It Happened to Me!

I have lived an embarrassing life.

Some would call me clumsy, or accident-prone, or even generally unlucky. I once missed school because I somehow managed to lock myself in the garage. Another time I jumped up to greet a friend who had walked into the classroom and my skirt hit the floor and the whole class saw me in my underwear. On snowy days, I pretty much just resigned myself to one huge, ass-in-the-air, wipe-out fall in a crowded public area.

Luckily, over the years I’ve learned to laugh at the fact that I get myself into odd and unexpected mishaps, and that my height and general lack of grace means I fall down more than the female lead in a romantic comedy. But back then I was suffering from the period of intense self-consciousness known as adolescence, when like, ohmygod, everyone was totally noticing every stupid thing I did.

Between acne and braces and puberty and growth spurts and the stupid clothes they wear, let’s face it, teenagers walk around looking like some kind of weird creatures. The only thing more embarrassing than being a teenager is having sex as a teenager. Your painful awkwardness and the general awkwardness of recently discovered sexuality merge into a snowballing awkwardness supernova that can only end badly. That’s why teen magazines are filled with all those “It Happened to Me” horror stories of like, kissing a boy and farting, or a maxipad falling out of your bag in front of your crush. So it’s unfortunate that the single most embarrassing incident of my life took place both during that time period, and with no clothes on.

I was 16 or 17 and dating the boy to whom I would later be briefly engaged. (That’s how we do where I’m from; I’m currently the oldest unmarried female in my family.) We had just spent an enjoyable afternoon at the Chinese buffet and had retired to his boudoir for a little post-lunch nookie. He sat on the floor, leaning against his bed, and I was on my knees between his legs giving him a blowjob. He was minimally endowed which made him easy to deep throat, so I was doing so with gusto. What happened next still makes me feel the horrifying pang of the suddenly embarrassing.

I threw up, ya’ll.

I threw up ON HIS DICK.

I’m still not sure how it happened. I wasn’t feeling sick, and I don’t remember any warning signs. One second I was sucking dick, and the next I was vomiting into his crotch.

The worst part is that for a few horrible seconds after my gag reflex was activated, I knew what had happened but he didn’t. He was leaning back against the bed in enjoyment, with my head blocking the view. Whatever he felt must not have been different enough from the feel of my dribbling saliva to cause any alarm. So I was all alone, frozen in panic with the horrible knowledge that in mere seconds this guy was going to know that I had just puked all over his cock.

Of course, there’s nothing like a girl frozen in fear with her face inches from your erect penis like a deer caught in your testicle headlights to get your attention. It wasn’t long before he asked, “What happened?” in a tone of awakening alarm I haven’t heard duplicated since.

“I guess…I was sick…” I lamed, as we both looked at the foamy white vomit currently settling into his pubes. Not to ruin the fantasy, but I have gagged a little giving head many times. And during those times, I MAY have puked just the littlest tiny bit and swallowed it back down without ever alerting the blowjobee to what had happened. But this was no minor incident. His entire crotch was now covered in a substance with the consistency of cottage cheese. Desperate to undo the damage, I grabbed a nearby towel and started mopping puke out of his ass-crack. Incidentally, that may be the least romantic sentence ever written. Only my lack of a viable source of income kept me from just running out of the room and starting a new life somewhere. I can’t really even remember what we said after that, so noisy is this recollection with the thundering sound of my own humiliation.

The weird thing is we totally dated for like 2 more years after that. And in retrospect, maybe I should have sent that one into YM.

Deleted

Reading my email this past weekend, I began to wonder if I'd been linked on http://www.rapeartist.com/. Just like the last time I wrote about something controversial, the comments on my most recent post began to fill up with men (who I'm sure have never gotten drunk or met a strange girl) lambasting me for "asking to get raped."

Although I was drunk in only two of those stories and had had one line of cocaine in one of them, many of them said I deserved it for being a "binge drinker" and "cocaine user." Still others believed I deserved it for hanging around with "scumbags" or "going to strange men's houses." And yet for all but 3 of those instances I was under 18. I guess even if you're a CHILD it's your fault if you get assaulted. Just goes to show you how willing many people are to completely twist the a narrative to put the blame on those who are victimized instead of those who perpetrate crimes. It really proves my original point. Telling women it is our fault we have been raped keeps rape from being punished.

I don't like to disable anonymous posting because you guys should be able to tell your stories anonymously. And in the past I haven't moderated comments because they show just how real these unenlightened attitudes about women still are, how much ignorance and hate is lurking just below the surface. But after reading every last comment, I have decided to delete the assholes.

Because you guys deserve a safe place to write about sexual assault without judgment. Because this isn't a public forum in which every viewpoint has to be represented; it's MY blog for whatever I want to post. And mostly, because it was really fucking fun hitting that little trash can icon.

Keep telling the truth.

