a blog post by Keeley Young
trigger warning: discussions of sexual assault, course language, depression and a general distrust in human beings.
We can’t quite control how our trauma manifests itself. I was sexually assaulted sometime in early September. I can track the exact date because I kept the ticket stub to the movie we saw together the night before. Or, I suppose, the night of, too. There are two specific moments I give proper thought to as moments of assault. The night of the film, he attempted to finger me while we showered together. Part of me thinks this fact—that we showered together in his cramped shower, that I agreed to it and wanted it—is a catalyst for the sexual assault. Although to blame myself is certainly going to be a problem. The morning after the film, after I slept in a separate room—to at least attempt to get a proper night’s rest in another man’s house—he groped me while we were spooning in bed. He grabbed my dick and started jerking me off, and I felt completely helpless to it. I think to myself, was I inviting it in? This too achieves nothing. Words would not come to me in that moment. I blamed myself for not being able to get out anything except a grunt when he asked me if this was okay. He should have known it wasn’t.
The first time we got any sort kind of intimate, I told him I wanted nothing sexual. I am a gay man, but more specifically, I have taken to identifying as a homoromantic aegosexual. In plain terms, it means this: romantically, I am attracted to other men, and sexually, I prefer only touching myself. For a while, I branded myself the “horny asexual”, temporarily blinded to a label I’d given myself earlier already. I’m certain I have mentioned being aego plenty already in writing, or something of a similar degree, but people seem to have a difficult time remembering.
It was, and is, important for me to express these truths openly. I am a sexual being avoidant of having sex. I make frequent sex jokes, take nudes, write occasionally about sex, but I now avoid making any sexual references with myself involved. The first time I had penetrative sex as a bottom, I largely felt nothing. Soul leaving the body. Which is an accurate descriptor to how things would have to be for me to have penetrative sex ever again. Somehow people cannot quite comprehend this possibility, that I can be happy and still lust after a romantic relationship without the want or need for anything inherently sexual. When I explained this to him, he seemed to understand. I had let him know anything we had done already I was comfortable with me, but still stressed that I wanted nothing sexual. To me, I strip away the sexual view of kissing and cuddling. These are things I find comfortably romantic. These are things I want for. These things I consented to.
These intimacy issues of mine stem from the fear I have of presenting differently to whomever I’m being intimate with. This I can understand, however much I wish to reject it. I fear of giving them even the slightest of ideas, and them breaking down the trust by moving without asking. In reacting to the trauma of what happened to me in early September, I have withdrawn myself somewhat from the idea of intimacy. I have become more selective about who I hang out with. The reason I sat down today to write about the assault comes from an uncomfortable fear I am being too protective of my emotions. Of my heart. Trying too impossibly to only spend time with anyone I believe knows me well enough to not overstep my boundaries. Inherently, I am fearful of the people who either do not seem to know about my aegosexuality, or make me feel unsettled by any comment that seems to ignore it. When I published a poem once about coming to terms with this version of myself, I got multiple comments suggesting I just need to get laid. I am tense and uncertain when someone suggests something innately sexual in relation to me. What they would do to my body, what they want me to do to theirs. Terrified I will be hurt or assaulted again. So I stay in the shallows, avoidant of sharks.
There is someone I have feelings for. Although neither of us is looking for a relationship, I still find it impossible to not picture an eventual collapse of everything because, in part, of how I am positioned away from sex. If I continue having feelings for him, if I consider the possibility of getting what I want, consensually, I have to own the possibility of giving off the wrong impression. Having to sharply explain my way out of it. Speaking words that turn to dust in the moment. Instead of denying this fear, I focus on spending my time with him in ways that are comfortable, only flirting with him briefly. I want to kiss him, but I don’t want what I have to assume will be the domino affect afterwards. It is avoidant, but I am protected. It was courageous enough to even ask him if he had any romantic feelings for me at all (he does). I start to doubt even that. I do not want to fuck up the bond that is continuously growing between us. I do not want to devastate myself like that.
