The idea that two people may only have sex if it’s a byproduct of love, partnership or trust always felt archaic to me. It felt like something the straight world was telling me I had to do to live a "successful" life. Another barometer for "conventional love," set by those who have never experienced the freedom of queer sexual exploration.
As I enter my second year of celibacy, my sex life and my intentions behind it are being laid bare, and I find myself realising that my own interpretation of what "freedom through sex" was actually restricted my sex life. It pushed it into a space where I equated queer sex with a practice that had to push boundaries.
I thought the sex I was having didn’t need an emotional connection, and instead just a physical one. If it wasn’t hedonistic, it wasn’t sex. But all this did, for me, was take my sex life into places where I wasn’t cared for, looked after, or respected. My relationship with sex became confused, dependent on adrenaline and danger rather than connection and trust.
As a survivor of sexual trauma, could this once perceived archaic definition of what sex "should be" now act as a form of protection as I re-emerge into the world of sexual intimacy and romantic intrigue? Is there merit in taking my sex life back to basics, and engaging in it with a more traditional hat on, in my journey of the world post-rape? Or does that give the past power? Why should I change the way I approach sex when the sexual violence that I faced was not my fault? With the questions posed, and my sexual re-awakening clearly on its way, I couldn’t help but be staggered by the amount of people across the country that indeed had to ask themselves this very question too.
Why should I change the way I approach sex when the sexual violence that I faced was not my fault?
The Crime Survey for England Wales estimated(opens in a new tab) that for the year ending March 2020, there were 773,000 adults aged 16 to 74 who were survivors of sexual assault, with four times as many female survivors (618,000) as there were male. This data doesn’t include those who do not identify as male or female. With nearly three quarters of a million people each year in England and Wales having experienced sexual assault, the number of people who will potentially have their concept of what sex is turned on its head feels mind-blowingly staggering.
Rebuilding our relationship with sex
So, how can I rebuild my relationship to sex after experiencing sexual assault? To gain clarity on what is clearly a nuanced and individualised topic, I spoke to Lacey Haynes(opens in a new tab), sex and relationships coach and co-founder of the sex positive podcast Lacey and Flynn(opens in a new tab) Have Sex(opens in a new tab)(opens in a new tab), about what she has witnessed and worked through with cis women who have experienced sexual violence.
"The unfortunate truth is most people I work with, who are cis women, have experienced some form of sexual trauma — whether this is assault or another form of trespass," explains Haynes. "Another factor worth mentioning is that even when a woman hasn’t experienced assault, the fear of assault (because she’s witnessed it or because it’s normalised in the common psyche) impacts the sexual body and one’s experience of pleasure and sexual power."
The fear Haynes mentions here has been even more prevalent in many women’s lives over the past 12 months. With the news of Sarah Everard's kidnap, rape, and murder, and the more recent allegations surrounding the Met Police(opens in a new tab) and the toxic environment of misogyny and rape culture within the force, many people may be impacted even if they haven’t been victims of sexual violence. Instead, the culture and environment of sexual violence that we are reminded of through daily news cycles means that for many of us, our threat perceptor is permanently switched to on.
"Even when the incident fades into the past, the impacts are long lasting," explains Haynes. These can include PTSD and Complex PTSD (c-PTSD(opens in a new tab)), as well as other psychological impacts including disordered eating habits, depression, sleep disorders and Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). Beyond re-introducing sex and relationships into our lives, we often have incredibly large psychological (and often physical) wounds to repair before we even contemplate what sex and relationships can look like with other people involved.
The partners of survivors also face many questions when it comes to how to re-introduce sex back into their lives. When the individual survivor needs to reassess their own sexual identity, often their partners need to begin to explore what sex really means in their lives too.
Starting over
So, how do we really navigate sex after experiencing sexual violence?
"It’s also so important to create strong communication in romantic / sexual relationships so the other partner understands that this healing process is ongoing," Lacey continues. "Having a tuned in partner who doesn’t take your triggers personally but instead witnesses you, creates safe space and facilitates healing by being open, caring and attentive is a great asset to the longterm healing journey of someone who has experienced sexual assault."
It’s clear that whether it’s casual or with a long term partner, sex post-assault needs emotional intelligence and honest dialogue at its core. It’s vital to note that there is no correct way to handle the trauma that we are left with as a result of sexual violence. Our journey and the way our bodies and minds settle after trauma is unique to each individual person.
Although an individualistic approach is key, being vocal and honest about what this looks like with your sexual partner is the way to a smooth re-introduction to physical intimacy.
With 50 percent of survivors of rape or sexual assault developing long term symptoms of PTSD and c-PTSD(opens in a new tab), how do we navigate re-entering a space that is so physical, yet can be so triggering to our nervous systems? c-PTSD is a psychological disorder that occurs in response to exposure to an extremely traumatic series of events in a context in which the individual perceives little or no chance of escape, and particularly where the exposure is prolonged or repetitive.
I wanted to find out more about the intricacies of the new "first time," so I spoke to Kate Moyle(opens in a new tab), psychosexual therapist and host of The Sexual Wellness Sessions Podcast(opens in a new tab), about what those first instances with another person might look like. "Re-engaging with sex and intimacy can feel terrifying for someone who has experienced sexual assault; even if they are in a situation with a new partner that they completely trust," Moyle tells me. "You also don't have to jump straight into sex again, but will want to spend time building up a sense of being physically and intimately close with your partner. This may start as simply as lying next to them on a bed fully clothed, and gradually building up to being more intimate and sensual together. It's also an important conversation to have with your partner in terms of if you don't want to be touched on a certain part of your body, or in a certain way."