The Number is Eight

I have been sexually assaulted more than once. Each time that it happened to me, I felt that extenuating circumstances kept it from truly being rape. I was working as a prostitute, he was my boyfriend, I was drunk, I got in the car. I never believed that I had fought hard enough. I made excuses for the men who hurt me; I told myself "he didn't know what he was doing." When I spoke about my experiences with sexual assault (which I did very rarely), I would say only that “a lot of bad things have happened to me.”

After reading the responses to this post on Jezebel, it occurred to me that I do not know the actual number. I lost track of how many times I had been violated because I did not call them by name. I did not call them by name because I blamed myself. Because I did not name them, I could not fight.

Now I realize that the following occurrences are not hazy or ambiguous. They are assaults, crimes that come to a specific number. No matter what mistakes I made before or after. I have gotten drunk many times. I have had many boyfriends and gotten into many cars. The only times I was raped were when the man I was with was a rapist.

THE LIST:

1. Danny
He was my best friend’s boyfriend, and he took my virginity when I had not yet decided to give it. Still a Christian, I was saving myself for marriage. He took advantage of my crush on him, the fact that I was willing to come over later at night, and the fact that I wanted to kiss him. He ignored me when I said no and I felt ashamed that my inexperienced body responded. I was 13 or maybe 12. He smiled and walked me home afterward, singing songs to “cheer me up” while my bloody underwear was balled up in my pocket. It was the first time a boy ever told me I was beautiful, and I remember the unexpected shock of those words as well as I remember the weight of his arms on mine and the too-hard grind of his teeth against my nipples. When I told his girlfriend, my best friend, what had happened, she did not believe me. I learned my lesson then about rape. It is slippery and hard to see. I decided I had blown the whole thing out of proportion.

2. Matt, Chris, Danny, and others
Matt and I went to school together. After the dismissal bell rang, we would walk over to his house. His friends were older; in their 20s at least. I can’t remember all their names. One day we were all playing around with a pair of handcuffs someone had found. But when I put them on, hands behind my back, no one would give me the key. They circled around me, touching me. One of them offered me a drag of his cigarette, and Matt said, “Don’t give her anything.” I said I had to get home before my parents came home from work. They pulled my top off. Matt said he would let me go after I sucked them all off, starting with Danny. “And no penguin head, either,” he said, meaning that I wasn’t to leave them with their pants around their ankles. I only gave one guy oral sex before they let me go. Not everyone touched me, but none of them stopped it. I blocked this entire incident out of my memory for a year or two, until one day it came rushing back to me.

3. Chris
I was 14 and he was 21. I believed him to be my boyfriend, and only a decade later understood that our age difference meant I had been molested. When I was not in the mood to have sex, he would rape me. Once he raped me in front of a friend, who did nothing to stop it.

4. Robb
He may be the most evil person I’ve ever met. I was 16 and he was 28; we met online and I secretly made the hour and a half drive to spend the night with him. We began dating, although he refused to be monogamous, even having me drop him off at other women’s houses. One day I cut school, came over, and we fucked all day. Halfway through he started slapping me. We had played this game before, but he took it too far. I began to plead with him and he hit me harder. I said no, and he fastened his hands around my neck and choked me with eyes that looked cold. I believed he was going to kill me when I passed out. I came to and he was raping my ass instead. Afterward he told me, “The fear in your eyes made me want to cum and cry at the same time.” I went to school the next day with bruises on my jaw and broken blood vessels on my neck.

5. Dan
I also met him online and came over to his house. I was a teenager and he was an adult, and I now realize, a predator. At the time I just thought we were on a date. Instead he held me down and fucked me while I struggled. When he came he pushed my head down so far on his dick I choked. I wondered why he never called me again.

6. ?
I don’t know his name. I was working as a prostitute when he raped me. I consented to vaginal sex with him and he forced me into anal sex. He put a belt around my neck. “Shh,” he told me. “You’ll like it. Kiss me, relax.” He paid me. I left.

7. Chris
I drunkenly came home with him. Two other girls came too. My head was drooping as they all chattered in the living room. I went to the bathroom and threw up, then stumbled down the hall and passed out on his bed. I woke up with him on top of me. I would see him out afterward, talking to other drunk girls. I always pulled them aside and told them that he had date-raped me, so I’m probably not his favorite person. I later found out he is a high-school teacher.

8. ?
I was leaving an event I had organized. It should have been my moment of celebration. I was drunk, had probably had a line of cocaine, and thought taking a cab home was the safe option. The driver talked me into the front seat with a lame excuse about how he wanted to read my palm. Then he put his hands down my shirt, up my skirt. He told me he could tell I would be “heavy” someday. I said “No, stop.” He drove down dark alleyways touching me, looking for a place to pull over. I begged him to take me home, and finally he did. I didn’t pay.


I didn’t press charges any of these times. Some of them I didn’t even tell anyone about. I am posting this not to revel in my bad experiences, but to show that the real circumstances of real rape don’t always look like we think they should. Rapists are not just evil men who jump out of the bushes. Rape can happen even if you were drunk, even if you stayed still instead of kicking and biting, even if you had an orgasm, even if you liked the guy, even if you had consented to sex with him previously. The lies we are told about what rape silence us. If we aren’t even sure that we have been raped, how can we seek justice?

