I will never be your “perfect victim”…

I wanted to revisit this blog with something more positive but I need to get my thoughts out more formally, so now’s as good of time as ever…

I’m feeling a familiar feeling. I’m triggered. It’s not just a buzz word used by internet bullies, it’s something that survivors of trauma really experience, and it sucks. My face is hot, my underarms sweating. I feel angry and mortified. I want to act out in violence but hide in a hole. I’m remembering just how fucking unfair it is to not only experience trauma, but never have the safety of being a “perfect victim”.

Once I was called “the Lindsay Lohan of Fetlife.com” and truer words could have never been spoken. I was once very involved with entertaining the local fetish community and they did not hesitate to rip me to shreds and abandon me once my turbulent life came to light, just as the mainstream has done to poor Lindsay. I read about this concept of the perfect victim when Lindsay was assaulted by her fiance publicly and no one cared and many blamed her.

I found myself facing rumors spread by my abusers this morning, once again.  I will never live down the fact that I chose the wrong partners. A man who, a couple of decades my senior, mentally tormented me for years, wedged himself between my daughter and I, raped me regularly after coercing me into taking heavy psychiatric meds that made me sleep, tried to convince me to have bestial sex, fetishized my childhood sexual abuse, showed anyone and everyone who would look my psychiatric evaluation that he stole from my files, and continues to harass me to this day. The list goes on, and yet I am still blamed.

I hid quietly in plain sight for years. And as I unraveled, attempting to escape again and again, I only became more topic of conversation – and not one was to see if I was ok.

After finally leaving, I fell immediately into the arms of another abuser. My life became a tabloid. As I became bloodied and bruised, this time the evidence was tangible. My drinking got heavier, I was confused and lost and alone in a sea of people who gave not a fuck about me living to see another day other than that I might not be there to entertain them any longer.

The reality of my situation became too clear, and I began to lose friends as my ex husband was able to slowly and methodically assassinate my character. As I tried to escape yet another hell, my frantic and flailing behavior only served to prove him right.

No one asked if I was ok, no one was there to stick with me. People told me to leave, get over it, stop being an idiot, and then thoroughly relished in sharing details about what was happening.

I did leave, and was punished more. The first ex and the second ex joined forces, they harassed me relentlessly as I tried to move on. They called DCFS on me, agitated my psychotic father and got him on my case, and spread rumors of me doing drugs and having orgies in front of my child. DCFS investigated us, I had several court cases going for me to make them go away, and I tried and failed at moving away only to be called back to finish fighting them.

I fought to keep myself alive through intense mental health relapses, bouts of suicidal depression, and heavy drinking. I could barely stay afloat in all of the attacks. I only had my current partner to help me, and all the while I had to keep a false confidence to maintain my suffering business.

I finally fought it all away as best I could. I testified, I divorced, got restraining orders, moved on, I tried to do what is right. I’ve tried to grow and be better. I can’t put into words how hard it was. These abusers were dead set on hurting me as often and as frequently as possible. The second ex held me captive and raped me, and the first was there to file new divorce proceedings as I recovered from my attack. They made an excellent team.

And all along, the public I tried so hard to entertain for years never once asked me, I had no one offer as a confidant or support, and they just exploited my life by whispering secrets that still live strong to haunt me.

But this is my burden to bear. No matter what I will never be your perfect victim. I still hear the lies and it hurts me. I have kept to myself, build my family, and focused on my work. I turned my agony into activism and work very day to help others while helping myself.

And yet it still haunts me. People don’t trust ME because of the abuse I endured.

Its way sexier to gawk at the woman falling apart than it is to listen and hold accountable the men who’ve abused her.

I hope those who’ve spread these rumors, who continue the abuse on behalf of my abusers, who’ve read my psychiatric records, who force me to relive my trauma, shame the fuck on you. It hurts. You never asked me, and it does really fucking hurt.

From Sex Object to Feminine Sexual Being

I’ve always been highly interested in sex. From a young age I was both physically pretty and curious about sexuality, and society has always treated me as such. I’ve been determined my whole life to find a way to avoid being told it was “wrong”. Whatever it is; hyper-sexualty, psychological issues, sexually acting out,  it is still me. I have needed to find the answer to peacefully being a woman who is both sexual and treated fairly in a world that treats sexual women as animals.

My active interest in sex collides with the way I was raised and almost all women are raised; that sex serves the purpose of male gratification.