The man I saw a movie with had appreciated that we hadn’t spoken about sex before meeting in person the first time, which had been a week or so before we saw the film together. This, in large part because I am aegosexual. I saw no opportunity or reason to discuss sex because I didn’t want it, nor did I imagine we would get intimate in any sense. Maybe I had brief thoughts of us snuggled up in bed. Maybe. Those intimate moments with him were the first intimate moments I had had with a man since the end of my last relationship in May. And he sexually assaulted me.
[my last partner did not, let me make that abundantly clear. My last partner was very understanding of my complicated relationship with my sexuality, but I also believe he didn’t understand sometimes how I could be a non-sexual person and yet still get passionate when we kissed. What can I say, I love making-out with men. That explains the boner, I guess. The boner is never an indicator I want anyone to fuck me, though. I just love kissing men.]
I suppose I do understand my trauma.
I think with certainty people would believe me strange for being so comfortable confessing to being sexually assaulted. So comfortable talking about it. There is a weight of taboo around its discussion, largely I think because when women are sexually assaulted, it is preferred they don’t speak out and risk toppling the successful career and home life of whichever man it was who couldn’t have a wank at home. As a queer man, one who identifies under the umbrella of asexuality, it is simple for me to understand when someone oversteps on consent. Openly admitting to my sexual assault has gradually become less difficult. I have made myself aware to everything I am uncomfortable with. And how I spoke to him about this and he simply forgot. In a matter of weeks after the assault, I published a poem online on my website entitled ‘the reason for the blisters’ in which I discussed the emotional reactions I had to being fondled in his bed in his apartment the morning after we saw a movie together in his suburb. My fear surrounding its release centred on what I assumed he would do upon reading it, if he did read it—but I have not heard a single word from him about it. Stupidly, I didn’t remove and block him immediately on everything. I don’t know why. I ignore his messages, or reply occasionally with tiny responses. I don’t know why. I haven’t forgiven him for touching me inappropriately, but…maybe I am worried things will be worse if I do anything drastic. This, I think, is likely a fear of the sexually-assaulted. Mine was lower on the scale, and I can take refuge in that, but regardless I am fearful for a rejection because I continue to acknowledge that it happened. It is all so emotionally-controlling. All inside of my head. It is exhausting to go back and forth on whether you were part of the problem.
I’m not certain I speak about what happened, and happens, to me solely to have my voice be heard, or to give voices to other people who have borne similar weights. I write because I do, plain, spread like butter on bread. This circumstance can be broken into a vague generalisation—someone shattered my trust by not listening to my feelings. It is impossible to avoid blaming myself: I think of how cowardly it was to remain quiet, fragile, breakable beside him; I envision a version of myself without the possibility of an erect penis, for I think an erection makes simple-minded men excited. But women are sexually assaulted without a penis, although the body part is replaced.
I think of simply avoiding intimate moments. Becoming abstinent from cuddling up to anyone, becoming abstinent from steamy make-out sessions because it must only present as lustful longing. I think of my broken, tattered, smashed-in glass heart, like a church window. The least religious person you know just compared his heart to a stained-glass representation of Jesus turning wine into water, by the way. Truly insane. I am terrified to think it will remain permanently shattered because a someone will inevitably stop listening to me, sometime.
I think all of these things and somehow, I do not cry.
I cried over that morning only once [since typing this originally, I have cried again]. This is not something I should necessarily be celebrating. I have not spoken to my therapist about that morning-and-night—I worry I won’t be able to contain, or measure, myself, if I start to meander from topics like what should I do about the impending doom of my future? to a man sexually assaulted me and I let him because I am a terrible advocate for myself when I feel a threat of emotional danger, although there I was, giving myself trauma. The ability to discuss my trauma I know is a strength I am afforded, even if I begin to waver when I speak on it out loud, even if I let my emotions overwhelm me. We process it how we allow ourselves to process it. I have spent a major portion of this year isolating myself from intimacy. Because I am scared and scarred.
