I need to admit the truth. After all, I occasionally run a Confessional here and this is a space for me to be myself.
When I heard of the impending death of my molester, I felt something not unfamiliar: Rage.
For a moment, time stood still, I heard my heart and the moments of my abuse — the pleasurable and the horrible — all came together. That evening, as I wrote, pouring the adrenalin rush into the typing, I wanted desperately to fuck out the bad feeling. I needed a bottom to abuse back. Someone to pummel.
Truth is, when I fuck, it is rare for me to lose control. I control every movement. Very few men have ever experienced me unleashed. No. Unleashed is the wrong word. The word is unhinged.
If you are a bottom, you may be thinking how hot it would be to experience what might be a Rage Fuck from me. Knowing that physically, I am without the physical prowess to bench-press much or chin-up myself . I don’t have abs or pecs or guns or anything like that. I am not muscular. You’re thinking it wouldn’t be a big deal, especially if indeed you are muscular yourself.
But with almost 30 years of pent-up Rage, if I allowed that to pour out, my system would be overloaded with chemicals that would blind me. Wikipedia remarks that a person experiencing rage “is capable of doing things that may normally seem physically impossible. Those experiencing rage usually feel the effects of high adrenaline levels in the body. This increase in adrenal output raises the physical strength and endurance levels of the person. One’s senses become extremely acute due to the high amounts of adrenaline in the body, and, on the opposite end, this also reduces one’s sensation of pain. People in rage may also experience events in a sort of slow motion. An explanation of this ‘time dilation’ effect is that instead of actually slowing our perception of time, high levels of adrenaline increase our ability to recall specific minutae of an event after it occurs. Since humans gauge time based on the amount of things they can remember, high-adrenaline events such as those experienced during periods of rage seem to unfold more slowly.”
My Rage did not emerge. I did not fuck. I have not released my cum and likely, I won’t let myself release it except in controlled amounts.
I can smell my rage right now. It’s a smell. I can see blood pulse through my eyeballs. It’s returned now. It’s here. Now.
A blog on Men and Rage says, “Rage is commonly brought on by fear a threat to some part of yourself. When you are threatened, your brain instantly reacts with a fight, flight, or freeze response. Rage can also be a reaction to protect deep, deep shame.”
Maybe all of that is true. Maybe I am shamed. Does my shame come from the fact I want to dance on this fucker’s grave?