When I was a young queer, I went through a rollercoaster of identity issues due to the only standpoint I knew. I learned from an abusive misogynist father and a self-hating absent mother. When I was very young, I thought maybe I was actually a boy. This eventually evolved as I began to embrace my feminine appearance, and even moreso embrace my interest in women sexually. I was always a little boy crazy, but my masculine side and dominant sexuality drove me to be more interested in girls as partners, and often question my gender as well. I found myself to be an awful partner to other girls because I could not combine intimacy and sex. For that reason, however, I was of the utmost desire to males.

As I grew more distant from my father, I became more interested in relationships with men that were inevitably dysfunctional. I knew how to relate to men easily – through sex. Whereas with women, I had to offer some level of emotional vulnerability which was excruciating to me. I was finally escaping my awful and isolated childhood, and felt I was “finding myself.” However, what was really happening was a growing slavery to misogyny. Because I was highly sexual, I was safest with men. I could relate to them. I was always down to fuck and they provided the approval I desperately needed at that point in time.

Essentially I was told what to be. Accommodate male sexuality = gain affection and praise. I took the bait and I lived it, walked in my mother’s footsteps, rejecting anything that was too feminine or emotional.

This was all so much easier than confronting the sexual dysfunction that had been weaved within my development and personality. From day one, I have been trained to think that my body and my sexuality exists for men to take advantage of. My mother was intensely shaming of any sexuality I expressed, or even any emotional needs, while consistently placing herself as an object of sexual attention in social situations. It was highly confusing.

The thought of having my own requirements and guidelines for sex seemed repulsive, frigid, and shameful based on what I had been told. Even as I became older and entered the sex industry as a Dominatrix, I was still operating under the guidelines of extremely demanding submissive men, even though I was gaining some false sense of being in control. It still drained me, left me isolated and used up, and I quit the industry for a bit feeling confused about what was causing my strife.

Of course at that time I had entered a committed relationship with a man whom I’d met as a client. He was there to “save” me. Show me a better life. Really, I had been fine until he showed up and “helped open my eyes” to how the sex industry was harming me. At the tender age of 20, already a struggling single mother, I did not have the wisdom to see the hypocrisy of his patronage of the industry. I left the work to become a housewife, with the sun on my face and newfound purpose.

However, as you may have guessed, it was not the industry that was harming me. It was my slavery to misogyny. My perspective and poor boundaries.

It’s no surprise that my new marriage eventually left me feeling the same. Drained, used, isolated. I left the demanding sex industry behind to fall into a marriage with a man 21 years my senior, who was far more demanding and entitled than the hundreds of men I’d professionally catered to combined. Now that I had left the industry FOR him, I enabled the ideation that I was his property. Regardless of being in an “open” and “swinger” relationship, I was more enslaved than ever. I was now expected to remain as sexually driven as the day he met me, but only for him.

After years of being caged and poked and prodded, some blatant fetishization of my sexual trauma, and serious consent issues, I finally left.

From this point, I decided that perhaps I was going about this all wrong. Maybe I was actually sexully submissive and just denying myself a healthy fetishization of male dominance and instead allowing it to control me passively. I entered back into the sex industry, as well as the local fetish community, and was feeling free and happy and like myself again.

The fetish community is crawling with men ready and waiting with the right words for lusty females who have lost their way. I fell in lust with a “dominant” man who was everything that my previous partner was not. Tall, large, hairy, with suave and charm that overcame his mediocre looks. I threw myself completely into my slavery, and compartmentalized it in a BDSM relationship with this man that I dared trust.

None of these choices I made were inherently wrong. I had the best intentions for myself in mind, except that my awareness had not been fully developed and I was missing a key piece. I intended to embrace my sexuality. However, I was only letting the men around me embrace it on my behalf.

I still would not be able to truly look inward and recognize myself as a woman, with complexities and layers of desire, emotion, and sex. I was told that was unfavorable. It was not what men wanted. Having always been both pretty and openly sexual, I constantly had aggressive masculine forces telling me what my body and sexuality should be. I became addicted to the approval in lieu of real love. I was an object for males, not a female being of my own.

My determination to not stifle my own sexuality almost worked against me. I made myself vulnerable to male sexuality but not my own emotions and desires. I knew none of this was right, I shouldn’t have to hide, but I also shouldn’t have been in such awful situations.

