hateful_fetish the girl next door he asked me if i had ever been gang_raped. i said no. he asked if i trusted him. yes. he said he would arrange it someday. i wouldn't know when. i have no reason to think he was bluffing. i was terrified to face the reality of it, but there are some things in life that have to be confronted, and i had dreamed of it in my most private moments for years. where does the line get drawn? there are things that never see the light of day even in our own minds, dirty little secrets we never tell another soul, that we won't even admit to ourselves. but secrecy doesn't diminish them; if anything, it makess them stronger. they say that many women fantasize about rape. it's a loss of control, a way of coming to terms with something we are taught is horrible and nasty and enjoyable and loving. when it's only in our minds, it's something we have control over. or do we? i can't remember the last time i had a self-induced orgasm without thinking of a scenario that people would, at least on the surface, recoil from and condemn. rape. pedophilia. bestiality. incest. all safely nestled inside my own mind. there it is again. "safely." but afterwards i keep myself carefully blank, not thinking of the horrible things i was dreaming of being done to me, the pain and humiliation that some part of me apparently longs for. do i hate myself, that i want to be so debased? is there something wrong with me? i've had the same fantasies as long as i can remember, before i really knew what sex was. if i could excise it all from my brain, i would. but i can't. i am powerless in the face of powerlessness. i have my dark_passenger properly penned, knowing that all these things are wrong, never ever having had an urge for actuality. but there doesn't need to be a physical manifestation for there to be suffering, punishment. i don't understand it, and i can't fight it. i wish that i could find a way to somehow accept it, make it not harmful. it has never manifested and it never will. but it swells and eclipses whenever i'm alone with my thoughts and my urges, whenever there's no one else to witness. do i really hate myself? or is it some way of coping, of being strong, of putting all the fears into one place where they can be controlled, so that the rest of me can be healthy? maybe someday i'll know. 060508 ... the boy upstairs They say time heals all wounds, but so far thats worked out to be a lie. Don't get me wrong, it takes care of alot things, and maybe all things, in time. But it hasn't covered that one bullet. The shot heard round my world, escaping her mouth in a barely memorable string of words meant to bring us together. It struck home, and sunk deep within me. As long as the bullet, neatly inscribed with her cursive name in purple ink, remained in the wound, I could ignore the blood and call the pain bliss. But she stuck her cruel fingers into that hole. She clawed and scraped and stabbed deeper into my heart, and pulled her bullet out. And I'm still bleeding... Time hasn't healed THAT wound...only helped me to ignore it...but every day, EVERY FUCKING DAY, something is there to remind me and the shock of that wound strikes me again, and again, and again... I hate her and I love her. Sometimes I wish she never was born, that I might be spared my pain...and that thought makes my stomach wrench and my eyes sting. 060508 what's it to you? who go blather from