For partners of those who have experienced sexual violence, Kate explains why communication needs to be the bedrock of the relationship when re-introducing sex. "Communication is also one of the most important tools for understanding each other in a sexual situation. If you can and feel able to, ask your partner open questions about how they would like you to touch them, or if they can ask them to show you. If you feel unclear then ask them to clarify for you, and try to offer reassurance ... you are working this out together. You will only know what they will want by having a discussion about it."
While working on myself over the past 18 months, one of the biggest hurdles I’ve faced around my relationship with sex and intimacy is questioning whether I'll able to have a happy and fulfilling sex life ever again. I decided to tackle the conundrum head on with Kate. "Yes, but it will take time and it will be a process," she tells me. "Many people who have experienced sexual assault or been sexually abused find it hard to receive pleasure for themselves, and dissociate or detach from feelings that they are experiencing in their bodies. We have to learn to feel safe again, and to trust again and that can be the scariest and hardest thing to do, but it is possible."
Moyle also explains how resources such as Betty Martin's Wheel of Consent(opens in a new tab) and apps such as Ferly(opens in a new tab), which is a trauma informed app created by female survivors of sexual trauma, can help you explore your body in your own time frame.
"A large part of the process will be with awareness and having to get to know yourself again, and some of it may also be mourning the relationship that you had with sex and your body before; but importantly you can take steps to rebuild it, and get to a place in your sexual and intimate life that works for you, whatever that may look like," Moyle continues.
LGBTQ+ survivors
But what about support for those who often don’t know where to turn? As I stated above, the CSEW only accounted for male and female victims of violence. Whether or not they’re cisgender or trans isn’t specified, as well as whether or not non-binary people are included in any official statistics at all.
LGBTQ people face a higher rate of poverty, stigma and marginalisation which can put them at a greater risk for sexual assault, according to the Human Rights Commission(opens in a new tab). The National Coalition of Anti-Violence Projects also estimates(opens in a new tab) that nearly half of trans people and bisexual women will experience sexual violence at some point in their lives.
GALOP(opens in a new tab), an LGBTQ anti-abuse charity, shared(opens in a new tab) (opens in a new tab)in a report in January 2022 that almost one in four LGBTQ people who had experienced sexual violence believe that it was intended to convert them to heterosexuality, or their assigned gender at birth, or to punish them for their gender or sexual identity. This rises to 30 percent for trans women and 35 percent for trans men.
This disproportionate impact sexual violence has on LGBTQ people unfortunately doesn’t mean that services for those impacted to help rebuild their lives are in abundance. For those members of the community wanting to rebuild and re-engage with sex and intimacy, sexual assault services, counselling options and the NHS can often be an incredibly hostile and unwelcoming environment.
Leni Morris, CEO of Galop, recognises how long lasting these effects are on the LGBTQ community. "We see people coming into our services saying things like ‘this happened to me 10 years ago, and I haven’t had a relationship since then. It’s really affected me," says Morris. "We are launching specialist LGBT+ sexual violence therapeutic services later this year to address exactly this need. However, funding for these kinds of services are limited and there is not enough to meet the needs of our community."
After 18 months, I'm gaining clarity in my journey with figuring out who I am post assault and what sex now means for me. But I’m curious about the physical act itself, and how my body and mind are going to react to being placed back within the world of sex.
As a queer and non-binary person, not engaging in sex through apps or dark rooms or saunas doesn’t make me less queer.
As I contemplate what sex might look like in my future, I am reminded that at the very core of it, sex is individualistic. No one person has the same sexual experience as another, and that’s the beauty within it. Whether or not it’s coming from a place of trauma or not, we can only approach sex by knowing within ourselves first and foremost what we want, and whether or not we are going to have that need met by another person. Sometimes the answer is no, and that’s OK. For me, I often thought that not having sex and waiting to find out what it might look like in the future was the first signs of Sexual Anorexia(opens in a new tab) (a loss of sexual appetite, often categorised by a fear or dread of sexual intimacy).
But now I realise that the time and consolidation that I am taking with this decision is because I am healing. I am getting to know my body and mind again, and am slowly, yet surely, understanding what I want and what I need in order to feel comfortable in a sexual relationship. I am taking responsibility for my own actions, as well as understanding more clearly what I deserve, and what is healthy for me as opposed to what isn’t when it comes to sex.
I have learnt that queer sex doesn’t need to be hedonistic in nature to be queer sex. Sex is queer because of the people involved in the act, not the way the sex takes place. As a queer and non-binary person, not engaging in sex through apps or dark rooms or saunas doesn’t make me less queer. It makes me more in tune with what I want and need as a sexual being.
Nothing good comes in a rush, and by not acting in haste and ensuring that the principles behind my decision to re-engage with sex and intimacy are not to distract myself from life's ills, or just purely for hedonistic escapism, but now instead to connect with myself and with another person on a spiritual and emotional level, for me, marks the beginning of a life that doesn’t put sexual violence at the centre of my decision making. Instead, my well-being, safety and pleasure are the drivers that are allowing me to feel safe, once again, in my own body.