My knight in dommley armor inevitably became extremely abusive. The line between BDSM and abuse faded, and I was too deep in. Six months in and I had my first ever black eye at the hands of a man. I’d experienced abuse, but not quite this type of brute violence. I stayed. I lost all my friends because I stayed. He was the embodiment of my slavery to misogyny that required my complete sacrifice of self. He tapped into all that made me weak, and it was his to toy with. Oddly this is the most sexually driven I’d been with a single partner, I believe because he was so emotionless and rejected me both sexually and emotionally regularly. I was so desperate for the same approval, and so I tolerated being beaten in place of having sex.

I learned a lot about misogynist sexuality during this time. His libido dropped as he became more abusive. His sexuality was not about sex. It was about control. As he lost it, he also lost his erections. What a fucking metaphor for it all.

I hate to say it, but none of this was clear until well after we broke up, and then he raped me.

It all came to a head, and I was finally confronted with the toxicity of misogyny throughout my entire sexual identity. I was so fucking confused. My libido disappeared. My emotional needs couldn’t coexist with my desire for sex. I was confronted with a real problem – a total lack of sexual identity that was replaced with trauma.

When I started writing this I didn’t even intend to get into all of this, but it is so fucking relevant.

I had never before taken the time to acknowledge myself as a woman instead of a sex object, until now. Emotions had no place in sex for me. In fact, sex has successfully served as a tool to keep me from sharing my emotions with other humans when I could instead fuck them.

It is devastating that I am not unique. I am a product of an environment and culture that does not allow women to blossom as unique sexual beings. This is how we are raising our sexual girls. We are conditioning them to become victims of sexual violence instead of having their female sexuality exist and embraced outside of the existence of male desire. Fathers and male authority figures molest the young girls, misogynist society shames and isolates the sexual teenaged young woman, and narcissists seek out and marry the injured grown woman for his own sexual gratification.

What an uphill battle for us. I’m still not there yet, but I’m learning and sharing, because this is a battle we should never have to fight in the first place.

The idea of requiring a mood to be set, music, candles, foreplay had all seemed ridiculous and demanding to me. I am learning that being an empowered sexual woman is not just demanding your right to be sexual, it is demanding your right to be a woman and also be sexual.

It’s all been horrifically scary to pursue. I must, and we all must, focus on turning the sense of vulnerability into empowerment.

As a woman, I demand more. I can choose to engage in kinky, filthy, nasty sex as I tend to desire, but that can coexist with my need to be treated as an emotional and spiritual being. I can even choose to serve men sexually, if it is my desire to be a sex object during sex. But it must be honored and acknowledged as my right to choose and never taken for granted.

I am not required to maintain a status quo. I have a right to change my mind, explore, and experiment.

I am a woman with a right to my sexuality, sensuality, and emotions. I do not exist to be victimized by abusive male sexuality. Anyone else who enjoys these benefits of my sex is simply a guest and I will promise myself to abruptly remove them without an apology if they try to dictate my terms instead of basking in it with me.

I’m still learning every day how to do this for myself. I’m a lover who thoroughly enjoys pleasing my partner, and I’m learning that does not mean to subdue my own natural desires. After all, I have said in the past that the best sex happens when you truly enjoy your primal sensual self. I can be at peace with whatever I need as a feminine being to achieve that.

Tonight I go on a date with my partner. I think afterwards, I’ll make a point to feel sexy, light candles, set  a mood, bask in aromas and incense. I’ll put on some lingerie. He will enjoy it, but it will be intended for me.

We Don’t Want These Men: On wives against sex-workers.

As a sex worker, I want all women to be free to do as they choose without being harmed by men. I can’t say this is true for all sex workers, but for me it is.

Recently, a long-time client of mine got “busted” by his wife. After years of tending to his needs for kinky sex on his leisure time away from home, his dual-reality crashed abruptly after pocket-dialing his wife and her listening in for 5 hours of a hooker excursion. Of course, selfishly, the first thing I thought was “damn, that is a good portion of my income.”

I never wanted bad for his wife, or the wives of any of my clients. Sometimes I know they exist, sometimes I don’t. Often times the clients I keep are really doing what they can to avoid divorce. They love their wives and family but perhaps promised too much, or committed too early, or they just grew apart sexually. These men do not intend to cheat. They see a professional for the sole purpose of maintaining their sacred emotional bond with their wife and not sharing true intimacy and love with another woman.

