Romance and Trust

Hannah Hush

It was a Wednesday, at lunch hour, and I was sitting in therapy, just like I had been every week ever since I’d been raped at age fourteen. Of course, my therapist was talking again. For a therapist, she talked way too much.

“Hannah! Are you even listening to me? I don’t know how you’re going to make any progress if you don’t even listen to a word I say.”

“It would help if you said something useful,” I said in frustration.

“You’ve stagnated in your therapy. You need to reach the point where you are dating men, trusting them, find someone you love, and voluntarily sleep with someone for the first time in your life. You’re twenty-five years old, and you can’t keep coming here forever.”

“Not that coming here is helping anyway. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t tried dating. The first problem is that whenever I find a guy I trust enough to date a little it turns out that the reason I’m capable of trusting him is that they’re the biggest wimpy douches that you can possibly imagine. I half expect them to ask me for help tying their shoes. Like the last guy, who apologized for everything under the sun for no apparent reason. Then they get mad because I won’t sleep with them. It takes time for me to trust a guy enough to sleep with him, but no, they are never willing to wait that long. So they break up with me. I’m thinking HELLO, you’re a gigantic wimpy douche and you’re breaking up with me? Really? I’m a fucking survivor man; you should take your cue from me.”

“Maybe it would help if you wore a little makeup.”

“Are you kidding? Deliberately attract men? I wore makeup everyday when I was fourteen and look what happened. I might as well spread chum all over me and jump into the shark tank.”

“Well, we need to agree on some little step you can take this week that will help us through this stagnant period.”

“Do you have any suggestions that do not involve chum?”

“I do. I have a small collection of pornographic DVDs here. I want you to watch them so that you’ll know what consensual sex can be like. Maybe if you see how much fun these women are having, you’ll be able to trust a little more.”

“Oh look, our hour is up and we don’t have time for any more uncomfortable suggestions.”

“Take the DVDs, Hannah. I think it’s best for you.”

I scowled at her and grabbed one of the DVDs randomly, quickly tucking it into my purse. If I had a dime for every stupid unhelpful suggestion, I thought. Going deeper into my own thoughts on the way out I decided that what we really need is an Amazonian colony or a modern day isle of Lesbos. Sex with women all day and no men to hurt us or make us afraid. Then I wouldn’t have to get beyond my past. It’s just too bad I didn’t believe in God anymore, or I could have been a nun. Not that Mormons have nuns anyway, but I could have joined Catholicism.

When I arrived at home I slowly took the DVD out of my purse. I had felt really strange carrying it around in my purse. It just went against my Mormon upbringing. Besides, everyone knows that women don’t watch porn; it’s made for men so that when the female actresses pretend to like the sex, then the men can pretend that women really like to have sex with them.

Sighing in resignation, I slid the DVD into the disk drive. Immediately the commercials started flashing. Enough capitalistic commercials to drive Marx mad. There were stupid 1-900 number commercials and sex toy commercials and web site commercials. Finally the most insipid picture of a naked kissing couple flashed on the screen with the highlighted word ‘Play.’

I chose the chapter selection button instead and then scrolled through a collage of what I could expect. Lots of supposedly happy naked couples, locked in embraces. I picked up the box and read it. “Lover’s Sex,” it said. I rolled my eyes and selected the first chapter.

A little less than an hour later I had watched the whole DVD. The men were ugly and frequently cut out of the scene altogether. The sappy love plots were atrocious and I suspected my therapist of choosing love themed DVDs to ‘encourage’ me. However, the women were really hot and they did seem to be having a good time, considering they didn’t seem to be good enough actresses to fake something like that. I decided that maybe the problem was the fact that my therapist couldn’t pick a DVD. This lovey-dovey crap just wasn’t my speed.

So I logged onto the internet, telling myself that I was just going the extra mile to prove for certain that this was another failed and stupid therapist idea. I typed “Friend” in the search box, knowing that typing anything in would get me a whole slew of pornographic listings. I clicked on the first thing that was listed and found that at the top of the screen were images of naked people and then there were categories with long lists of linked descriptions like “Blonde playing with herself,” in the soft-core category and “Slut takes a big cock up her ass” in the anal category. I continued scrolling down, completely uninterested in any of it. I slowed in my scrolling when I got to the bondage category and started seeing listing like “Asian takes pain from her Master.”

