Mind you, the following are all self-reports as well, but they are all so similar — and there seems to be no ulterior motive for falsely confessing such a thing — that I tend to believe them.
On
Quora, self-described “sexual assault survivor” Martina Delve writes:
I had my first orgasms during a sexual assault. I did not ask for it. I did not consent. Despite orgasming, I did not “enjoy” the assault. . . . I zoned out, but could hear myself, as if in the 3rd party, moaning loudly, waves of pleasure washing over me — my pussy tingled with feelings of satisfaction that until then I didn’t know I’d actually been longing for. I bucked my hips towards him. He started massaging my clit with his thumb and my legs started shaking. Even though I’d never orgasmed before, I knew right then, I was cumming and I couldn’t stop myself. I tried to stop it, but I really came — for like a minute. I felt very sensitive between my legs, but he kept rubbing my clit and after a couple of minutes my knees buckled and I came again. My body reacted to my assault in a way my mind could never have imagined. My mouth and mind were saying no, but my vagina was screaming yes. At my most distressed, at a time when I wanted to imagine I was someplace else, I orgasmed. He was smiling when I opened my eyes as though my orgasms proved to him that I really did want him, despite me saying no and pushing him away — that it wasn’t an assault.
“You liked that” he said. I guess I believed him. It’s hard to believe, but I actually put my arms around him. I kissed him, but Inside i felt suddenly dirty, ashamed and afraid.
The testimonial he refers to has been deleted on Medium, but thankfully it was
archived. The snippets are pretty bad:
I was raped by a cousin nine years older than me when I was fourteen years old.
This was a terrible time in my life, as my mother had recently passed away. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, this happened.
We found ourselves alone in the basement of his house. He gave me whiskey, which I had never drunk before. And soon he was all over me.
I tried to stop him, but I had not yet been introduced to Martial Arts. He was about two hundred fifty pounds of pure muscle — a gym hound.
He put his hand over my mouth and told me to shut the fuck up.
And he fucked me.
I closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. About five minutes later I started cumming. I couldn’t stop it. I tried to stop it. I mean, I really came, for like a minute —
it was like that holy grail of vaginal orgasm that I’ve never really experienced since. I think my loud moaning gave away the farm. I saw him smile.
He took his hand away from my mouth, as though this had proved something to him —
that it wasn’t a rape. And that I couldn’t scream for help now.
The cousin really is a piece of human shit, because this is what he tells her:
I never told anyone.
I vowed to avoid him for the rest of my life.
My family was often scornful of me for missing certain get togethers where he might be in attendance.
I just couldn’t see him again.
I hated him.
Then, after I became a skilled Martial Arts fighter in my twenties, I went to one of those get togethers. I thought I would confront him.
“Hey, there he is, the guy who raped me when I was fourteen. How’s your wife, how’s your daughter? Have you raped her yet?”
He looked at me and smiled.
“How was your orgasm?” he said. “The one I gave you?”
I was tongue tied.
“Honey,” he said. “That was the best fuck of my life and I’ll bet it was the best fuck of yours too, so shut the fuck up, how about that?”
He walked away.
--
At the age of 18 I did become a dancer in Los Angeles. I did it for six months. This was before California raised the legal age for exotic dancers in 2016 to 21. I support that law, because I wasn’t thinking straight when I made that decision.
I did it because I felt I had been pulled into the zone I belonged. The kind of zone a girl who orgasms during rape deserves to be in.
I felt not normal. Nothing like the good girls. The good girls wouldn’t cum during rape. They would cry.
I never cried, I realized, years later looking back at the rape.
--
If there could be one iota of female pleasure during the rape, well we can’t discuss that,
because that would bring down this whole edifice we’ve built around rape as an aberration rather than a symptom of a whole fucked up sexuality.