I’m not saying I condone the method, but often seeing a hooker is seriously their best chance at saving their marriage.

As the sex worker providing the service, my income and feeding my kids always comes first. I feared I may lose my client before anything. But then secondly as his long time friend, I advised him in different ways to be fair to his wife now that he’s experiencing the heartbreaking consequences of omitting very important information over the years.

I am not to blame for his choices. I have never knowingly enabled him, I’ve simply tried to make a buck in the best way I can.

I see that some sex workers use catty tactics to directly enable and fetishize a man cheating on his wife. Or they claim that civilian women are simply sexually inadequate or “failing” in some way. I do not condone this type of pure misogyny. That is not something I will do for a dollar and if you do, shame on you because one day when you’ve had enough of this business and maybe even sex in general, it could be your man. How awful would it be for someone to try to hold you accountable for your shithead husband’s awful decisions to hurt you?

In the same regard, how dare any wives hold sex workers accountable for their shithead husband’s awful decisions? Do civilian women expect me to tell my kids they can’t have something because I wanted to do my part in saving her shitty marriage? Am I expected to investigate each man that walks in my door to make sure no women are being harmed in the production of this blowjob? All I can do is make sure that as a sex worker and feminist, is that I am not persecuted for my right to take advantage of the male species’ desire for easy emotionless sex.

Do not blame me. Sister, if I could defend you I would. I would take you away from that man, show you the way of the heaux, and help you make sure you never had to rely on and trust one singular lying sack of shit for the rest of your life. But that is not your path. You have your path, I have mine. As women, we each deserve that choice.

Sex workers rarely know details of the personal lives of their clients. Rare is it that it is any of our business nor is that information divulged. As a reasonably privileged sex worker, I get the luxury of spending hours with my clients getting to know them – and still often don’t know about their personal lives. I guarantee the gals busting their asses on quick 15-minute clients are just as disinterested in stealing your cheap-ass husband They just want to eat and didn’t have the luxury of marrying a rich dude to put food on the table let alone entering a different field of work.

Even as privileged as some of us are, being perfectly capable of different professions, we are not fucking out to get you, civilian women. We just want your man’s money. We wouldn’t take them if we could. We have chosen our paths where very little trust of men is involved. You’ve chosen yours. You’ve chosen to marry these men. You call us enablers, but you give these men safe spaces, homes, children, and comfort to come home to. Who is the enabler, my dear? Do you think hookers are not disposable to your man? Do you not understand that your man would literally throw us under a bus if it meant protecting you?

We don’t want these fucking men.

From my view, these are your men, these are your dysfunctional relationships. I have literally nothing to do with them. I am simply an object in this equation and I seriously don’t mind. I prefer to keep my interaction with men simple like that.  I do not have interest in the toxic monogamy culture and expectations your relationship breeds. I also do not have interest in persecuting you for the ripple effect of your choices as they pertain to me, because you are free to choose your path, sister.

Blaming the women who are providing a service is inherently anti-woman. You are expecting us to control the actions of the shitty men you choose to wife up with – and at the expense of feeding our families. You expected monogamy, you asked for those promises. We can’t be held accountable for keeping those intact.

I guarantee that more often than not, your man believes he is doing you a favor. He is trying to not hound you for sex. He is not at all interested in having an affair. He probably has a hard time communicating what he needs or he simply can no longer get it with you but he STILL loves the shit out of you.

I don’t encourage cheating, but I wont take responsibility for it either. I choose to adapt and have an open relationship. I choose to listen to may partner and communicate freely. I choose to manage my expectations and be flexible so that if my man did need something else, we’d work around it. You, civilian women, deserve the same. You don’t deserve to be cheated on even if your man says you’re “not enough”.

But don’t you dare try to blame other women – sex worker or not. Free yourself and open your mind instead. If you choose my path I can help you. If you keep on yours I can only do my best to get by myself.

I laughed with the man who raped me.

It wasn’t until just before the two year anniversary of the attack that I just started coping with this. First year I got drunk, I drowned it out. The next I busied myself with procreation. It wasn’t until I was of course sober, and then no longer pregnant, that I realized I’m in an incredible amount of pain. Being numb for one year and then just understandably uncomfortable for the next really distracted from the fact that I was still wounded.

