I Know The Feeling

Author’s note: This piece is about my experience triggering my pal unexpectedly during consensual sex. We don’t talk enough about the nuances of being the trigger to someone else's trauma, especially as a fellow survivor and loving partner. Intent doesn’t minimize impact, and while my intention was absolutely not to harm my pal, that was the unfortunate outcome of this event. I noticed how embarrassed I was to realize I could cause this type of harm, since I consider myself a strong anti-sexual violence advocate. But shame doesn’t deserve silence. 

My pal and I subsequently discussed how to respond to each other the next time one of us is triggered, and developed a more concrete trigger/ aftercare plan together. Everything is a learning experience. I hope this story encourages you to also take the time to think about how you and your pals can help each other deal with sexual violence recovery. Ideally, this can be a step in dismantling the shame that is unjustly associated with recovery.    

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My fingers are plunged deep inside her. Her small breasts rise with each hard inhale. Her pink nipples slightly tremble as she lets out gasps of air. My knees are pressed firmly into each of her strong thighs, spreading her legs wide open as I kneel between them. Although it’s been only a few hours since the last time we lay naked together, I still crave her. I let my hands glide down her body. My palms stroke her, fingers curl, I feel all the contours of her warm cunt. I pull her towards me and she wiggles. We’re quite blazed and I’m enjoying her greedy appetite. Normally she’s far more controlled, but tonight she lets herself go. I’m not sure if it’s the weed, the full moon, or the summer heat. 

We haven’t been seeing each other very long, a few months at most. It’s hard to keep track. I tend to prefer casual dating, but she makes me feel different. I’m completely and unashamedly into her. She’s not my usual type, strong and quiet, but I’ve been craving change. I love the mature sense of security she exudes. I can’t say the same about myself. A few dates in, she told me I seemed to be “orbiting above the ground”. Blame it on my personality, or maybe just my love of weed and fucking. I crave that out-of-this-world feeling that comes from the perfect mix of Purple Haze and orgasm. It makes me feel alive. Tonight I’m feeling particularly indulgent and she’s right there with me. 

After dinner, we tumble down to the basement where we’ve been sleeping during the oppressively hot nights. It’s dingy, with Christmas lights hung haphazardly in a feeble attempt at making the room look cute. The mattress lies directly on the carpeted floor, our bodies pile sloppily on top of it. 

My eyes run up her body as I pull my fingers out of her, lingering longer on her clit. I lightly pull her golden pubes. The soft hair around her pussy is longer than usual, I like it. I slide my fingers up her abs feeling her tight muscles. My hands wrap around her soft hips and grab as I bend down to kiss her. I taste myself in her mouth, flavored from having just gone down on me. Letting my lips part hers, I draw back and feel the softness of her tongue on my fingertips as her mouth envelopes me. My hand is tired and the muscles in my arm are hot and sore as I bring her closer to orgasm. I can feel that she’s almost there, her body is intimately familiar to me.

I lightly grip her throat, applying soft pressure as I squeeze. Suddenly, I notice her clear blue eyes, previously engaged and present, seem to drift away. At that moment her body cramps tightly, quaking hard under me. I expect her body to release and relax as she cums around my fingers, the way she has hundreds of times before. But this isn’t the way she normally feels, and I immediately get the sense that something’s wrong. I pull away and get off of her, giving her some space, trying to understand what’s wrong. I look into her eyes and there’s terror. In a flash, she’s no longer present, triggered, ripped back into her memories. 

“That was intense,” she manages to gasp out. I look at her face, trying to keep her composure. “Babe, are you okay?” I ask. The fun, floating high has dissipated and I’m acutely sober, a flood of worry washes over me. I watch her face betray what she’s feeling. Suddenly she curls on her side in the fetal position, clutching me to her unintentionally. I tumble onto the bed, our faces so close to each other on the pillow. My nose brushes her cheek, but she couldn’t be further away. I can see the past swimming in the blue of her eyes, tumbling out, soaking her face. Her lower lip is quivering. I know the feeling all too well. I see her confusion as she tries to pull herself back to the present bedroom she shares with me, unsure if the present is safe. I scoot back, to give her more physical space and get a full look at her: she’s trying to go into herself, her pupils are still dilated, she’s shaking and a light layer of sweat has settled all over her body. 