I exclaimed “Ah ha! I knew it. Men are all alike. They all like beating and forcing women to have sex with them.”

I clicked on the Asian link and went to the bondage site. I clicked the “Join” button and filled in my information. I abbreviated my first name to just my initial, feeling guilty about dabbling in what was so obviously a made-for-men clubhouse.

The price was ridiculous, but I paid and started watching the first video “update.” Half way through I acknowledged that I was really bored. The Asian chick was hot, but once again the man was ugly. He had red hair. It was so not my thing. However, I acknowledged that I was enjoying this a little more. At least there was no sappy acting. Ironically, that’s a man I could trust, I thought. He’s open and honest about what he likes, and he’s not going beyond a moderate amount of pain on the woman, so you know he’s fulfilling his man-urges without any permanent damage to his partner. Most important he’s not a wimpy pustule on society’s ass. Plus, the intro to the movie had been them talking about what she was willing to do and what her safe word was. I thought a safe word was an interesting invention. ‘I’m going to beat the shit out of you, but I’ve decided to let you stop me when you’ve had enough.’

The movie ended and I decided that even though I hadn’t really liked the video much that I was going to at least scroll through a couple pages of the updates to make sure I wasn’t interested in them before leaving. After all, I’d already paid the exorbitant price.

I was on the third page of rapid and monotonous scrolling when I stopped dead in my tracks. There was a preview picture of the most handsome man I’d ever seen with two females at his feet wearing gags. He was bald and covered in black tattoos. I started downloading the video while browsing through the gallery. He had a nice smile. Beating women with a smile, I thought, how interesting.

I began watching the video. He seemed to be able to keep both of the women’s attentions at once. He would spank one while rubbing the other one between her legs, and then switch so that the other was getting rubbed while the first one was smacked. The dexterity impressed me. Then when the fucking started he always kept one hand on the one that he wasn’t inside, either rubbing, pinching scratching or slapping. I thought about the psychology of that. It seemed less like he was greedily trying to beat every woman in sight and less like it was all for his own pleasure and more like he was simply trying to make sure no one felt ignored. Half way through I was surprised to notice that both women looked dazed and blissfully confused at the same time.

My inner thigh began to itch and I absent-mindedly brought my hand down to scratch it. My hand met some sort of slimy moisture. I looked down and discovered that I was wet between my legs, like I would sometimes be in the morning when I had just woken up, only this time I hadn’t been asleep. An unusually high-pitched moan drew my eyes back to my computer screen and I saw that the man had hooked his thumb between the woman’s legs and was rubbing her front back and forth while he fucked her. She seemed to like it because she was moaning louder and thrashing a little in her ropes. I thought back to the beginning of the video and realized that whenever he was rubbing on one woman and smacking the other he would always rub in that same place; sort of in front of between her legs. Then I thought back to that silly love DVD and I remembered those men rubbing those women in exactly that same place. I looked at the wildly thrashing woman on the screen and I looked down and my wet thighs and slowly lowered my hand. I rubbed myself a couple of times and didn’t feel anything good. This is stupid, I thought as I kept rubbing. Suddenly at around the sixth little rubby circle I started to feel something different, it was a small difference, but it was perceptible. Maybe if I rub a little harder, I thought. I started to rub myself harder while watching the man on the screen. It felt increasingly good and as I watched, the man stood up and the two women with gags knelt underneath him. The sweat was running down his chest and his muscles looked all shiny. His face was red and the hand not on his cock was clenched. He started making little noises under his breath and his eyes looked a little sleepy. Then, annoyingly enough, the camera zoomed in so that all I could see was his cock and their faces. Suddenly white goo shot out of him and all over the chick’s faces. The scene changed and the three of them were sitting together, smiling, discussing the scene and it was clear that everyone was happy. I gave a small shudder as a twinge of stabbing pleasure went through me.

Interesting, that did feel kind of good, I thought. I looked down at my slimy fingers and remembered the men feeding the women their own moisture and them assuring him that they liked it. I raised my hand to my mouth.

“Ewwwwww! These women are not just a little slutty, apparently they’re liars too! Yucky! Icky!”