Because I don’t believe people like to listen to me.
When I was thinking initially about writing this piece, at work as one does—thinking about your sexual assault in between serving customers is insane—I had this absurd idea to name the piece South Australia, or some variation of it. [I sincerely apologise if this comes across as a suggestion to glorify sexual assault, but you see I decided very obviously to scrap the terrible idea.] I would have found an again absurd way to link the trauma to the time I spent in the state in November of last year. An entire year has passed since I was holidaying in Adelaide. My fondest memories of the trip take me back to Monarto Safari Park, a sprawling middle-of-nowhere habitat for various animals, prominently from the African plains. I wore down the soles of my shoes walking a large portion of the 12km walking trails the safari park is afforded given its location approximately an hour’s bus ride out of the CBD. This is the reason for the blisters. I mostly just avoided waiting for the shuttle within the park, which was more or less a reskinned SA city bus. Wandering off on my own, I found a version of myself content with being alone. Alone, but not lonely. This is always something to find a comfort with—lonely requires a certain sacrifice. I wouldn’t have felt lonely on those trails, peering through gaps in the trees to see a herd of American bison. Alone, but hopefully not lonely, has kept me somewhat of an avoidant person, certainly with intimacy.
It is complicated wanting something but restricting yourself out of fear. Some people seem confused when I talk about my aegosexuality. I saw a description recently that aligned it with cereal in the pantry: aego individuals have an array of options in their pantry, all at their disposal, yet they prefer to watch someone pour themselves a bowl and eat it instead. I don’t have a weird relationship with porn—I watch it to release the horny energy I am feeling, but I have no desire to participate in any of the sexual acts shot on camera.
No one enjoys a debriefing before an intimate act though. I feel unsettled on how to approach the conversation and therefore shy away from it or blurt it out like I am fighting from within myself. Uncertainly, I attempt to position myself to more adequately say, “ignore your own feelings of desire in their complete form, if they have a complete form, because I want nothing I deem sexual. Undoubtedly, I worry everyone else finds cuddling and kissing as warm-up rounds to any sex act. It’s the act of shooting yourself in the foot. This is how I feel.
Proper communication is important, but men have a history of not listening or simply ignoring. A man will say “your body, my choice” loud and proud online. A man will do whatever he wants because he thinks, as a man, he has the allowance to do so. A man will run for presidency despite being a convicted felon, a rapist, and a genuinely terrible human being. And he will win. Somehow.
A part of why I felt compelled to write this out aligns with the result of recent elections. The US election unsettles me on a global scale, but last month, Queensland elected a PM whose party has seemingly discussed making abortion illegal, in response I am certain to the US’s reversal of Roe v Wade. This denial of abortion as a right for any individual who finds themselves pregnant feels like a denial of sexual assault victims. If someone is raped and impregnated, they should be given the right to abort a fertilised egg. Carrying your trauma around is miserable enough without it being something that grows, something that feeds off your strength, and something you have to birth, or die trying.
I need to do better at combating this trauma. I have a therapist for a reason, and yet I contend with mentioning this trauma because there is an understood weight to sexual assault. A mood killer, although I shouldn’t be worried about maintaining a certain vibe when I sit in front of my therapist, who has seen me in tears more than any other person in the world. Unless a ghost resides in my bedroom.
Crying is healthy and yet I am also sufficiently tired of it. Not that, again, I have shed too many tears over something that just puts anxiety and depression in bold text. Maybe in truth I need to cry MORE over the only intimate moment I can think of since March of this year. I want to cry now thinking of how I have allowed a sexual assault to overwhelm me enough to do more damage than it should. But I cannot cry right now. I have adult things to do. Like attempting to ignore my emotions at work.
I do not want to blame myself for other people’s actions. I firmly believe other people’s harmful beliefs should not affect people who do not believe the same. People deserve the right to abortions. Nobody deserves to be sexually assaulted. I must not think about how disappointed someone might be if I deny them anything sexual. I don’t fucking exist for you.
