Naked Hiker some random pull out in Zion Canyon

*Trigger Warning: this post will have some graphic detail*

There has been a lot of talk about consent lately. What does it look like? How should it be expressed? Is it rape if she "OK fine", after repeatedly saying "no"?

Previously I mentioned that I am friends with my PTSD. I want to tell a story about guy who reinforced all of my alarms.

His name is Sean Kelly, from Geelong, Victoria, Australia. We met on bumble. We were both looking to meet new people since we had both just moved to Auckland, New Zealand. He picked the time and Karmen Jones on K road as our the meeting place. He was late (First red flag that a man does not respect you, he does not value your time. There are exceptions to this as things do go wrong but he had no reason for being late).

When he showed up he played it cool; too cool. I was distracted by the flow and diversity of our conversation. We easily talked about everything. He did not make me feel as though I was talking too much. He asked deep and meaningful questions and answered my questions with fresh insight. We laughed a lot, which is something I always appreciate. We ended the night agreeing to see each other again. Reiterating that this was nothing serious; we were just friends.

He told me that he enjoyed my company. We did not kiss. Just a quick hug as I jumped on the bus and headed home.

We kept in touch but only over instagram (An other red flag). He would engage in interesting conversation, which made my boredom subside and kept me interested in being friends with him without actually hanging out with him. One night, after dinner in the city with a different friend, I agreed to go over to his house because I wasn't in a rush to go back the house on the hill (I live with a Host family). It was only 8pm on a Friday.

My favorite part of the night was view of the CBD and bay from my perch on the Junction box outside of his apartment (because he was late getting home).

I finished watching whichever episode of the Netflix original "Love" I was on, while he showered. He was comfy in sweats and did his best to make me comfy by getting me a blanket because my feet were cold (my feet are always cold). He insisted that it was OK for me to stretch my legs across the couch and put my feet in his lap. We were friends. I could remember so many times with Nick, Davis, Daniel and so many other male friends, putting my feet in their lap or across their legs. This was a normal. This what friends did. This was not sexual.

We split a bottle of wine. At some point in the night he asked about my PTSD. He wanted to know what happened; only if I was comfortable telling him. Of course I was. I was buzzed and at this point in my life I am using ever means possible to talk about it so others can understand why am so weird and maybe even learn from it. I told him every detail of the first and the second time. He told me no man should ever do that to a woman. That he did not understand how that kind of sexual act could give someone pleasure. I felt safe with him. He was my friend. Not the kind of guy that would force himself on me.

Finally I was tired; ready to go home. Except the next bus was not till 1:35 am and it was a 30 minute walk to the bus stop. It was only 11:36 pm and I was not about to wonder through the city at 1 am. As per usual they urber rates (plus surge charges) from the city to St. Heliers were through the roof. So when Sean said it was OK for me to stay the night, we could sleep on opposites sides of the bed, nothing would happen that I did not want; I stayed. We were friends. I could remember so many times with RJ, TC, Jubin and so many other male friends, sharing a bed. This was a normal. This what friends did. This was not sexual.

His room was hotter than hell even with the window cracked. My jeans and sweater were suffocating me, so I took them off in hopes that I would cool off enough to sleep. Reduced to nothing but my bralette and matching lace undies, I felt tension start to fill the room and suffocate me in place of the heat. Sean asked if I was still awake. No shit. My perception of time sucks but I know it was less than 5 minutes after I had peeled my jeans and sweater off. He probably watched me like a predator in the dark as I tried to discretely remove the layers that felt like armor.

He reminded me that I had let it slip that I was curious as to what it was like to kiss someone with a tongue ring. I don't remember if it was that night or the first night that we met. I do know I was just being honest; I never intended to direct it at him. He pointed that I could satisfy that curiosity with him. He wasn't wrong. I just had to take the kiss from him. To come and get it. That was a challenge and the trap.

Sometimes I make reckless decisions because feel good; they make me feel extra alive. Usually they make for great stories later on. I don't regret this decision but I have not been honest with it's retelling.

As write this out, I acknowledge that I made the choice to kiss him. It should have only been a kiss. I did not like the way he tasted. The piercing made no difference. It should have end there. With the full knowledge that we were not a biological match. There was no chemistry for me.