When the video ended, I closed it and examined the internet page underneath. “Derrick Pierce,” it said. I sat and thought about what had just happened. I’d felt pleasure, he was handsome, honest about what he enjoyed, seemingly concerned about the experience the women had and not leaving anyone out, but most interesting was the fact that I’d gotten wet without being aware of what was happening. It was as if my body recognized what he was and my baggage-laden mind had just been too slow to pick up on it at first.

I went through the rest of the day in a little daze trying to figure out what I was going to do now that my perceptions had been turned on their head.

The next day my alarm woke me up at 6:30 and I thought about getting up and going to law school and decided that there would be plenty of time to learn how to legally crush my enemies later. I got up and downloaded a second Derrick video. I felt my shudder and twinge of pleasure early on in the video this time, so I kept rubbing. I discovered that not stopping after the tiny twinge of pleasure let me roll on a surging and receding wave of increasing pleasure. Apparently the tiny twinge is not all there is to this sex stuff. Good to know, I thought. I showered and slipped into school just in time for my second class of the day.

On the third day, I downloaded another Derrick video and repeated the process. I did the same thing on the fourth day. On the fifth day I realized I was sort of rubby and sore so I just watched without touching myself. On the sixth day I came home from school for lunch and found myself watching Derrick’s movies while eating. On the morning of the seventh day it was time for laundry, so I found myself watching Derrick while folding laundry.

Later that day it was time for therapy again, so I went and recounted how I spent my week.

She looked shocked and a little upset.

“You weren’t supposed to look at bondage porn! That’s the opposite of what you need. Plus, you need to cut back, you’ve clearly gotten addicted if you’re watching when you’re neither aroused nor touching yourself. I mean, laundry, really? You were supposed to watch the porn, realize that sex can be fun, start trusting guys and then start successfully dating and sleeping with real guys. Not watching porn at home alone.”

I just stared at her. Real guys? This woman was clearly insane.

“Nope. I’ve no intention of stepping into the hen house while the fox guards outside. Yes, I’m addicted. You’re job was to make me happy, not a carbon copy of everyone else. I’m happy. Congratulations, your work here is done.”

I set her video down on her desk and left.

Later that day at home I googled Derrick’s name and discovered to my delight that he’d been making videos for years. That meant I could blissfully continue the addiction without fear of running out. In fact, if he continues making videos at least at the rate of one per day I can continue the addiction indefinitely.

Months went by and I found that I was happier and nicer to the people around me.

One day I found myself in the doctor’s office for my annual physical. Annual torture more like it. The nurse took my blood pressure and the doctor came in. We talked about my blood pressure and took a second reading to make sure. It was definitely high; 138/90 fairly consistently. The doctor told me that I needed to lose 5% of my body weight because that would significantly improve my health. Also, exercise reduces stress.

I was terrified. In the first place, 25 is too young to have heart problems of any kind. Secondly I did NOT want to lose even 5% of my body weight. I liked being a little overweight because then men didn’t look at me as much and I felt safer. I had deliberately gained that weight after I was 14. I liked to affectionately refer to them as my “safety pounds.”

I was despondent for days trying to figure out what I was going to do. Finally I realized that I had to lose the weight because if I allowed myself to be unhealthy it would take time off the end of my life. If I took time off the end of my life it would mean that the men who raped me would have killed part of me. If I let them do that, then they would win. I never let the bad guys win because I’m a fucking survivor.

So I bought a gym membership. Exercise machines were lined up in tiny isles. There were rows of good looking people exercising effortlessly like it was some sort of Russian ballet. OK, my first thought was Russian Roulette, but I’m trying to keep things upbeat here. I felt like they were exercising in circles around me, taunting. The floor to ceiling mirrors made it all too plain exactly what I looked like. It was like a child’s first grade game of “One of these things is not like the others; one of these things just doesn’t belong.” But I don’t let bad guys win, because I’m a fucking survivor, so I kept coming day after day, every afternoon.

One day it was a holiday and I had plans. PLANS! ME! It was wonderful. This “niceness to others” thing apparently pays off. Of course the downside was that I had to get up at an ungodly hour to go to the gym instead of the afternoon because I hadn’t reached my 5% goal and so I had to go. I was really worried that the gym would be filled with the really hardcore workout people so that the “surrounded by beautiful healthy people” effect would be much worse. But the gym was surprisingly close to empty. I didn’t know if that was because it was a holiday or if it was the time of morning, but I liked it and I vowed to change my schedule to see if I could replicate it.