[finally removed him from social media because I was absolutely dumb for caring whether he was frustrated with me or not]
Since drafting this over the course of two days, in which I watched My Old Ass while typing into Notes on my phone, trained into the city for Supanova, and sat in the shade waiting to meet-up with someone, I have:
cuddled up to a man
kissed a man
terrifyingly avoided the discussion again, still contending with the distrust (the sexual assault) in my head, despite having miles more trust for this man than the other
had the conversation in the early hours of the morning, fighting back my assumptions
gotten about an hour of sleep
cuddled up to, kissed, likely made a cute fool of myself in front of, and just smiled a lot at this man.
So . . . I don’t know, trauma isn’t forever, and you can deny it power. Yesterday morning I thought any form of intimacy with this specific man, whom I just spent an afternoon, an evening, and a morning with, was far off in the distant future at the very least. The trauma still has power, but fuck it, I am not powerless against it. The anxiety around being wounded again will linger. But yesterday-slash-technically-this-morning, I Laurie Strode’d it. I punched that motherfucker Michael Myers in the damn heart.
Something about being self-supportive is inherently cringe in prose.
But avoiding intimacy because I disbelieve a person will listen to me is worse.
-----------------------------
the reason for the blisters
there should be someone reminding you
it’s okay to say no,
and there should be someone reminding you
it’s not always so simple either.
when you’re lying there thinking a man’s got your best interests at heart
(you shouldn’t be thinking about his heart)
because he listened, once,
yet maybe by now he’s just forgotten.
you don’t know exactly how to form the letters
caught in a fear-based, spidermade web
thinking he could force himself on you,
again,
just like this, even if you suddenly did speak it.
he thinks your grunts are moans,
they don’t form the n-o shape,
they lack all enthusiasm, where is the passion,
does he not miss that, crave it,
he must not even notice.
when you finally peel his hand off of your body,
where it had been tugging your penis,
it flames you up to think about his reaction. his presence.
is he disappointed?
you feel bare and you’re not even naked.
why can’t he just be romantic.
hold you tenderly, trace the shape of your name on the back of your shirt,
do something considerate again.
like only barely touching your arm while you watch television.
now every time you wear these leather boots you think about finding your nerve to leave his apartment without appearing impolite
despite the fact he shattered your trust
he listened, said he could be good,
he said he dreamt of this moment
referring to the mock intimacy you’re left with.
(nice is different than good)
you know he whines to peel off your pyjama bottoms and grind against your bare asshole because this is what he expects from every single other boy that should find himself in that bed.
and you shouldn’t have to apologise for your difference.
or pretend he misread a sign.
an erect penis is not an invitation
you curse yourself for having an erect penis.
you curse yourself for being ‘gifted’ something to be ogled at, to be marvelled upon.
if only it could be folded in on itself,
stored away without the promised discomfort of a drag queen’s tuck.
although, you think, walking on your blisters,
maybe that pain would be welcomed more than the panic of being sexually assaulted.
as long as you can label it that
because you had ample opportunity to just say ‘no’ and shove him off
and you did
eventually.
I talk about my whatever-you-call-it because otherwise it eats away // a man listens, until he doesn’t want to, I suppose // from the first moment I kissed him in that apartment, I said, nothing sexual, okay? // he could have said: then nothing intimate? // I could have avoided finding his company comfortable.
I start to find my genitals eyesores // things that make my existence a fragmented mirror of what I should be presenting to all these men I flirt with // what’s the most hideous thing the Snow Queen’s mirror could show you? // and I know the mirror technically belonged to those freaky evil goblins // is the hideous thing a gay kid with too many hormones and an unwillingness to just have sex // when I’m scuffing these boots, I’m thinking it’s a-okay if people leave me right alone // as they should.
I have sat on my hands to make them go numb // I shouldn’t I shouldn’t
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