That Infamous Clodia

Me: Yeah but I just couldn’t deal with the swelling :\

My therapist: 

Anon,

It’s not a bad thing, but I wouldn’t call it “normal”.

I don’t think there is a reason to feel guilty. :) People in the scene aren’t under the impression that everyone is going to give their real name. It’s not lying. It’s a SUPER common practice.

It’s protecting your safety and vanilla life. Most people do this, one way or another.

I have a video coming out soon on scene names – please watch it when you have a chance. I think it will help.

Click here to visit my blog with only rape fantasy posts.

“I want to fuck you,” is high on my list of favorite phrases. It’s right up there next to “I’m going to fuck you,” although I use them in very different ways.

The first is something I put off as long as I can just to savor the flavor of the words in my mouth, and it works best when we have never so much as kissed. It lingers in the back of my throat as we talk and drink or dance so closely that you already know. I open my mouth a hundred times, but always hold back, not out of fear or doubt, but simply because the waiting is so delicious. My lips against your ear, my fingers through your hair, and my hands on your hips as we stand in the same space all speak it before I do.

And then I pull back, letting the temperature drop for just a moment because it’s a phrase that needs space. It needs a hint of distance before it can be closed in an instance, my mouth against your neck, as the words come out as if on their own. Unruly and wanting.

“I want to fuck you,” I finally whisper, and then we’re out on the street, frantic for any hint of privacy so we might accomplish our task.

With the other, it’s nearly the reverse. The statement comes first and the waiting comes after. When we met in the park on a Sunday, they were the first words whispered in your ear as we embraced.

“I’m going to fuck you,” I said, before stepping back with a smile.

I could feel your knees tremble for just a moment, and in an instant, our afternoon became something else. Our walk through the rose garden and our break for a drink at the Boathouse were laden with expectation. I whispered it over and over again until it was no longer a plan but an inevitability.

By the time we found an arch, so quiet and dark right at dusk, we couldn’t wait a moment longer. Your legs around me, my hands grabbing your hips and ass as I thrust into you, and our wordless fuck beneath the stone bridge were the rewards for our hours of anticipation.

Either way, we wait, and either way, I feel the weight of the words in my chest and my gut. I try them silently to myself, I hold them in my mouth, rolling them over on my tongue, and then, when there is simply no other choice, I let them go.

I want to fuck you.

I am going to fuck you.

-gny

She is the reason I am failing. She lives beneath his bed. She whispers sweet nothings in his ears. She sings him to sleep. When his little foot peeps out from the covers, she slips it gently back between the sheets before I can grab it. I do not know where She comes from. I do not know how the boy tamed Her. Perhaps it was his mother, inventing a new fairy tale, reassuring him, “Yes there is a monster under the bed. She keeps it clean and free from dust bunnies. Do not fear. She’s a friendly monster.”

I am not a friendly monster.

And I am failing.

She keeps me from him. I try to get close, to hover over him, to creep up from behind, but every time she surrounds him, shelters him.

It breaks my heart.

Every night I try to explain. She watches me in silence. She does not move, does not respond. Possibly she does not hear.

I try to explain. I do only my duty. I was created for him. I am his Monster, his first one. Children need fear.  To prepare them. Children need monsters to defeat. Because a few years from now, that child will not be a child. He will grow and he will forget and he will face a world that is more painful and cruel than any fright I could give him. Children cannot control their world, and the cruelties adults inflict, or simply fail to prevent. I do not create fear. It exists, everywhere, in all the nooks and crannies, all the uncertainties of the world. I merely shape it, give it an image. I give the child a battle to fight. To win.

This creature, who is lovely to be sure, who glows and twinkles and has no claws, this creature, made up of faith and confidence, made up of adult lies and, yes, a glint of anger—impossible not to be drawn to this creature, who offers reassurance and warm breath and the scent of peppermint. 

And I am a boogeyman, with all that implies. And I must do my duty. I fight her, night after night. The boy needs me. She cannot protect him always. And if I do not exist, there is nothing for him to defeat. Instead the fear will settle over him in a cloud, indefinable, insidious. It will cover him like sand, like burs.

I was told by my professors that Kitty Genovese was a 28-year-old unmarried woman who was attacked, raped, and brutally murdered on her way home from her shift as manager of a bar. I was told that numerous people witnessed the attack and her cries for help but didn’t do anything because they “assumed someone else would”. Nobody intervened until it was too late. 

What I was not told was that Kitty Genovese was a lesbian who lived more or less openly with her partner in the Upper West Side and managed a gay bar. 

Now… is it likely that people overheard Kitty’s cries for help and ignored them because they thought someone else would deal with it? Or, perhaps, did they ignore her because they knew she was a lesbian and just didn’t care?

Maybe that’s not the case. Maybe it was just a random attack. Maybe her neighbours didn’t know she was gay, or didn’t care.

But it’s a huge chunk of information to leave out about her in a supposedly scientific study of events, since her sexuality made her much more vulnerable to violent crimes than the average person. And it’s a dishonour to her memory.

RIP Kitty Genovese. Society may only remember you for how you died, but I will remember you for who who were.

One shouted out his window for the attacker to leave her alone, which did successfully scare the man off temporarily.

Another called the police but, seeing her still on her feet, said only that there had been a fight but the woman seemed to be okay.

And when Kitty Genovese was finally attacked in a vestibule where she couldn’t be seen from outside, Karl Ross, a neighbor, saw what was happening but was too frightened himself to go to her rescue–so he started calling other neighbors to ask what he should do. Eventually one of them told him to call the police, which he did, and the woman he called, Sophie Farrar, rushed out to help Kitty even though she didn’t know whether the attacker was gone.

Kitty Genovese died in the arms of a neighbor who tired to help and comfort her while they waited for the police and ambulance to arrive. Kitty was in fact still alive, although mortally wounded, when the ambulance reached the scene.

The man who saw the final stabbing? Who panicked and called other neighbors first instead of the police? The man who said, infamously, that he “didn’t want to get involved” because he was reluctant to turn to the police for help? He was thought to be gay himself. He was a friend of Kitty and Mary Ann’s. After being interviewed by the police he took a bottle of vodka to Mary Ann and sat with her, trying to comfort her.

So, no. I don’t think the evidence indicates that Kitty Genovese’s neighbors let her die because she was a lesbian, because Kitty Genovese’s neighbors tried to help.

See also: Debunking the Myth of Kitty Genovese (The New York Post)

A Call for Help (The New Yorker)