I started running on the treadmill, high incline, trying to get the maximum effect in the minimum amount of gym time as possible. Half way through my workout I dared to look in the floor to ceiling mirror to see if I looked stupid and I noticed that the man on the exercise bike behind me was staring at me. It was Derrick! I was so surprised that I skipped a step, the treadmill kept going and I landed in a high incline pile on the ground, the treadmill still trying to sweep off the heap that was me.

Derrick let out a little involuntary laugh, before quickly turning it into a cough and covering his mouth with his hand. He got off the bike and walked over to the treadmill and hit the stop button.

“Are you OK, mama?”

I swallowed with my suddenly dry mouth and managed to say, “My pride is hurt but my body is uninjured. That’s the nice thing about being chubby.” I brought my voice into a cheesy sounding commercial voice and said “Rear padding, don’t leave home without it.”

“I’m sorry I laughed at you, but that was really funny and I can’t say that I’m used to stopping traffic like that. Look, your exercise outfit is fairly new and you’re a little pudgy so you can’t have been doing this long. I on the other hand do a bit of training, so I’ll give you this free tip: See what you do is you stand here and move your legs, those are those long things on your body right there, and you move them rapidly in a straight line, while trying to keep pace with this little motorized belt right there.”

I noticed his eyes were shiny and he had a tiny smile. He was teasing me! My eyes took an involuntary slide downward and as soon as I realized what I had done I turned my face away, blushing.

“Did you see something you liked?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m,” I paused, “I’m aware of what you do for a living and I’m used to looking. I’m sorry,” I said, speeding up at the end.

“I always get a little embarrassed whenever someone says they’ve been watching my videos.”

I let out a tiny chortle. “No, I’m the one who’s embarrassed. They don’t make that stuff for women. It’s clearly supposed to be for men.”

“It’s OK to like sex,” He paused. “Would you like to go out sometime?”

I swallowed and accepted. I gave him my information so he could pick me up, and I hurriedly left, figuring that asses are like air bags, you should really only deploy them for one rear collision before packing it in and calling it a day. Besides, I didn’t really want to land on the ground in a heap twice, especially not in front of Derrick.

I agonized when I got home. I felt like I had swallowed a pineapple unpeeled; pain, nausea. One of Derrick’s major appeals was that I could watch him and experience a little bit of sex without worrying that he was going to jump off the TV or computer screen and ravish me. Before he was safe and now he seemed less so. I had broken one of the cardinal rules of engagement: never, ever, agree to date a man bigger and stronger than myself.

After a night of restless sleep I had a breakthrough, I had already said I’d go, therefore I didn’t need to worry about it. Bad guys are liars, not me, therefore I had to keep my promise. Besides, Derrick had already given me a lot of pleasure and standing him up would be poor repayment.

At the end of the day I found myself standing in front of my closet trying to figure out what to wear. I rolled my eyes. It was all so stupid. Me, dressing up, nice, for a man, that doesn’t happen. So I grabbed the first cabled sweater I could reach and a pair of jeans. Luckily I didn’t have a moment of wondering if I should put on makeup, because I didn’t even own any. I certainly wasn’t going to go shopping just for a man.

Derrick picked me up. He was driving a really nice car. I felt sort of weird about sitting in a car that nice. Like I would smudge the glass or scuff up the upholstery. Luckily the music in his car was so loud that I didn’t have to worry about conversation so I stared out the window.

We arrived at a really crummy café. It reminded me of that wonderful little plot-propelling café from Seinfeld. Everything was slightly dirty and dated. It might seem like a weird choice for a date, but I kind of liked it. It took the pressure off. It was also much better than one of those places where they seem to always give you too much silverware and you spend all night wondering what table manners you’re supposed to be exhibiting. I always get the urge to fake seizures in those places, just to see what people would do, and also to slightly piss people off.

