Out of town.

I’ll be out of town for the next few days. Be back on Sunday.

I’m not leaving.

I do have some fun sex stories to relate…. finally! This past weekend I went out on Saturday night to see a local band play. I go to all their shows, and usually have a bit to drink - enough to be feeling good, but not enough to act stupid. This time I went a little overboard. My husband is always with me at these shows because he loves it when I drink. I get really horny and will do just about anything. I achieved the perfect level of being drunk. I was able to let go and have a ton of fun without acting ridiculous. When we got home we had some wild sex. More wild than usual, especially more than lately.

When I’m drunk I crave cock. I feel like I need it in the back of my throat. I have a small mouth (according to my dentist anyway lol) and a pretty strong gag reflex, but when I’ve been drinking I can shove it in my mouth without any adverse effects.

My husband and I got home and went upstairs. He grabbed me when we got in the bedroom and got my clothes off in like 10 seconds. He threw me down on the bed and ordered me to stay there. His clothes came off and in no time I grabbed his cock and started sucking on it. I pushed my head down on his cock and held me there until he could sense that I was running out of air. Then he pulled me off by my hair and pushed me back down. He repeated this a few times then let me take over. My tongue was everywhere - I licked his balls and around the base of the shaft then teased up the sides to the head. Then I got into a good rhythm of sucking and he made me stop after not too long because he didn’t want to come in my mouth.

He laid me down on the bed and started slapping my face and tits and pinching my nipples. I told him I wanted him hurt me and he slapped my left tit like 10 times until I couldn’t take it anymore then hit it a few more times. I so needed that! I love the way it hurts when he does that, especially when I’m drunk.

Then without asking or tell me what he was going to do he started to fuck me so hard it hurt. His cock is very wide and I usually need to get used to it at first or else it hurts, but he just rammed it in. Even though I was very wet it still hurt. He fucked me for a while and then pulled out in time to shoot his cum all over my face and tits. I love the feeling of hot cum spurting all over me.

After I cleaned up and washed my face for bed he asked if I was still horny, and I said yes because I didn’t come before. So he reached down and started rubbing my clit. He got me really close to coming, and then asked what I wanted next. I told him I wanted him to fuck my ass. So he grabbed some lube and got behind me and pushed his cock in my ass. I was frantic to have it in me. I love the way it hurts. He was fucking me hard and fingering my clit and I came so hard he had to stop moving because I was clenched so hard. After that I was about ready to pass out. I love the feeling I get after being drunk and having lots of rough sex. I love feeling used. That night I slept like a baby.

I can’t do it.

I can’t think about this anymore. I’m closing the lid on further posts about my rape. I feel like I opened old wounds that weren’t even scars anymore. I’m proud of the way I dealt with it, but now I need to do some more thinking about it. My friend continues in the process of pressing charges (why is it so fucking hard to press rape charges?).

I’ve been avoiding my blog because of this issue, and now I don’t quite know what to write about here anymore.

Maybe I should erase these posts……

Hilarious interlude.

What kind of person do you think wrote this on their blog? Was it A. typical college student B. really stupid college student or C. an “older than average” college student who thinks the world owes her everything because she is a single mother.

“I had a quiz in Western Civilization today…I made a 100. His quizzes aren’t too bad, but his section tests are a bitch! 25 multiple choice questions, 5 identify the people type questions in which the answer must be at least 6 sentences long and an essay that ought to be a completely separate assignment. I’m going to pull my hair out! It’s a good thing that I only have to take one history course.”

Oh my god! 6 whole sentences!!!! And an essay??!!!!!?!?! What an evil, evil teacher making his students write and learn!! We should all call her professor to complain for this horrible transgression.

If you want to know who wrote this just google the first eight words of the paragraph.

Aftermath.

Not talking about it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I desperately wanted to tell somebody, but I felt like I had nobody to turn to that I could trust completely. I’m the kind of person who wears my heart on my sleeve. I’m super easy to read, especially when I’m upset or preoccupied with something. My family didn’t seem to notice; if they did I’ll never know. My brother might have noticed, but he’d never ask me what was wrong. He’s not that type of guy.

The longer I didn’t talk about it the easier it was to keep my secret.

I stopped going to “the apartment” and stopped hanging out with anyone that had anything to do with that circle of people. I started chatting a lot on the computer. The internet was still pretty new to me and I was so hooked on it. I started to venture into more sexual content online and found that I got along with the people I was meeting in the sex chat rooms. I spent my nights alone on my computer, but I was getting more love and support from those “strangers” than I was letting anyone give me in my real life.

After a while I was getting very close to one man in particular (B). We talked on the phone for hours a day, and after a few months we decided to meet in person. B bought me a plane ticket to come see him. Once the trip was firmly planned I kind of panicked. I had never had sex with anyone before I was raped. But I had told B that I was still a virgin. It was a lie, but not really. I realized that I had to tell him about the rape otherwise he might discover that I was not really a virgin. So I finally talked about it with him. He was super supportive and said all the things I needed to hear. I had viewed myself as being damagaged, but he convinced me that I wasn’t.