I have 7 revision histories on this. I’m posting this again with some edits for two reasons:

One is that the media and others have misconstrued and twisted my words to make me seem like just another crazy whore that has manipulated a privileged white man into committing heinous acts because the difference between consensual BDSM sex or paid sex and coming into my home and beating and raping me is far too difficult for his wealthy white brain to understand.

The other is that my original manifesto was still quite guarded although I was trying to use this public forum to heal and be vulnerable. Of course I was guarded with good reason, because every word I say is tracked and twisted.

In two days I will go to the trial and defend myself far harder than he has to. I have to defend the fact that I am a sex worker. That I am a slut. That I openly welcome sex. I will have to defend the fact that even still, I don’t want sex from a man whom I had a restraining order against, and who created a fake identity and disguise over weeks to gain entry into my home, bind me, gag me, and beat me in order to get to it.

I have to defend that on February 12th, 2015, I didn’t want sex from Nathan Nissenbaum. I didn’t even want to see him. I did everything I was supposed to to keep him from me.

He played out one of his sick revenge fantasies but this time in real life. He had told me in the past how he fantasized about kidnapping his ex girlfriend (who also publicly accused him of abuse) and beating her in a BDSM-esque scene, but obviously against her will. He described a scene of tying her up in a barn and using a leather strap against her until she couldn’t scream anymore. I still stayed with him after hearing this. He had a way of manipulating the darkest things to sound normal or tantalizing.

He snatched me out of a 5-year (another abusive) relationship promising to be my salvation. To be the real man I always sexually craved. He promised to make a good girl out of me, and give me a space to be vulnerable. And I was.

He had done things to me in our relationship that I can never see myself interested in. He would somehow convince me that I really wanted it… He said I wanted to be tied up in my basement… he said I wanted to be bolted into a wooden platform, with a gag in my mouth, being whipped and bruised and beaten bloody until I couldn’t breathe and then at that point have ice water poured on me to revitalize me. Hell, he even convinced a friend to sit by and photograph it and had me tell him I needed it. He said it was kinky. He said it was bdsm. It was abuse.

I never liked pain before him. I don’t like it now.

Everything between us was cosmic and fiery. Until, one day he threw a wooden stool at my head after choking me while I fought to get away. He left a welt on my head, a concussion, and me and in and out of consciousness for a day while my friends looked after my daughter. He said it was a fluke. That night, he beat the shit out of me because he was scared of me, he says. He was scared being 200+lbs versus my 115. See, I am emotional. I was upset he locked my dog outside for hours. My basic emotional reaction upset him so badly that he HAD to throw me on the bed and repeatedly hit me in the face before throwing my little body across the room and pinning me down by my neck threatening to kill me then and there. But yeah, its because he was “scared” he says. It was such a surprising fluke.

I stayed with him. I stayed with the abuse.

My friends abandoned me. Everyone in my life abandoned me by the time my black eye healed. Our local-celebrity love drama just got too real, and I was dumb enough to stay. So everyone left me alone with him because I was an idiot.

Once I finally gave him the boot for good, he was relentless. Hundreds of texts, emails, calls per day for weeks, maybe months on end. To me, my family, my boyfriend, my daughters teacher, he called her school trying to “out” me by sending my adult work. I could not escape him. He was flooding my whole life. He was around every turn.

He once even told my fiance that he will rape me any time he wants, because he owns me. He was convinced I was his submissive still… for life.

I moved, I got a restraining order, blocked him, I did everything I was supposed to. It didn’t fucking matter. He still fucked my life up. Yeah, he won.

Here’s an edited version of what I wrote, just the day after his final attack. Now that I’m ready to just show my wounds so I can heal, and also because I need to prepare myself for the questioning to come:

I woke up, after a long night sitting in the detective’s office telling the same story again and again. To doctors, nurses, detectives, officers, and of course the state’s attorney.

I’ll spare the details but my ex-monster also did some great footwork for himself. For him, however, the goal was not moving on. He spent the time concocting a evil-mastermind-like plan to gain access to my home and have his dramatic final goodbye. It was good, it must have taken weeks. Details large and small – even growing a beard and changing his appearance to ensure a smooth entry into my safe space. This took some time.

