Rush

Author's Note: This post is about waterboarding, something that's been something of a news item lately. I demo-bottomed doing this at Floating World to a good friend of mine whom I trust (you may have read about it in the Star Ledger). We both talked about it a great deal in advance and he answered all of my questions to my satisfaction before I consented to doing this. So there you have it; we both consented.

----------

Fear and terror are two completely different things. I learned that that day. Fear is hot, fear, to me, is getting fucked while there's a rope tied around my throat, or being told that if I don't do what I'm told, when I'm told, that my top is going to rip out a toenail with a pair of pliers. Fear is hot, and a little intimidating, and uncertain. But terror, for me, is believing in every fiber of my being that I am going to die, in that really horrible this-is-not-a-drill kind of way.

The people that are debating whether or not waterboarding is torture or not have clearly never been waterboarded. It's torture. Pure and simple. I was convinced that I was going to die. I'm told that it's done to create the illusion of drowning, I disagree. There is no illusion; I was drowning and nothing can convince me otherwise. I recognize that what I did was very tame compared to whats going on in some parts of the world. But what I did was enough to get me thinking. Because right now, I am of the opinion that the illusion lies only within in the theory of waterboarding, and only in the theory. In reality, there is no illusion. You are drowning.

The demo started with Ward, my friend who was teaching the class, talking about different things and answering some questions. Much to the amusement of the audience, I took a sip of water from the bottle that was about to be used on me. Four people were restraining me, one of whom was my friend Marilyn. Then he pushed the wash cloth into my mouth, but I started gagging so he took it out and got it wet before pushing it back in, only not so deep. It took me a minute to get acclimated to it.

At first as he started sprinkling water on me I started to laugh, those sibilant notes that are so synonymous with me and play. Moisture formed in the back of my throat but most of the water went up my nose. I tried to inhale and found only water, like I had accidentally inhaled while swimming under water in a pool. I tried to push against the people holding me down, but found I couldn't move, which made me panic even more. I'm told that my eyes were darting around rapidly under my eyelids. It felt like water had flooded my throat, and I couldn't get a breath in. Before starting Ward had told them to let me go immediately when he gave the signal. He waved his hand and I was released. I rose up from the table so that I was leaning on my elbows while he pulled out the wash cloth. I coughed and gasped for air. I was angry and terror-stricken. Ward went on to say that it was intended to create the illusion of drowning. "Fuck you, I was drowning," I exclaimed, feeling upset and exposed.

After the class ended and people filed away I felt the full force of the chemicals that had been produced hit me; raw adrenaline and endorphins rushed into my system. I hugged Ward tight, frightened and wide-eyed. We went to a diner, but both of us barely ate. I felt physically ill, and I was upset and felt exposed and vulnerable. When we got back to the room I took a hot shower in the dark which helped a little bit and then I went and crawled back into bed and clung close.

Getting over that rush of chemicals took me a long time; every time I seemed to make some progress I would just crash back into feeling miserable all over again. I did finally manage to eat something that night, some of my famous mac & cheese and one of the brownies I had baked for the weekend. But it took me a few days to get over the full effects of what had been released into my system as a result.

I don't know if this is something that I would do again. I'm certainly not angry or upset with Ward or any of the people who were restraining me. I consented to doing that, and I own that fact. But the effects out lasted everything else, and I find the effects to be really rather disagreeable. And if I'm slammed from chemicals which make me feel horrible one or two days later, then is it really worth it for a scene that only lasts, at the very most, and this is really really pushing it, 15 seconds? Probably not.

Sigh. I don't know what else to say here. Except that I had an experience that no one I know, to my knowledge, has ever had. And I wish that I could tell someone who has a bigger voice than I do in the world what that felt like. On the tame level that I experienced that, it was easily one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I can't imagine what those men are facing in places where these practices are occurring on a far more intense and overwhelming level. But I write a sex blog, sporadically at that, and it's very unlikely that anyone will hear my quiet little voice, telling the story about the time I got waterboarded.

One year and a song

It was a year ago today that I showed up at Jefferson's house, desperate to wash the bad feel of a bad break up off of my skin. Jefferson not only helped me cleanse myself, but overtime he grew to be a dear friend. I've made other friends through him, and had experiences that I probably wouldn't have had if it weren't for him. I'm grateful for the things that he has given me, the opportunities and favors offered and given, but much more importantly I'm happy to have had his company and friendship over the last year, so thank you, it's been a hoot and a holler, and I'm looking forward to seeing what the future has in store for us.

