I have this disturbing response to rape scenes in movies.
There’s part of me that recoils in horror but there’s also another part of me that’s alarmingly captivated. Turned on? Aroused? I’m not quite sure if I can use such affirming words to describe the undercurrent of feeling. Perhaps it’s true but it seems too perverse and it plagues my mind.
I have a theory.
Rape fantasies are experienced by somewhere around half of women. One line of reasoning explains that the notion of being forced into sex allows a woman freedom from any guilt or shame that might otherwise keep her from choosing wild sexual abandon of her own accord.
I buy that.
It totally makes sense to me that women yearn for greater freedom to know and liberate the depths of their own sexual nature. Easier to be forced by another and therefore be unaccountable, rather than risk being shunned by society.
My theory builds on that one to propose that, in addition to connecting with our own fullness, we equally have a deep yearning to experience the expansive depths of men’s most powerful nature. That there’s a longing inside us to be deeply met by overwhelming power – to be taken, devoured, transformed.
In the current masculine landscape, it’s tricky to find compelling male role models that demonstrate healthy power. It requires a deep personal journey to unearth and refine the potency of raw power and to continually counterbalance its development with the genderless truth of tenderness and vulnerability. The scope of developing evenly in both directions is key. It’s easy to end up at one end of the spectrum. Many become heavy handed and insensitive with too much power, many others become impotent and diluted with too much sensitivity.
I see the rape fantasy as being symptomatic of the power deficiency.