The plan was executed (in part) yesterday morning. I was held captive in my home for 4 hours total. For me, I had no real concept of time during this. It seemed like 10 minutes and at the same time seemed like 10 days. At first I was terrified, hysterical and unable to breathe – partially from the presence of a gun and the tape, leather mask, and blows to the head and partially because of my god damn asthma. I cursed myself for not quitting smoking before this. I went totally numb for a short time.

(Thinking back I remember how I really didn’t think of much. I was certain I was going to die. I knew after a bit that his gun was fake, but I thought he’d kill me anyway. I would like to think it’s like the movies where you beg about your kids. It wasn’t. I just went on auto-pilot. Maybe its because I knew there was very little way to reason with him. I knew him well.)

I watched him dig through my things, packing my stuff – makeup, jewelry, clothes, lingerie, sex toys. I had no idea what was happening. When I first realized it was him through the disguise, he told me that if I continued to struggle we’d have a “murder-suicide instead of a suicide.” I thought he meant me for some reason. I really thought he was going to make it seem like I killed myself – he was too full of himself to commit suicide. But that didn’t add up either.

He packed a few big bags while I was bound on the bed, quiet and still shocked. He asked me where my money was, he ransacked my lock box of valuables, he asked about my engagement ring and I lied and told him I didn’t have it.

I was scared but some sort of acceptance came over me. It was some mix of shock, fear, sadness, and just something that I can’t even name. Just natural instinct. I couldn’t let myself be taken from this world right now. I originally wanted to look away. I thought to myself to just close my eyes and let it be over with. I was certain at that point that I would be tortured severely and decided that I needed to just close my eyes and leave my body. However, I found myself looking into his eyes firmly and directly. I kept them there for the next few hours. I saw the peek of weakness hiding far behind the mask of a monster and I locked onto it with my hurt until it slowly unfolded. This same bullshit that got me into that messy relationship ultimately saved me. My ability to see the humanity in a total monster.

(Nowadays, I really don’t know if Nathan has any humanity at all anymore, or if he ever did. Maybe I imagined it. I feel like such a sucker. I just so badly want for people to be good. He played me.)

Maybe at another time in another platform I’ll recount the details, but at this point it’s not necessary. The thing that matters is that originally this person’s plan was to hold me captive for days, with a gun, over valentine’s day to strip that of my loved ones, before forcing me to hold him while he took his own life. He planned to dress me up, punish me, lecture me, and cut and mutilate my face so I could no longer work in the adult industry. I know all of this because once he started to lose his strength, we laughed together about how he bit off more than he could chew.

Yes I laughed with him. Is it because I felt ok? Fuck no. I laughed with him after he told me his plan to mutilate me while raping and beating me for days while I was kept from my loved ones, forced to call and message them saying I was just freaking out about my recent engagement. I was so horrified that if my body could feel anything at that point I would have likely vomited everywhere.

But I chuckled with him. I laughed. Why? Well because how can you not? Here I am, front-and-center leading role in a fear-mongering Lifetime Original Movie or Cosmopolitan article. Such is life, right? Also because the laughter made me real. It made me human. It made him human too. Not that I could even see it at that point, but somewhere within that evil-infested body there once was a little boy, a human little boy, that was not consumed by illness or evil. Laughter is the only thing that could have connected us as humans.

(This is the part that I must clarify for several reasons. I did not laugh because it was ok. I laughed because no matter what, I knew Nathan could connect that way. In this moment, I did not want to connect with him. I wanted to hide and disappear. I found it in myself to laugh, because it was the only thing that could make him break his focus on hurting me. I laughed against my will just like he fucked me against my will, just so i could survive. If you can try to manipulate that into making this all seem “OK” then you can literally eat shit and die)

From the moment I found chance to laugh with him – he did not physically attack me again. I got him to slowly un-tape my body. He cried into the side of my face between attempts at carefully removing the duct tape from my “pretty hair”. Suddenly, after laughing, this person who had intended to mutilate my face with razor blades, was crying about pulling out some of my beautiful hair that I am so proud of.

I was able to reason with him, give his weakness a safe place to let go of his psychotic imagined power. I explained to him that his plan wasn’t going to work, it had to end here, today. I asked him if there was any chance of just leaving and getting help – I even begged him although truly I wanted the worst for him in this moment. He said he planned this out so he couldn’t turn back, and he would have to kill himself. I said it all just needed to end now, that his plan wouldn’t work if we tried to leave.

(I said “we”. At this point, I needed him to think we were in this together. We were not in this together. I just didn’t want to be beaten anymore.)

