When Fantasy Becomes Reality

Several months back, I wrote about my friend Ben. Only I didn’t call him Ben at the time, I gave him the highly inappropriate nickname of Mr. FCFW. For those of you who don’t feel like clicking the link, here is the quick backstory: Ben is a seemingly confident, well-off, older, charming man I had a brief fling with, despite knowing he was married. After the fling we developed a friendship.

When I wrote that post back in November, I was still pretty new in my recovery. Ben was someone I talked to a lot, even though I realized it was inappropriate. I now know that I was doing with him was called “intrigue,” which basically means I was trying to keep him interested, just in case. After I wrote about him, I ended up talking to him less and less. I never consciously decided to pull away from him, but as I got healthier and healthier the schism naturally occurred.

I hadn’t talked to him in months, so it was odd to see a text message from him last week when I was getting ready for work. Odder still, was the content of the message, “I need help.” The first thing I thought was that someone had stolen his cell phone, and was texting everyone in his address book in some attempt to scam money. That far-fetched scenario sounded more probable to me, than confident, self-assured, has-everything-going-for-him Ben actually needing my help with anything.

“What’s going on?” I texted back.

“My wife found out everything. I’m out of control. I need help. What do I do?”

Let me pause this story in order to briefly tell another one.

When I first started in recovery I fantasized about this very thing happening for months. Only I wasn’t fantasizing about Ben, I was fantasizing about HC, another married man who I was completely, devastatingly, irrationally fixated on. HC is the reason I started coming to 12-step meetings. He was pretty much all I talked about in meetings for the first few months, and almost all I wrote about when I first started this blog. I was OBSESSED.

The fantasy was that HC’s wife would find out he had been cheating on her throughout the entire course of their marriage. He’d realize he had a problem with sex addiction. He’d contact me for help. I’d tell him about the program I’m in. We’d started going to meetings together, and then when we were both fully recovered, he’d realize he was in love with me and we’d live happily ever after. Totally healthy little fantasy. Also, totally probable, right?

I feel awful for this, but when Ben sent me that text, my thoughts weren’t, “I feel so terrible for Ben and his family,” they were “ohmygodohmygod it’s finally happening!!!” The addict in me didn’t even care that it was happening to the wrong person, I was just so excited it was happening. I hate admitting this, but I got a major buzz off of the drama. Ben’s life was falling apart, and I was getting a contact high.

My addict wanted to jump in, and save the day. Fix all of Ben’s problems for him. Make his drama my drama. But I took a step back and realized that this reaction I was having was nothing but addiction. Is there such thing as a drama addict? Yes, and you’re reading one’s blog.

Once I had gotten ahold of myself we talked on the phone. My addict wanted to tell him to start coming to SLAA (Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous) meetings with me; wanted to tell him that I would take him to a meeting, but instead I told him to look up  another S-program, Sex Addicts Anonymous. There is some crossover in my area between these two programs, and I’ve heard that SAA is almost 100 percent men, and many of them are married and trying to save their marriage. The program I attend is both men and women, most of whom are single. I also told him to call a marriage counselor. My addict wanted to look up the meeting schedule and send it to him, as well as look up a list of therapy referrals. But my authentic self stepped in and said, “Come on Imperfect, he can google just as well as you can. Back off!”

So I pointed Ben in the right direction, but kept my distance. My addict wanted to call him later that day to see how he was doing, but my authentic self told her to chill. Ben called me the next day to tell me he attended his first meeting and we talked about it. He sent me a text yesterday and told me he was in therapy and had started reading Patrick Carnes’ book on sexual addiction, Out of the Shadows.  His life is in a lot of turmoil, but I trust that if he continues on this path, he’ll be okay. I don’t need to rescue Ben, just like I don’t need anyone to rescue me. That’s the beauty of surrendering to a Higher Power. I know it will all be okay.

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The Plastic Surgeon, Part 2*

The plastic surgeon was a busy guy, so our second date took place couple of weeks after the first one. We lived about 45 minutes apart from each other. Since he had driven down to my neighborhood for our first date, I agreed to drive up to his place for our second date.

The plan was to meet at his apartment, then go to dinner. That was the plan. I had even bought a new dress for this occasion. I looked really pretty.

When I got to his place he was dressed casually. He had a white teeshirt on and sweat pants. His hair was wet. I had the impression that he had just gotten out of the shower and wasn’t done getting ready yet. He offered me a glass of wine, which I accepted. I thought he was going to go finish getting ready while I waited for him, but instead he also poured himself a glass of wine and sat down on the couch with me.

We talked for a bit and then started making out. He was aggressive. My dress stayed on, but he pulled my breasts out and started sucking on them. Then he put his hand under my dress and in my panties. I stopped him, “When are we going to dinner?” I asked.

“In a bit,” he said.

I got up, thinking that if I stood up and started walking towards the door, this would encourage him to follow suit. I no longer cared that I was in a nice dress and he was in sweats, I just wanted to get out of there.

He didn’t get the hint, or more likely he didn’t care. He walked me back to the couch and sat me on the armrest. He started kissing me again. Eventually he had me so that my back was lying on the couch, but my hips were up on the armrest. Despite my initial protests, he was finger banging me, and I was letting him. My dress was still on, even my panties.

Then all of the sudden he was inside me.

“No!” “Stop!” “I don’t want to do this!”

He had me pinned down, but I was fighting back. I was kicking, hitting, scratching and even biting him, at least trying to. I was telling him to stop, telling him no, trying to get him off of me. But he was so much stronger than me. Eventually I realized there was nothing I could do. I went limp and resigned myself to the situation. I stared into space and tried to go somewhere else in my mind.

