Boundary
Blurring

Lora Leigh's sentiment is misused as the mantra of abusers everywhere.

For our second date, he took me to a peaceful levee that looks out over the San Francisco Bay and San Mateo bridge. The car headlights passing over the bridge look like liquid gold in the evenings. It was perfect. I was romanced and still a little shy of him. When he took my hand to lead me back to the car, I felt convinced I could trust him. These days I can't see this evening as anything more than a cruel trap.

When he started wrestling me into the footwell of his car to kiss me, my stiff body and hands defensively pinned against my shoulders didn't phase him. My punch-drunk self chalked it up to harmless, playful roughhousing and I frankly was in the mood for sex, so I shrugged it off.

In response, I attempted a playful hand-to-hand grapple with him on his bed. I assessed myself as, "pretty strong," and he wasn't much taller than me. I'd never felt the inability to wrench my wrists away from anyone until then. I was intimidated, but didn't feel justified labeling it a red flag because he just seemed so wonderful otherwise.

He agreed enthusiastically to using protection and confirmed over text that he had condoms. However, after some buildup, he firmly planted his body between my legs and did not adhere to our agreement. I insisted on knowing where the condoms were and repeatedly pushed his shoulders away from me to avoid penetration. He went ahead anyway, silently staring me dead in the eyes as if it was some sort of challenge. I didn't know what to think and I didn't know what to do. My skin felt cold and prickly and I was confused by my body's response. I wanted to have sex with him, didn't I?

He held me like a baby. I complimented him.

I emotionally collapsed in on myself during the process of that initial incident. I felt a deep sense of horror, but I eventually started clinging to him as if he were saving me from the experience he was causing. I couldn't shake off the feeling of violation the next day and I confronted him over the phone while he was at work. He expressed vague remorse, deemed his actions, "not cool," and agreed to use protection the next time. He criticized offhandedly that I should have reminded him to wear one. My palms sweated and I was incredulous, but also somehow relieved. I wasn't sure if I was capable of leaving him...

I now felt he had laid claim to too much of my dignity for me to break things off. And to make it more confusing, I wasn't interested in leaving! I became practically obsessed with earning his commitment. I was transfixed and confused by how he'd cradle me and call me perfect, beautiful and his princess. I'd never gotten so much affection in my life wasn't used to any of it. I rationalized that if I was going to catch an STI from him, using protection was already a lost cause. Besides, I had a perfectly healthy enjoyment of sex. I justified that he must be so passionate about me that he couldn't help himself and concluded that it was good news! (It's wasn't.) So I gave up on asking about condoms.

I started undressing quickly with him, as I was becoming tired of hearing the threads in my work blouses strain under his pulling at them. I couldn't easily afford to replace them and needed to arrive home at least somewhat presentable, so sacrificing timing was a reasonable sacrifice to me. Everyone seemed crazy about 50 Shades and I figured I might as well enjoy whatever this dynamic was. As his partner, wasn't I supposed to want it? I had spent my long-term relationships with relatively passive men and the contrast seemed different and so easy to skew as exciting, at least for a while.

It's surprising that his neighbors didn't complain about noise. Even his housemate didn't, to my knowledge.

I quite successfully trained myself to overcome my feelings about his choices and frame them in a positive light. I did my best to proudly wear the apparently-accidental bruises he left on my arms and chest like medals of honor. I reasoned with myself, "how could anyone do this if they didn't have passionate feelings for me?" As if that made it any better. I ignored the sick feeling in my stomach and bragged to friends about him and his, "passion."

When I alerted him that the garish mosaic of hickeys he left down my neck was starting to be noticed at work, regardless of my efforts to cover it with makeup, he expressed regret, but continued leaving them. So I learned to celebrate them as a mark of love.

Intimacy, at least while I was awake, always began as a consensual act and then morphed into something dark that I did not agree to and was not equipped to identify at the time. It was only a matter of time before he was physically preventing me from speaking, smashing my face into the mattress by the back of my neck. He treated it as free rein to do what he wanted. When I struggled, he'd pin me harder.

This isn't just rough sex. It's not sex at all.

My abuser's favorite picture of me was a selfie I took shortly after he stood me up for a date. I had just gotten a haircut for the occasion, and he wanted to see it. In the photo, my eyes were clearly watery and my face was unsmiling; he had gotten drunk at a friend's house the night before and forgotten about our date. I called him and told him how I felt and he responded firmly, "I'll do what I want with my life." I felt incredibly guilty, backpedaled and apologized for being offended.

His attitude wasn't reserved for the bedroom. He would shoot me a disapproving look and refuse to answer when I suggested precautions, such as using a safe word, or having discussions about his intimate needs. I felt embarrassed and stuck between a rock and a hard place. Even mundane things were looked at with a judgmental eye. My free Spotify account, and the music I liked, a single homemade cookie - given at his request. Even my new (used) car, which I dutifully washed before every date earned some side-eye. I bought a new phone after he became annoyed that mine took an extra moment to load Google Maps. I felt very sorry and uncomfortable when he complained that a few of my long hairs had gotten into his laundry.

I lost my nerve. It all made me feel inadequate and I equated that, as well as his confidence, appearance, high-level of education and career success, with him being smarter and knowing better than I did what was right for us. I kissed him on the cheek while he rested next to me and was amazed when he forcefully shoved me away by my face, excusing himself as feeling, "too hot." He registered my conflicted expression, hesitated a moment and then followed up with a comforting, lingering hug.

It sounds as if it was all nonstop aggression, but he was usually disarmingly relaxed! I found a lot of solace and comfort in the calm moments where we cuddled, watched TV or napped together. I enjoyed committing the curves of his face and hands to memory and fantasizing about our future. Once while driving together, "Meant to Be" began playing on the radio, as song which I didn't particularly enjoy. He took his hand off the wheel, placed it on the back of my neck and turned to give me a warm smile. In that moment, everything was beautiful to me and nothing prior to it mattered.

The cycle was consistent: Abuse, followed by comfort, and then disruption of my confidence by means of disrespect, petty criticism or irritability, then finally leading to abuse again. I was his human Jenga tower, and I can only assume he enjoyed discovering what would make me crumble.

If what he said was true, he was experienced in boxing and wrestling as well as martial arts. While I admit that's pretty badass, I'm convinced that his immigration status is his only reason for not making worse choices in how he ultimately treated me physically. It's ironic that he boasted about his mother teaching young girls self-defense.