His hands found all of my exposed flesh. We should stop. We did but his bed was not big enough for two grown adults to be far enough apart and extinguish whatever he was feeling. His finger tips kept finding me. Even though I told him before getting into bed that I did not want to have sex with him, his hands wouldn't stop caressing my curves. Because caresses are not sex. I reminded him that nothing would happen that I did not want but my goose bumps told him that I enjoyed his hands. I should relax because he was only going to touch me this his hands and his mouth. This is not the first time that my brain has been unable to speak or disagree with my bodies reactions. I had to be enjoying this because who doesn't enjoy multiple orgasms. That rarely happens when someone fingers you (He knew full well I had not been with anyone for 8 moths). Sure the orgasms felt good. I just wanted to sleep. When I checked the time it was 1:15 am. I was not going to make the bus home. I felt so betrayed by my own body that I just laid there. My legs were shaking. I did not think they would hold me if I tried to walk; even just to the couch.

He was content with himself and fell asleep swiftly. I remember trying to cuddle to feel some kind of intimacy; connection. There none. I was in some sort of half sleep state. When he woke up, it started all over. I was so tired. He had to meet a girl friend at 9 for coffee. Probably one of his other bumble fucks. Why wasn't it time for him to leave? He's moaning loader than me. This sounds like really terrible porn. I don't know why am still orgasming. Emotionally I feel numb and exhausted but my body is still responding. Why is he moaning so loud? I am not even touching him. He repetitively demands I cum for him. But I already have been cumming. These orgasms are mine. Not his. For some reason this thought isn't as empowering as it should have been. Instead I felt guilty; like I owed him because I had cum so many times in the past few hours and he hadn't really done anything other than figure me (without my consent).

I did not want to give him head or even use my hand on him. I suggested he cum on my chest out of this weird sense of obligation. That for some reason it was only fair if he got to cum as well. It was not the first time or last time I asked this of a guy. You can learn a lot about guy when watching how he does this. I regret this one. I already knew that I didn't like to kiss him. I hated the way he sounded when he moaned. I have no idea how I thought letting him cum on me would make anything better but I felt obliged. It was like watching really bad porn and not being bale to turn off. Luckily he came quickly. For whatever fucking reason he felt it was good idea to finger paint his name across my chest with cum. That is by far one of the top five most degrading thing any guy has ever done to me.

Aw shit. It's 9 am. Chelsea is calling to find out where he is. Because as per usual he's running on his own fucking time. He leaved me with barely enough tissue to clean myself up and runs to take a shower. I feel used and discarded. He's in a good mood though. As we walk down stairs, my thighs feel wet with shame and pussy feels hollow, as if she knows she betrayed me. He walks me towards the bus stop and gives me an other tight hug. We were friends. I could remember so many times with Joe, Josh, Ian and so many other male friends, tightly embracing each other because this wasn't a good-bye; it was see you later. This was a normal. This what friends did. This was not sexual.

The few times I have told this story, I limit it to how weird he was. That I didn't like the way he tasted or sounded and what freak he was for writing his name. We all laugh about it. Laugh about the way I shame him to cover up my shame.

It took three months and several of his other friends with benefits falling through for it to come out: When he said friends, he meant friends with benefits. When he said he liked my company, he meant like the gamble of not knowing exactly how far he would get. We hung one more time after this incident. He felt safe and familiar in a public place. It was so too have company after coming back to New Zealand and finding out I had lost a few friends. He tired to get me to come over for taco dinner at his new house (man do I love tacos and it was Tuesday). My gut told me he'd taste even worse after eating tacos and not to ruin the taste of tacos for good. He doesn't talk to me anymore because I told him that I am not attracted to him physically. That was so disappointing for him. How does he think I felt, knowing that I trusted him with the full details of my PTSD? I trusted him to be my friend and care about me. Instead he played me like some sort of thrill game.

These guys are the worst part of Rape culture. The ones who pretend to be safe, nice guys but really they have a motive. They lure you into a false sense of safety. They claim it isn't rape because they didn't have sex with you. They claim it isn't rape because you did not say no. They claim it isn't rape because you eventually said OK. There is this grey area because we are friends. Friends don't hurt each other. Suddenly there is less certainty than when it's the 'creepy pedophile' or 'molesting uncle'.

I choose to live with all my PTSD alarms because they never lead me astray. It sucks to have to wait and expose myself to a new partner but it weeds out all the guys who aren't worth my time (or won't properly give me theirs). I felt so confused for awhile about what happened. Why couldn't we be friends? The answer is simple. He never wanted to be.

#Keepliving #PTSD #Love #Life #Suicide