After awhile switching back and forth between pacing panic and crying into my chest, he picked up the razor blades out of the bag he packed, walked toward the bathroom and stopped and turned around and with a tired face and defeated hand motion, signaled for me to come to the bathroom with him.

I stood up dizzy, feeling somewhere between sad and scared that doesn’t have a name and joined him. He talked to me for awhile and asked me some questions, but during this whole thing some of my memory went missing about the tiniest mundane things. He was too tired to demand anything at this point and understood. He at one point told me that he knew it wasn’t possible at this point but what he really wanted was for me to just say we could be together. I gave him a knowing look and shook my head saying very clearly “No, that isn’t a way out of this at this point.” I offered to get him a final glass of whiskey for his departure and went to the next room as he monitored me. When I did I was able to observe where my dog and shoes were – the only things I really needed at this point.

I came back and gave it to him. We both laughed again as he choked on the whiskey a bit. We also laughed about the fact that from roughly 10 minutes into this ordeal I recognized that the gun was probably just a fake. He eventually got into the tub and had me sit next to him while he attempted to slaughter his arms which wasn’t going well. He had a much harder time hurting himself and let out a scream when he split the skin on his arm wide open. I started crying and asked him if I could be outside of the bathroom and he allowed it.

(My crying was real. Even after all of this, and honestly just hoping he would lose consciousness so I could leave, I just didn’t want to watch him bleed and scream like that)

Once I was in an entirely separate room from him with him otherwise preoccupied, then that real fear came back. I texted my fiance – an action I thought I was never going to be able to do again and once I set the phone back down, I felt reality again. I remember my senses igniting, the numb went away. My heart started pounding in my chest. I waited a moment and it dawned on me that I can’t wait for a better chance. Amazingly, he turned the shower on and I realized this would drown out the sound of me opening the bedroom door. I got up so quickly that the droplets of water may not even have hit his body yet. I opened my bedroom door quietly and grabbed my dog by the collar, slipped my boots on and opened the front door to the outside world I didn’t even think to see again.

(It was like a fucking movie. The bedroom had been dark with just a small shaded window. I saw springtime rays of sun peeking through big Bucktown trees. I never thought I’d see that again. Looking back, I see now that this was a rebirth into something so complicated. I was forever changed)

After a long afternoon at the hospital going through a process more rape-y than the previous 4 hours and all night at the police station, I sat at home and ate and drank whiskey and laughed. I laughed at the hospital too, which made the doctors very confused.

Then I woke up this afternoon and laughed. I don’t ignore the sadness and I talk about it openly. But without laughter I have nothing. Let me be clear – this situation isn’t just funny. What happened to me is real and the amount that my attacker is not only dangerous and scary, but also ill and suffering is very serious. But life is a crazy fucking place, and it could have been so much worse.

I’m not going to let this take me down like he wanted. I’m not going to grieve about what could have been but wasn’t. I only have some bumps and bruises and that seems like a sweet deal considering what was planned for me. I’m going to take some advil, drink some whiskey and invite over everyone close to me, and tell some really awkward jokes about the events of yesterday. I’m going to celebrate life and laugh at it’s fragility because escaping it in sorrow in my bed is not going to make it any less delicate.


I left the original ending although it is naive and guarded. I do laugh. I cope. I find a way. Laughter helps me to not sink into a terrible dark place in my head that has already been dug out by childhood trauma. Laughter brings the light in. That is the reason I laughed that day.

However, It wasn’t until a few months ago that the gravity of all of this started to sink in.

Nathan Nissenbaum is a monster. He has beaten and raped me, and allegedly several other women who trusted him.

He changed my life forever. He took away my safety and sense of self. Most days I’m scared to go outside alone, I don’t like strange people to look at me anymore, I question whether any client is actually him. Some days I laugh and I feel strong. Some days I hate myself and I don’t even know who I am.

I never thought I was the “type” to be abused. I hope for no one to feel like that. It isn’t me and I’m still learning that. These monsters can get to anyone.

I’m learning that I don’t have to laugh. I’m not ok and that’s ok. Life is fucked up and I will continue to try to find the things to laugh about.

I might not have sex with you.

I wish I didn’t have to admit this, but growing up with a high sex drive, it was hard to learn to maintain my self-respect.

