Wait. Do what? Touch me?
He held you down. You couldn’t move, and you liked it.
I blinked at the internal accusation, remembering the last several minutes as though watching them happen to someone else.
I’d liked that? I’d like him over me? Holding me down? I’d liked not being able to move? Being touched, possessed, controlled like that? He didn’t ask. However, I didn’t say no. I didn’t ask him to stop. Asking him to stop had never even entered my mind.
A flood of disbelief was followed by a rising tide of reason, during which I attempted to explain and describe my own desires to myself as something healthy and normal.
But is it? Is it healthy and normal?
Yes.
No.
Maybe?
No. You were afraid.
Was I?
Yes. And you wanted to be overpowered, you liked it. He could’ve done anything to you, and you would’ve been helpless to stop him. Even now—thinking about the possibility of handing over control again—You. Want. It.
I did. Just the thought of Abram over me again, his weight covering me—but this time naked, entering me, taking his pleasure from my body—I was completely and wholly arrested by the mere notion. It made me breathless, achy with a new dazzling, blinding thirst.
Yes. I want it.
And yet, I shouldn’t want to feel helpless, right? I shouldn’t want to feel overpowered physically. I’d felt that way once, against my will, and it revolted me, it kept me up at night, it gave me nightmares.
On the other hand.
With Abram it felt different—the loss of control, the lack of explicit consent, the being conquered sexually, emotionally—and what did that say about me? Was I turning a difficult moment in my life into a fantasy? Just the thought made me sick.
My internal arguments were becoming circular. Disbelief and reason were pushed aside by a creeping sense of shame and guilt.
Is there something wrong with me? I shouldn’t want this, should I? I shouldn’t—
“Mona.”