I know the feeling all too well. It doesn’t matter that we’re having a fantastic time. Maybe it’s because we’re having a fantastic time that we’ve let our guards down. I’m not sure what triggered her. As I feel her breathing slow, I’m kicking myself. Was it the weed, the choking, fucking slightly harder than usual, the basement? I’m trying to recognize if I did something wrong. If I’ve unintentionally crossed her boundaries. Which boundary? I don’t know, and honestly it’s besides the point. This is about her experience, even if it’s no longer anchored in the present. And though I understand this isn’t about me, I feel racked with guilt. All I want is to make her feel good.

“Hey, babe, we’re here together,” I tell her softly as she tries to focus on my eyes. Fat, slow tears pour down her cheeks, making a pond below her face. I feel really fucking bad. “You’re safe. You’re here. I love you. I’m here,” I’m cooing, the way past partners have done for me in similar situations.

We never talked about being r*ped, although we didn’t need to. We’re the types of chicks who want to minimize what happened: "It was a decade ago, it doesn’t matter anymore.” We’re fucking powerful, know how to enjoy our bodies, are fiercely sex positive. You would never  guess we were also sexually assaulted. But even decades after an assault, we’re enjoying new partners, feeling good, feeling safe — and without notice, it becomes impossible to separate the past from the present. 

I hand her the glass of water that’s on the bedside table. I watch her carefully take small gulps. I’m careful about grounding, I know that if I touch her wrong again, it will only make things worse. I want to bring her back to our weird basement, where we’ve never been safer than in each other’s arms. I lay back down next to her and ask, “is it ok if I touch your arm?” 

She’s starting to see me again, and she nods. My fingers gently glide over her forearm. I alternate between making small figure eights, drawing infinity on her skin with my ring finger, and slowly outlining the tattoo on her bicep. I watch her face soften and become more present. She lets out a sigh and I feel the tension releasing from her body. She melts into my arms, burying her head into my neck. Her tears have stopped but I feel the wetness from where they landed on her cheeks. 

“Are you okay?” I ask her. She struggles to put words to what’s happening. I don’t pry, she doesn’t need to explain herself to me. The details of what happened are irrelevant. Together, in our room, in our bed, in our sheets, we transcend the violence we’ve experienced. We are safe together. We are in love. We share our bodies, knowing it's only possible with mutual trust. But damn, when you’re a survivor, sometimes it’s hard to convince your body to remember that you are in fact safe. 

“I love you so much, what do you need?” I ask her, running my fingers through her short, blond hair. I smell the light fragrance of shampoo wafting. I feel her chest against mine as I hold her in my arms. I feel her breaths deepen and slow. I feel her naked body melting into mine. “I’m really okay. I just want to feel close to you,” she replies. I want that, too. I draw my focus back to the physical sensations we’re experiencing. I try to quiet the worry that’s screaming inside my head. I want to be present, so I trust she knows best what she needs. I give her my full attention. 

We’re both very damp, the sheets are sticking to us and us to each other. She removes her arms from my embrace, and squeezes my butt. I smile at her, and she smiles, too. I let her lead, still apprehensive of triggering her again. She pushes her thigh between my legs, I feel my wetness spreading on her. I mirror her body, finding her cunt with my thigh. We lay together, our legs intertwined, gently I feel her rocking against me. I feel the pressure of her thigh on my clit as we move together. Slowly sliding up and down each other as we grind deeply. We hold each other, vulnerable and raw. This kind of sex isn’t all that sexy. I don’t feel hot at the moment—instead I feel our shared care and tenderness being expressed together physically. Our eyes lock on each other, never looking away. 

She rolls on top of me. I feel her familiar weight as she straddles my hips, and brings her face down towards mine. Her lips brush against my cheek and we’re kissing again. Her breath is warm in my mouth as we continue. She moves her hands down my leg, spreading my lips with her fingers and pushing her clit onto mine. She feels amazing, soft but firm. My nose brushes against her ear. Her skin smells comforting. 

This moment feels right. As I let my hands run along her back, I feel the goosebumps on her skin. I trust her not to betray my body. I know that our experience of pleasure in this moment together is entirely what we want. I feel closer to her. My legs wrap around her waist, hips greedily thrusting into her. I let myself enjoy the moment, knowing how far we’ve both come to do so. 

Photo by Mart Production