Now, I am feeling particularly generous right now seeing as I actually managed to give myself my first orgasm this year all by my lonesome!! I actually had more than one; I lost track around 15. And I was listening to Ingrid Michaelson's song "Far Away" (which put me in such a good mood) while I was doing this when I looked down at my body. And I looked up and said out loud to myself "You know on rare occasions I don't like that I'm female. But I wouldn't give it up for anything; I love being a chick. 'Sides twat's are a hoot."

And then I threw my head back and howled with laughter. Yes my friends, life is good.

Shame

One of the last times I had sex with Simon was in the basement of his ex-girlfriends house. We were all going to some event the following day together, and her family put us together in their very livable basement.

This was during a time when I didn't want to see my body, I was ashamed of it; detested it. I've told this story before; I showered in the dark, wore conservative clothing, and avoided letting people see me naked or partially clothed. By this point I had stopped masturbating, I had gotten some kind of block that stopped me from having orgasms, and whenever I tried I ended up crying in frustration at my bodies refusal to do what it had once done so well and so easily.

I had gone behind a partition that they had to put on my pajamas when Simon came around the corner, he came over and put his hands on my hips, and said something to me, running his hands up under my belly, I pulled away before his fingertips touched my breasts, and he turned away. Muttering about how he didn't need this. I pulled my shirt on over my head, breathing deeply, I tried to pull myself together.

I walked around the partition into the main area where the sofa bed was set up for us. I settled onto the far corner, trying to take up as little room as possible. Desperately trying to avoid contact with him.

"Come here," Simon said, his voice sounded dead. I got up and shyly approached him, I felt skittish on my feet. I knelt on the carpeted floor outside of arms length in front of him. "What are you doing?" He asked. "This isn't like you Eden, I've never met anyone before who was so strong, so liberated in everything like you are. You used to laugh so easily, get excited by all the little things that made you so happy. But I don't see any of that anymore, all I see is someone timid and afraid."

While he spoke, all I could do was think about the day that this had all started, about how desperately I wished I could have gone back and relived that day.

My breath was frozen in my chest, and my hands were clenched tight into the fabric of my pajama bottoms. "Maybe I'm just afraid, can't I be afraid?" I had asked, my voice small and tight. In that moment I wished I had wings, that they would just break out of my back and allow me to fly away into the night.

"I don't know who did this to you, but whoever it was, they don't know you. Don't let some stranger damage your ability to let your light shine," he said. He sank to his knees in front of me and slowly drew my shirt off over my head. My face was turned to the side, with my chin resting against my shoulder. He ran his fingertips up my bare arm and across my shoulder. His hand traced my clavicle and let it run down to my breasts, pressing my nipple together between his thumb and forefinger, it turned me on and made me feel ashamed at the same time. He kissed me gently and tugged me towards the bed, I climbed under the blankets, putting my shirt on the arm of the couch next to me.

He turned off the lights and put on a movie. He climbed into the bed next to me, and I mentally pulled away, desperately trying to protect myself. I remember thinking that that would have been the perfect time to become a nun. Just to pack up my bags and ship on out to Tibet, devote my life to Buddha. He slipped his hand down past the waistband of my pants, his fingertips reaching for my clit. I gasped as he found it, and then I bit my lip; a ball of dread had settled into my stomach. I tried to find my happy place as Simon rolled the condom on and laid on top of me. I was keenly aware of his chest against my breasts, his penis against my labia as he pressed down inside of me.

I don't know why I let him do it, by that time it had been weeks since I had come, perhaps part of me wanted to know if I could even have sex at this point. I could feel my foot hurting, from far away, I had injured my foot a week earlier badly enough to need a cane to get around, and I was still healing. I could make small distances on my own, but anything farther and I needed help.

When Simon finished, I got up and took my cane. I leaned heavily on it as I walked to the bathroom. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was reminded of the faery tale idea of the maiden, the mother, and the crone. I felt more like the crone than the maiden in that moment.

I started to cry, feeling like a lost little child. I cried as I sat down on the toilet to pee, I cleaned myself off and then dried my eyes and blew my nose and went back out into the main room. I pulled on my shirt in the dark, and got into bed. I laid there on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring into nothing until I finally fell asleep.

It would be a few more weeks before I began to have orgasms again, but they never came with the ease that they once did. Each one I had to work for, and in the beginning, I was reliant on other people, because I couldn't manage it on my own. It would be another three and a half months before I could do it on my own, and when I finally managed it, I wept.