I'm In Love With A Fictional Man
I Didn’t Want Violence. I Wanted Proof.
My tastes have rarely been…conventional. My experiences haven’t been what most would consider normal either. Life exposing me to a particular kind of pain at an early age meant premature seeds being planted and forced to bloom into something that I wasn’t old enough to name. They grew in me, grew around me and split me in places I knew I’d never sew back together. A time came when I learned I didn’t want to.
These growths became fantasies because if you can’t grow around it, you must learn to grow with it. You have to develop yourself through it. There were roots there that had dug themselves deep enough into the corners of my psyche that shouldn’t have had corners yet. I learned I liked to bleed on my own terms because there was beauty in spilling something from my own hands and because of my own hands. I wanted to feel powerless, but empowered in doing so. I wanted to feel like my life wasn’t mine, like I didn’t have to absorb any blame. The truth is, I never blamed myself for any of my sexual assaults. But my brain did something so fascinating, I think it’s worth mentioning. My brain started to manipulate itself to enjoy these malicious acts against itself. Not with my actual rapists, but with a person I knew and loved and trusted. There are ways to take a horror in your life and replace it with your own well-constructed nightmare that fits just the way you like it. You have to be a little fucking crazy to fight fire with gasoline. I also learned if I didn’t contain it, I’d become an inferno. Sometimes I was.
But let’s put the metaphors aside, shall we?
Pain and I are good friends. I’ve never been one to turn away from a good ol’ spanking from a man I loved that wanted to give it to me. Or a woman. There was nothing that could compare to feeling helpless in someone else’s hands or being forced to come and scream like a fucking banshee. Having my hair pulled at that soft spot, right there by the root (ladies, you know what I’m talking about). And if that didn’t do the trick, a nice big hand around my mouth would do it. I was never shy about being choked, losing my air, and fucked an inch from my life. The cherry and the icing to every horrible thing I’d experienced—my way and on my terms.
There’s more to it than that though now, isn’t there? Anyone can cosplay a dominant man chasing you in the woods or fucking you an inch from your life. Any man can spread some icing on a piece of bread and call it a cake. The physical was just the bandaid for the wound.
Yes, we’re back to metaphors.
Not a single man I dated possessed the base of that cake. No eggs or milk or flour. No butter, oil or baking powder. You can tell when a man is pretending. Not for you, but for himself, to take something he probably doesn’t deserve. It’s sadly obvious. Always missing something. Sure, there was love there, passion—but there was never enough trust.
The wounds were all over my face which made me an easy target for men who just wanted to get their dicks wet. I wore desperation like a new pair of jeans and every predator within a five mile radius could see it. I was looking for someone to absorb the blame, for someone to make me feel like these stupid choices weren’t my own. Instead, I trusted men who’d push me off a cliff to save a dollar. And for that—I do have myself to blame.
Recently, I stumbled upon some dark romance novels.
Pft, I thought. Stupid.
But why not, right? Another romantic failure had just presented itself to me and what did I have to lose but a little bit of time? I rummaged through a few—blah, blah, blah. They all seemed corny. Until I found Haunting Adeline which is the first of the series, followed by Hunting Adeline, the second book, written by H.D. Carlton. Without spoiling it, it’s basically about a woman and her stalker and how lines get blurred in the chaos of it all. I will say this, it is racy. And by racy, I mean absolutely fucked. But the more I allowed myself to drink it up, the more I enjoyed it. Soon I realized Haunting Adeline was nothing, if not a mirror into my own desires.
The male main character is intelligent, tall, handsome and scarred. All of those things are great. But underneath it, there was determination and a persistence that would put to shame anyone you’ve ever thought wanted you. There was a love so deep inside him, he was willing to go to lengths you couldn’t possibly imagine. He was willing to burn the world for a woman he couldn’t stop clawing at his neck for. There was a desperation, a yearning that you find in many male characters written by women. H.D. Carlton named him Zade. There were things in there I’d never admit to liking because contrary to popular belief, I do have some shame.
He taught her how to use her trauma as fuel and demonstrated how pain can be manipulated into something beautiful. His humanity was ever present, but slipped if anyone spoke wrong towards what he called his “little mouse.” The girl he’d chase till he’d circled the earth, willing to throw himself off a ledge if he couldn’t find her. Adeline learned chosen surrender through him, a trust he planted so deep inside her they were rooted like willow trees. And that takes time and proof and effort and blood. It takes showing no matter how many oceans between you or how deep the water is, you’re willing to meet them at the bottom. Willing to pull them to the top, and willing to be pulled to the top.
It’s not about wanting to be beaten or choked or violently fucked—no. It’s about being chosen. It’s about not fearing the intensity of a moment because you know you’re safe in the palms of a person who would cross oceans for you. Where your mind feels ancient with the overgrowth of your past, just for someone else to knock the butterflies loose inside it. Showing you you’re more than damaged goods someone tolerates for convenience. Show you that there’s more you can do with a soiled psyche than fear it. You don’t question whether or not you matter. Whether or not he’d push you off a cliff for a dollar. The eggs and the flour and the baking powder are there. There’s a certainty. A performative fuck could never compare to this.
I wish I would have been someone’s little mouse. Someone’s Adeline. I wish someone could have shown me how to water the roots and rip out the weeds. The confidence of a man willing to stand tall against adversity yet fold himself like origami inside my heart. Love is real. I know it is because I’ve felt it grow inside me many times, but I don’t think I’ve experienced the love I need. I was willing to accept what was in front of me in the moment. The desperation, the grief, the part of me looking for someone to blame. The parts of me trying to accept what grew in the cracks of my being.
And while I know dark romance novels aren’t reality, it did create a blueprint that I’d like to thank the author for. I think I’ve reached a point where I’m not willing to be with anyone unless it’s that. Yes, yes, the realistic version. But that. I want to be someone’s Adeline. I want to be someone’s little mouse.
I spent years thinking I wanted pain when I actually wanted proof.