To say that meeting B in person changed my life would be an understatement. He allowed me to start dealing with the emotional implications of my rape. I had been having nightmares every night since it happened to me, and the first night I didn’t have a nightmare was the first night I spent with B. He made me feel safe. He made me feel happy for the first time in my life.

Then one night….

…I showed up at “the apartment” and we all smoked a bowl and were having a good time. I started to feel weird and it occured to me to ask if the weed was laced with anything. It was, but nobody really knew what it was. I remember seeing things and generally feeling like I was watching everything happen, but wasn’t actually in my body. After a while we all decided that we needed to score some more weed and I was nominated to drive. I was the only one with a car in that group, but I was feeling way too out of it to drive. So, I foolishly let them take my car. Yes that’s right I let known drug users take my car to buy more drugs. Like I said, I was a bit impaired at the time. I could barely move my arms and legs and after everyone left I sat there and started at the wall for what seemed like hours. Then I realized that I wasn’t alone. There was a guy in the opposite corner sitting quietly and pretty much staring at me. This guy didn’t come around “the apartment” much. He was only in town every few weeks to sell heroin otherwise he stayed in California. I mumbled an embarrassed hello to him because I felt bad for ignoring him. After a bit of small talk he came and sat next to me. The place didn’t have actual furniture. Everybody just kind of sat on piles of pillows and cushions. He sat RIGHT next to me. It wasn’t like I could hear or see him if he stayed across the room. I was pretty naive when it came to guys. I remember I got a little nervous, but not because I was afraid of him, but because I didn’t want to say something stupid. Then he started saying things that started to scare me. He said he was glad we were alone. He said that it was his lucky day that I was wearing a skirt. That’s when I realized I was in trouble. He started touching me, and I tried to stand up and get out of there. I couldn’t get away from him. I also realized as I struggled that even if I did get out of the apartment there was nowhere for me to go because the others had my car. It didn’t take much for him to overpower me. After it was over I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. He took off, and I was left to wait for the others to return with my car. It took them forever to get back, and while I waited I cleaned myself up and tried to regain my composure. They finally got back and I left right away. I drove around for a few hours in the country-side smoking an entire pack of cigarettes and trying to decide what to do. I was sitting on the back of my car in the middle of a wheat field watching the sun rise when I finally made my decision. I could tell nobody. I reasoned that since I was doing drugs when it happened the police would arrest me for that and ignore the fact that I was just raped. If I was convicted of a drug related charge I would lose my scholarship and the ability to take out government subsidised student loans. I was only 19 and didn’t trust the police in my small town to believe me. So I told not a soul.

Events leading up to it.

The summer after my freshman year of college was wild. No, actually my whole freshman year of college including the summer after I graduated was crazy. I had followed all of the rules while in high school. I think I tried alcohol once that wasn’t at a family dinner. I was the perfect little Greek Orthodox girl. I went to church every week with the whole family; I actually still believed in all of that religion stuff.

Then I graduated and no longer had a curfew to obey. I still lived with my parents, but since I wasn’t in high school any more they let me life rather freely. I guess they trusted me because I had been so good up until that point. During my senior year of high school I became very good friends with my younger brother. He was a year behind me in school, and when I turned 18 in November he would be waiting for me after school so I could buy cigarettes for him. I started hanging out with his circle of friends. They were way more exciting than the few friends I had in high school. They all smoked cigarettes, drank alcohol, and smoked weed whenever they could score it. These people were more welcoming than anyone I’ve ever known. Soon I was one of the group.

A few highlights from my freshman year of college: had two day long party at parents house when they were out of town, brother forgot to put cooler back in the storage room, parents found one measly can of beer in said cooler when searching for car keys in his room, brother gets grounded, I get kicked out of parents house, I get apartment with a friend from work, two weeks later her boyfriend moves in, halloween decorations go up, halloween comes and goes and decorations stay up, I ask about them and my roommate informs me that they are not decorations but rather religious effects, I tell parents that roommates are devil worshippers (it was true), I move back home, I lose job, stop going to classes regularly, fail music theory, drink every weekend, smoke cigarettes heavily, smoke weed regularly.

After school got out in May I was pretty much a wreck. I chalked it up to being a musician. Musicians did crazy things, right? In June my brother and a few other friends started frequenting an apartment in a dumpy old building downtown. Every night there was something else crazy going on there. Pot smoking was a given, but you never knew when you’d see someone shooting heroin or whatever else they were doing in the back. There was a pet iguana that would go crazy when you blew a hit in his face. Oh, and a cat that would get the munchies after being in the smoke filled room for too long then proceed to vomit all over the iguana. We had a system going. I was working at a pizza place and would bring the “fuck up pizzas” for everyone to munch on. They were the pizzas that were made wrong thoughout the night and never tasted very good considering the length of time they sat under the warming lights. In return for the “tasty” pizza I never had to buy weed. I never actually paid for the stuff, but I was getting high whenever I wanted to.

Every night I’d show up and there would be different people, but always the same core group. There was the two girls who lived in the dump, my brother, me, another friend of ours, and the rest rotated in and out depending on who was in town to sell what, or who was in jail at the time.