of remarkable how it works, actually: I write down the details while they’re still fresh — and then, it’s as if the memory is physically removed from my brain. It’s not even just that I refuse to think about it. I quite literally stop remembering. That’s how I documented the traumas of my childhood while preserving my own mental health. The memories I choose to keep away only flood back when I need them to.
Today, I’m revisiting a much fresher page. It’s about something I’m ashamed I didn’t protect myself from as an adult, when I’m supposed to be the only person I’ve ever counted on to keep me safe.
So let’s talk about what sexual coercion looks like in a relationship.
Sex with my college boyfriend started out normal. I was exploring pain-free penetration as I began getting over my (also sexual abuse-induced) vaginismus, but I was generally into it and excited to experiment.
But this was my first sexually active long-term relationship, so I didn’t question it when he began to twist sex into something other than what it ought to be: a mutually enjoyable experience between willfully participating parties. Instead, he treated sex only as a service to be procured.
That meant he would constantly find ways to make it so that I owed him sex, whether as an apology or as a gift. Whenever he was upset at me, he made it clear that sex would lift his spirits enough to forgive me for whatever argument or transgression had soured his mood. He would pay no mind to my repeated requests not to make sex transactional.
I couldn’t be physically affectionate with him at all because any touch, cuddle or kiss immediately led him to expect sex. At any moment, regardless of what I was doing or whether I felt up to it, he might inform me of his sudden arousal by grabbing my hand and putting it on him, expecting me to take care of it. It was this kind of behavior that gradually drained me of all the desire for him that I once had.
Soon, sex became so unpleasant for me that I would dread visiting him, because I knew I’d be faced with his endless nagging for sexual favors. He kept track of how long it’d been since he last received certain sex acts, as well as how many of these acts I “owed” him for one reason or another.
I began to mentally prepare for the reality that every refusal racked up another tally against me. He would only bring it up next time as leverage for why it’s about time I gave him something. So, oftentimes, saying no simply wasn’t worth it. I knew it would only compound the problem for my future self.
Plus, even when I did say no, he would more than likely wear me down by asking for something less demanding instead. Then, when I agreed to that, he’d push for more anyway and get me to finish the job he originally asked for. Me being half-asleep didn’t stop him from trying, either. Oftentimes, I would just do whatever he asked so I could finally sleep in peace.
One morning, he joked about having penetrated me while I was asleep. The horror that washed over me didn’t register to him at all. I didn’t feel any pain and I was sure I would’ve woken up if he had really tried what he claimed, but I couldn’t tell if he was fibbing or not. I’m still not entirely sure he clarified.
Whenever I told him some sex act caused me pain or discomfort, he reminded me that I was neglecting his needs or depriving him of something I had previously promised him (a promise that, again, was likely manipulated out of me). Once, he found success by telling me he’d only ask for a certain act once — just to try it. I gave in, thinking I could get it over with, only for him to continue requesting it over and over again.
Not only was he happy to continue when I was obviously in pain, uncomfortable, frustrated, sad or otherwise unenthusiastic during sexual acts, he admitted that my pain actually turned him on. In hindsight, it’s no wonder he told me foreplay was a chore. My pleasure would’ve gained him nothing because it was my pain that got him off.
It got to the point where he would tell me he suspected I was asexual. Why, then, was I so enthusiastic about sex in the beginning, before his coercive behavior started? Did he ever question that? No. Instead, he joked about how limp and unenthusiastic I was in bed.
For the last year and a half of our relationship, I harbored this looming feeling that I needed to break up with him. I couldn’t pinpoint a good reason, so I put it down to not being ready to get married on his timeline. I thought, at the time, that I had a good boyfriend. My logic hadn’t caught up to what my body had known for a while: that moving in with and marrying this man would lead to a life of misery.
When I at last mustered the courage to break up with him, I thought it would be more decent to do it in person (he lived in a different state). After all, he once threatened to hurt himself (or something… I’m not sure what exactly he implied, but it sounded like a threat) if I ever dumped him over FaceTime. But I hadn’t given myself an easy exit plan. So when I did it, my flight was still a few days away, and the airport itself more than an hour’s drive away.
Even in the midst of his emotional turmoil, he promised he would let me leave. He would drive me to the airport, and I shouldn’t move my flight. So, seeing as he didn’t seem violent, I stayed the extra days. Every morning, when he would wake me up asking why I left him and promising he would change, I comforted him.
In one last attempt to placate him, I told him he could “use” my body for the rest of the week. It was my final trade for freedom. That way, I wouldn’t have to know what it’s like to refuse him sex while he was in this state. So, he used my body — multiple times a day, while I laid there motionless, zoned out and sometimes almost in tears.
I wasn’t a partner. I was just a hole.
During these sessions, he’d thank me for being so “generous,” so good to him, for letting him do this. Then, he’d still ask me for more than what I offered, just to see what else he could wring out of me. All the while, he was telling me that he’s learned from his wrongs and would change his sexually coercive behavior.
I never accused him of sexual assault. But when I described our dynamic to him and the implications became clear, he grew upset at the way it sounded. He told me I was accusing him of something serious. He was frightened not because it dawned on him that he might be a sexual abuser, but because he feared that I would paint him as one.
He confided in his friends. Worriedly, they asked: “She gave consent, right?” He said yes. Ultimately, they concluded that while it sucks that his behavior got him broken up with, at least it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. At least he never sexually assaulted me.
(For the record, this story is not about my last relationship.)
