Faking It

I am deeply pondering the laws of human behavior on a number of levels. I spent the night at LawyerBoy’s last night. That was officially the first time I have slept—like, gone to sleep with and woken up with—a man since {D}. If they do stay, I don’t sleep. It’s different than, you know, waking up with someone. It feels weird the day after. But often what feels good at the moment is not best down the line. I don’t regret it per se, but I don’t think I should have done that. Arm’s length with men is where I need to stay. Getting any closer and they will hurt you.

So this morning, as I ate a MoonPie for breakfast, LawyerBoy and I were chatting, and he went back to a conversation we had where he convinced me he had never seen the show Arrested Development. I had said something and he said, “You’re not good at faking things. I convinced you I didn’t know what Arrested Development was.” So I replied without missing a beat, “If I am so bad at faking things, why did you believe I had all those orgasms last night?”

We both laughed, because that was funny. Because I am, in fact, hilarious.

The next thing he said to me was, “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would you fake it just to make me do it again?” This question hit me sideways. Because yes, at times, I was faking it. He seemed to be enjoying himself, so I didn’t want to tell him to just stop touching me, so I faked it so he would stop for a little. I do that. I always said "get them off so they get off of you." Guys get off on feeling like they have satisfied a woman. It's a handy trick just to make them stop without having to say it.

Then I was thinking about last night, and he was touching me with his hand, and that kind of bothers me now since the video—since {D}. Not sure how detailed I should go into this, but I am very sensitive. I appreciate a very light touch. Most men—that’s not what they do. They watch porn and have no understanding beyond that as to what women like or don’t like. So last night, I was having issues with what he was doing. He wasn’t doing anything bad to me. I just didn’t feel like I could—maybe should is the right word—say, “Hey man, just don’t do it that way,” or “This isn’t feeling good, let’s try something else,” or even just say, “Stop.” I just went along with it.

The thing that really got me was him running his nails down my legs, other non-genital area skin. The feeling of nails scratching me anywhere bothers me now since the video. I will freak the fuck out if I feel nails on the genital-area skin.

So why the hell didn’t I just say something? It’s LawyerBoy. He isn’t a threat. I’m not scared of him. I’ve not trauma bonded with him. He has never, in any way, coerced me or guilted me or manipulated me into sex. Ever. And he never would. (I mean, never say never.)

So why don’t I feel like I can say no? What would be so unsafe about that? What world-ending thing could come from me saying “no” to him?

I went through every possible issue in clinical psychology, and I’m just trained to be like this. It’s Pavlovian. This is what I was trying to break myself of when I decided I was going to start saying no. And then the video happened, and my no’s were ignored. No one hears me say no.

I’m going to sit down and talk to LawyerBoy about maybe working with me. Train me into trusting that I can say no.

This poor man, I swear. Like, your whore of an ex-girlfriend who ripped you to shreds via text when you broke up reappears. Now she is all fucked up because the guy you were jealous of—the one she wouldn’t stop fucking while you were dating—raped her. So now you are her emotional support, and she wants you to help her say no to sex with you. Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder he doesn’t want to date me.

I think what’s unsettling me isn’t that I couldn’t say no—it’s that my body never even offered it as an option. Not because I wanted what was happening, and not because I was afraid of him, but because somewhere along the way I learned that managing other people’s comfort was safer than naming my own. That’s not a character flaw. That’s conditioning. Which means this isn’t a mystery or a moral failure—it’s a training issue. Unfortunately, I seem to have been trained by the worst possible people,