If all people who have been assaulted would stand up and say, “I have been raped” instead of blaming themselves, more rapists would be punished. So for that reason I am telling all of you that I have been sexually assaulted 8 times. I hope it never happens again, but if it does, I will call it what it is. And I will press charges.

Workin' for the Weekend

This is not considered classy, but I generally charged by the “pop” not the clock, choosing to invest the time it took to leave my customer satisfied. You tell me what you what me to do, and I’ll tell you how much it will cost for me to come over and do that thing until you cum. My lenient attitude toward pricing was kind of a sexual honor system–sure a guy could waste hours of my time deliberately not cumming, but it didn’t usually work out that way. They didn’t want to be rushed, I didn’t want our encounter to take forever, and we met somewhere in the middle. And for every client that went 20 minutes over the hooker’s hour, there was another one that only took 10 minutes altogether, so I figured it evened out.

For the most part guys were quick and considerate; even if they wanted to stretch their dollar, the sheer novelty of the situation usually made it hard to control themselves. But every once in awhile I would come across a client who was determined to milk everything he could out of his donated C-notes. These guys would stop and pull out every time orgasm seemed imminent, sometimes announcing “Stop, I don’t want to cum yet.” A few times these encounters went on so long I completely ran out of steam and had to take a breather myself.

Paid sex is much more athletic than regular sex. In relationships, we’ve all had lazy sex; I’ve become the master of giving lying-down handjobs while sleepy or drunk, and in a time of real malaise a nice face-fucking can usually do the job. But when you’re fucking for work, you have to bring the energy of a crazed nymphomanic to every sexual act. It’s a lot like being a porn star, with the added mental energy expended trying to figure out what the client wants you to do even when he’s too uncomfortable or embarrassed to tell you. You have to get yourself into positions you’ve only tried in yoga classes, sometimes while manufacturing an attraction and arousal that doesn’t exist. In short, it’s a workout, and it’s exhausting.

Early into my illustrious career I met a guy named Jack who owned (or at least claimed to own) a large hotel in Midtown. We met there for a gfe session one afternoon after class. I like having sex in hotels even in real life, mostly because of the liberal use of mirrors in hotel room décor, allowing me to watch myself sucking and fucking from every angle. As someone who is insecure about her body, it’s counterintuitive that I like sex in front of a mirror, but I find it’s actually reassuring. I always look a lot better than I think I do.

Jack was, incidentally, the ONLY customer who ever put a condom on for oral without being asked. It was the one gentlemanly thing about him; the rest was mostly a barrage of “Suck that cock you slut”s and “Look at yourself sucking that cock, whore”s. By the time he was ready to stick it in, I had told him how much I loved his cock so many different ways I was beginning to wish I knew a second language.

Once positioned on the bed, he invited me to sit on his cock and ride him. I don’t get how woman-on-top supposedly feels better for chicks; for me, it’s just a sloppier version of an aerobics class. I did it so long I’d tried pretty much all my moves: leaning forward so my tits dangle in his face and riding him horizontally, sitting up and bouncing on his cock with my feet flat on the bed, and reverse cowgirl bent over so he could stare at my ass. At this point in my life, I was working out for an hour or two every day, and used to this particular kind of workout, but even so this went on long enough that I was dripping sweat and starting to lose momentum. Even more delightful, every time I slowed down Jack would slap my ass and yell something along the lines of “C’mon, FUCK.” I gritted my teeth and worked through my burning quads thinking “I AM FUCKING, ASSHOLE.” I signed up for sex, I ended up in spin class.

Luckily, you don’t last long in this business without learning a few tricks of the trade. So, without further ado:

College Callgirl’s Top Ten Tips to Get Him to Hurry the Hell Up and Cum Already

1. When tired of being on top, have him scoot over to the edge of the bed and position one leg on the floor. This way you can use the leverage to go buckwild on his dick; your porn-star speed and agility will make him shoot in no time.

2. A well-time “Fuck me Daddy” does the trick.

3. Wrap your tits around his dick and slide them up and down.

4. Deepthroat him. This requires, of course, being able to deepthroat.

5. Stick your tongue way out and lick his balls like a puppy while looking up at him.

6. Play with yourself. Theatrically, not the way you do it alone. Especially effective while sucking his dick.

7. Play with his asshole. If reception is good, stick a finger up his ass.

8. Pull his cock out of your mouth and slap it against your face and tongue. Rub your face all over his dick like a satiny pillow.

9. Beg for a facial. “Please shoot your load all over my face” is like the Da Vinci code for unlocking splooge.

10. When all else fails, I spin an elaborate scenario about the girlfriend I’m going to bring next time. Close the deal by telling him how much you want to lick his cum off her tits.

If none of this stuff gets him off, he’s gay. Or on drugs.

From PostSecret Yesterday

I wonder how many of us are lying to our parents. After all, I never was a dogwalker.