Rape Stole My Orgasms. Here's How I Got Them Back

Warning: this article describes issues around sexual assault. For advice and support please contact The National Sexual Assault, Family & Domestic Violence Counselling Line on 1800 737 732 or at www.1800respect.org.au

The closest I had ever been to orgasm was during the assault, and since then, sex hadn’t worked for me. I was desperate to experience that toe curling, body convulsing, scream-inducing orgasm that you see in movies. Or just any orgasm at all.

So, 14 months ago, I started my quest by writing an article for VICE, discussing how rape had corrupted my enjoyment of sex. At first, I hoped that identifying a link between assault and pleasure would solve the problem. But instead, it just made things harder. I became so obsessed with orgasming, that I pushed it even further from reach. I would masturbate with purpose. I fucked with a purpose. I even shared my entire journey online, with a purpose. I lost myself in the quest so much that I forgot why I’d started in the first place.

It was never meant to be about the actual orgasm. The whole quest was about reclaiming the power that had been robbed from me when I was raped. I needed to take that power back.

While the assaulter may have penetrated my physical body, the impact zone was my brain. It wasn’t my vagina that he’d damaged; it was my trust, libido, confidence and my sense of self-worth. Since rape, I’d hated myself. I never felt sexy or desirable. My understanding of what was acceptable in the bedroom was completely shattered. I was sexually illiterate and was not giving myself the respect I deserved.

Realising that, I decided I needed to detach from the notion that orgasming was the most important part of my quest to become sexually free. And by becoming sexually free and redefining my mission, I could actually relax into climaxing.

Put simply: I didn’t orgasm until I stopped trying to orgasm.

Achieving an actual orgasm started with all that cliched inner work instead. I quit alcohol for a few months. I came out as pansexual, moved interstate, deleted Tinder, and didn’t sleep with anyone for six months.

I used this time to rewire my brain and to stop blocking out my emotions with shallow shit like drunken hook-ups. I started to accept myself as I am, which allowed me to forgive myself for everything I felt so guilty for. I had always blamed myself for being raped. But by stopping the surface-level distractions, I was able to sift through my feelings and gain a better understanding of who I am and what I deserve.

Obviously, this all took some time. There’s no easy step-by-step program to learn how to love yourself, especially after something traumatic like rape. I had to give myself time and space to heal. I stopped putting so much pressure on myself and just took the journey day by day, without a deadline or end goal.

Then, a few weeks ago, I bought some lingerie. I came home and blasted a sexy playlist through the speakers. For the first time in my life, I looked in the mirror and didn’t just see a damaged shell of a human; I saw somebody sexy. I danced and caressed my body. I wanted to fuck myself. I had never felt any desire for myself in that way before.

Every time a negative, self-loathing thought popped into my head, I told it to fuck right off. I kept the control.

I went to bed and fucked myself. I didn’t watch porn. Heck, I didn’t even fantasise about anyone. The masturbation wasn’t some mundane chore, like it had always been. There was no end-point I was striving for. I just genuinely wanted to have sex with myself.

I tried different positions and techniques, all while the silky sounds of Khalid acted as my self-pleasure soundtrack. I scared myself a little when I ejaculated, but decided it was primal and kind of hot. I continued by teasing myself and edged my way to an orgasm.

I had often asked people how they knew if they had orgasmed? The response was always “you just know”. I can confirm this. I finally got to throw my head back in a moment of relinquishing pleasure.

I reclaimed my power. And it turns out the whole time, that power was me.

In my first article, I asked you to come on a journey with me—that journey being the quest to cum.  It was a long and winding adventure and it definitely wasn’t easy. But each step was pivotal in my self-development and has led me to where I am now.

That’s the thing with journeys. There are multiple paths, obstacles and detours. Much of the voyage is unpredictable, yet it’s all part of what makes it so great.

My journey should have never started out goal-orientated, because healing isn’t linear. Like a climax, a journey needs a good build-up: a left turn to rediscover my confidence, a detour to face my unspoken trauma, and an expedition to find my worth. But I finally reached my destination.

For me, cumming has been a bit like getting home from a holiday and immediately fantasising about the next holiday. I have now mastered the art of masturbation and I finally know what works for me. And now, I would like to transfer that into a setting with a partner.

I am glad that I was the one to give myself the big O and take back the control. Now I’m ready for some good fucking sex.

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