We sat down and there was an immediate waiter to take our order. The menu was small enough we didn’t have to do much deciding. While we waited for our food I rested my hand on the table near my water glass. Derrick immediately put his hand on mine and started rubbing my knuckles in little circles. I was shocked. He was touching me. I never let men touch me. I have friends, but they don’t touch me. I always have my three foot bubble of personal space. I don’t have any family. I tried to think of the last time someone had touched me and I had trouble. It felt so good though. I must have been skin hungry without even realizing it. It was like each knuckle rub was trying to fill some deep well of need. I closed my eyes trying to hold back sudden tears. I will not cry, I told myself. Only crazy people cry because someone touched them. I started rehearsing my favorite song lyrics in my head to distract myself. When I felt better I opened my eyes to discover that Derrick wasn’t even looking at me. He looked preoccupied with some unknown thought. His touching was unconscious and automatic for him.

The food came and we took turns scarfing and talking. The conversation was good. He was very intelligent and always seemed to be able to add something to the discussion. The date ended right after dinner because he said he had to go train his fighters. He scheduled another date right then though so I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.

We dated about every other week for a few months; always short and non-threatening, always in public places. Then one day he suggested that he could bring a movie and some takeout over to my house. He suggested Chinese food, I suggested horror.

I was nervous about being alone with him. He was bigger and stronger than me and I couldn’t help the nagging thought that if he hurt me and I told someone about it, no one would feel sorry for me. I imagined they would say “Let’s see, you knew he beats women up for a living and you invited him into your house and then you’re surprised because he hurt you? That’s like burning your own house down and then trying to claim insurance.”

It was one of those movies where the plot holes are large and the monsters look fake but if you suspend disbelief you have a lot of fun. Half way through the movie I felt a sort of tickle at the back of my neck and I realized he was staring at me rather than at the movie. I figured this meant trouble and I shifted uncomfortably while looking back. I hoped he didn’t think “bring a horror movie” meant “I want to cuddle with you while pretending to be scared.” I just didn’t like chick flicks. He lifted my hand and kissed the back of it and then went back to watching the movie.

Relief flooded through me. I had thought that was the deal-breaking ‘I want to make out with you’ moment. But a little hand kissing; I felt sure I could handle that. After all, I was a survivor. The monster on the screen devoured the token fat girl whose name we hadn’t learned, and I had a moment of clarity. That was the ‘I want to make out with you’ moment, but when he saw me squirm, he took it down a notch. He was reading my signals. Incredible. I didn’t know men could read signals. Usually men either don’t care enough about other people to notice or they’re too worried about screwing something up to notice. I thought back to the dates we’d had over the last couple of months. I didn’t remember feeling threatened. Everything was always very low-key. I thought about the numerous bondage movies I had seen him in. It’s not that he doesn’t like sex. It’s not that he doesn’t like to rough women up. It’s that he cares enough to pace himself to me. I had a tiny hopeful thought. Maybe the fact that he has sex all day every day means that he’ll be able to wait for me to be ready.

I thought back to the first time I had seen him on screen and my body had reacted to him without me even realizing it and a strange new urge came over me. I wanted to make him happy. I wasn’t sure how to do that though. How do you make a man happy? I’d never thought about it before, because really, I’d never cared before. I thought back to the whiny douches I’d dated who had always broken up with me when I wouldn’t put out. I used to have a strategy to delay the inevitable she-won’t-put-out realization. I used to give them blow jobs. Blow jobs are safer because you can keep your clothes on while you do them. Being fully clothed means you can run away if you have to and you have a head start because the man has to pull his pants up before he chases you. If you’re naked on the other hand, you can’t go running off down the street and if you’re in missionary you’re pinned under him and you can’t get away anyway. The men had always seemed to like me licking them, even if it was just a delay of the inherent demise of the relationship. I wondered if porn stars liked to have their cocks sucked too. I mean, the last thing a car mechanic wants to do is go home and work on his own car over the weekend. Of course, I remembered concluding at the beginning that the men and women in porn had to be enjoying themselves because they weren’t good enough actors and actresses to fake it. That wasn’t true of Derrick, but if the other porn stars liked it, then maybe he would too. The question was would he want it from me? It’s not like I’d spent a whole lot of my time making myself more attractive to men.

Then I realized that I didn’t have to figure out how to please him, all I had to do was stop rebuffing his body language. He’d tell me what he wanted soon enough if I just stopped blocking. I took a deep breath and gathered my courage. Then I scooted over on the couch so that I was sitting next to him. He curled his arm around my shoulder and amazingly instead of feeling fear and that sensation of being trapped in a wall of muscle I felt strangely safe. There was this feeling of peace, like everything would be alright.