There are many people out there who assume that because you have had sex with 9 out of 10 people in a room and are comfortable and open with it that you are going to sleep with them, that 10th person. This is such an unsafe assumption.

I’ve actually had a few times I remember being slut-shamed and called a whore once I rejected a guy who wanted to have sex with me. Makes sense right?

I am sad to say that I have had sex with more people than I care to remember, simply out of feeling obligated. This was long ago, but even today I get approached with the same pressures.

A significant one what last year a woman was pressuring me to play at a play party that I chose to only supervise (many BDSM play parties will have an assigned person or people who are not playing and are simply keeping an eye to make sure everyone is being safe and clean and to provide assistance where needed). She actually almost started an argument with me about why I should play and when I put up a firm limit she told me I was “bumming [her] out!” After that I told her that it isn’t my job to fuck everyone that wants it when they want it. She was shocked and asked me if I had just “lashed out” at her. I explained I was setting a limit. But honestly, anyone who is trying to guilt someone into sex I hope would be lashed out at rather than achieving their goal. That is a little rape-y.

It’s incredibly important for people to remember that no matter how sexual someone is, they may still have their days, and how about this — their OWN PREFERENCES. Also, anyone is entitled to change their mind. I think people lose sight of that so easily.

Yes, sexual people are entertaining. However even for the biggest, horniest exhibitionist, sex is about personal enjoyment, not everyone else’s. When someone happens to enjoy themselves sexually out in the open with many partners, you must remember that it is far more important that said person is enjoying themselves than you getting your slice.

I have a good male friend of mine who is faced with this issue regularly and I find that he handles himself better than I tend to. He is a very attractive man and known to be skilled sexually. He also likes to play bisexually at times… But not all the time! I have seen him be pressured by folks many times to perform or to play with other men. It’s shocking how comfortable people are with pushing. He simply responds with “that’s not what I’m up for today” and smiles and moves on, repeating himself as needed. I appreciate his use of “today” or “right now” to illustrate that he is choosing to make a decision about what he wants NOW regardless of past or future decisions. You go, boy!

This all came up because last night I was confronted with a conversation that I will place below.

My initial response was to shame and antagonize this person but I took a gentler approach and tried to provide insight. Also, this post isn’t meant to shame (this time) but more to illustrate how this can be such a casual mentality. Here it is:

Dude: You really do have sex?

Me: Is that a real question?

Dude: Lol…. A lot of “posers”

Me: Like people who say they have sex but actually don’t have sex? That’s a thing?

Dude: On Facebook… Yes

Me: I’m a grown woman, of course I have sex.

Do you have sex?

And how do you determine if someone is lying about having sex? Why do you suppose they do that?

Dude: Much…but what I’m trying to say is. A lot of women on here act like they are having sex to create a persona

Me: How do you know that?

And why would one not have sex and say they do? Like, never have sex? I don’t think this is a real thing that you’re on to.

I agree that people bullshit, but you’ve just asked me the strangest question anyone has ever asked me in the last three days.

And is that a female thing? Please do explain.

Dude: Well…they will act like the freak you dream of and turn out to be nothing even close… you type way to fast..:)

Me: Like once you meet them?

Dude: Yes

Me: So, here’s a thing that you may be missing…..

Dude: Do tell.

Me: When a person (not just women) is very sexual, and open about sex, that doesn’t mean that their genitals are just up for grabs. Being open about your sexuality does not make you obligated to have sex with every person you meet simply because they are so presumptuous to assume that just because you may have lots of sex with lots of people that you are going to want to have sex with them. Being sexual and even a slut and an exhibitionist does not make one required to sexually entertain everyone. So if someone who is very sexual happens to not want a particular person or a few people even, that does not make them a liar, poser, or whatever. It makes them a self-respecting individual who enjoys their sexuality for themselves as opposed to just letting everyone else enjoy it at the expense of their own enjoyment. Make sense?

Dude: I understand that..but if there is no real attractions.
Between each other then it was a mistake to go there.. but when you do like the person physically and they have no freak qualities you..desire…um

Me: That doesn’t make someone a “poser”. That makes the two people involved incompatible.

So ultimately I hope the message got through.


Your sex is for your own enjoyment. Any quality partners you choose will gain the most out of you enjoying sex for yourself before anyone else. And for those of you with hard expectations, please try to remember that you probably want someone to play with you when it feels good to them, not because you made them feel required to. Unless you’re a rapist.