A few minutes later, when I could tell he was close to cumming he asked me. “Do you want me to stop?”

Very softly I said, “no.” I don’t know why I said it, but I did. He knew that’s what I would say, too. I don’t know how he knew, but he knew. Less than a minute later he pulled out and came on my stomach.

He cleaned me off. I was freaked out. I was shaking and may have even been crying. He held me and kissed me, comforting me when his actions were the very ones I needed comforting from. Unbelievably his bullshit caretaker act had the desired effect. I was scared and emotional and he was acting sweet and soothing. This asshole knew what he was doing.

We started making out again. This time he was gentle, less aggressive. He took off my dress and underwear. We had sex again, this time consensually.  Afterwards he used a line that I’m sure he’d used a hundred times before, and a hundred times since. He told me that he had to wake up early for surgery. I got dressed and went home. We never did go to dinner.

I have so much shame about this story. I’m ashamed that I went to his house and made-out with him, thinking that we were actually going on a dinner date. I’m ashamed that I said, “no,” when he asked if I wanted him to stop. And I am most ashamed that I had sex with him a second time, after he forced himself on me.

I didn’t report him to the police. How could I have? I let him finish. Then I had consensual sex with him right after. No one would believe that he had raped me. Can I even call this rape? I said no several times. Told him to stop. Tried to fight him off. Made it clear that I was not a willing participant. But then, at the end of the act, I gave in.

I’m sure this wasn’t the first time that this piece of shit had done this to someone. Maybe if I had gone to the police, I would have found their were prior complaints. Maybe they already had a file on him. Maybe they would have listened to me, but then what? I would have been picked apart on the stand. I think about the Kobe Bryant rape trial and all the other high profile rape cases I’ve read about. The victims are vilified.

In college I had a roommate who was raped by a stranger. She did everything she was supposed to afterwards. She went to the hospital the next day. They did a rape kit. Physically it was clear she’d been raped. There was tearing, and bruising. She went to the police. She even picked the guy out in a line up. But the DA still didn’t think there was enough evidence to press charges.

If there wasn’t enough evidence in that case, which seemed so clear cut to me, then why would I even bother? It would have been my word against his.

The plastic surgeon knew what he was doing. He chose his mark well. This wasn’t the first time I had been sexually assaulted. He could smell the “victim” on me, smell the low-selfworth, and lack of boundaries. He knew that he could get away with it.

I did a fifth step around this resentment the other day with my sponsor. I cried. Not just cried, but bawled like a baby. Believe it or not that was the first time I ever cried about this. Normally after I do a fifth step around a resentment I feel lighter, like I have released it, but not in this case.

I feel like I am just now getting in touch with this anger. And I am so angry. Not just for me, but for the other women he has doubtlessly done this too. And I am mad at all the other lowlifes out there like him who know how to pick and manipulate their victims, too.

Someday I will release this resentment. Not for him, but for me. Someday, but not today.

 

* This is a continuation of an earlier post, which can be found here.

The Plastic Surgeon, Part 1*

A few years back I met a plastic surgeon on a dating site. He emailed me a well written email talking about how great he was and complementing my pictures. He seemed pretty full of himself, but I thought, Hey, he’s a surgeon, I can let a few things slide.

We talked on the phone. Rather, I should say he talked. And talked. And talked. I said a few “mm hmm”s and such, but it was mostly just him droning on and on about how intellectually superior he was to everyone else. The few exchanges I can remember were him asking what I was into sexually. At the end of this “conversation” he asked me if I wanted to meet him. I should have said no. If I had a conversation with someone like that now, I would know better and would say no.

But back then, I was still looking for someone to validate me, someone to protect me, and take care of me, someone to use. I was shallow. I thought about how wealthy he was, the nice life I could have if I was with him, etc. Instead of listening to all his bragging and thinking, What a boring blowhard!, I thought, If a guy as successful and as rich as him likes me, then that will mean that I am worthy.

We met at a really nice restaurant. He was full of appearance-based compliments about my dress, body, hair, etc. I’ve always struggled with my body image so I felt hugely validated by this guy. I would have felt validated by any man that showered me with compliments, but this guy was a plastic surgeon. It was his job to make women beautiful. If he thinks I’m pretty, then fuck, it must actually be true, I thought.

He was working hard at charming me with the expensive restaurant and the compliments. But underneath that he was weird. The way he spoke, the way he carried himself; something was off. I still can’t quite put my finger on it, but he made me uneasy.

After dinner we walked to his car. He said he wanted to give me a ride to my car, which was only a block away. Of course this was just an excuse to make out with me. I was fine with the making-out, but not fine with everything he did.

At one point he pulled the straps of my dress down, exposing my breasts. It was late at night and there weren’t a lot of people around, but we were still on a public street. I wasn’t cool with this, so I pulled my dress back up and told him “no.” He didn’t listen to me.

He said something like, “Don’t worry, no one can see,” proceeded to pull the straps down again and suck on my nipples. I felt really uncomfortable, but begrudgingly went along with it.

After that date I went home, counted up all the red flags, thanked my lucky stars he had only tried to suck on my breasts, deleted his number and said, “good riddance prick!”

No I didn’t. That’s what I wish I had done. I googled him. Found out more about his plastic surgery practice, swooned over his ivy-leauge education, ignored all of my instincts, and told all of my friends, some of my family, and even my therapist about the “amazing” first date I had just had with this “amazing” guy.

*This is a long story, so I am breaking it up into two parts. I’ll have part two up tomorrow.