How sexual trauma has influenced my sexuality

When I was 18, I was called a tomboy for the first time. I shrugged and looked away from the boy who used the term, ambivalent. This title seemed like his not-so-obvious way of crowning me “one of the guys” — which lifelong socialization to seek male approval and proximity led me to interpret as success. But the title also made me critically question how I presented my identity. I wasn’t femme-presenting: My wardrobe consisted of baggy pants and tank tops and my hair was short and unkempt (although worn that way mostly to piss off my mother). This guy’s comment made me think more deeply about myself, my body, and what my feelings about both mean about my identity.

Much of this struggle can be embodied in my thoughts about just one part of my body: my breasts. Over the years, my feelings toward my breasts have alternated between indifference and obsession. Both of these feelings were undeniably shaped by others’ feelings about my breasts. In fact, my breasts have never felt like my own: They have been seen, felt, grabbed, and explored by other people with and without my consent.

When I was 16, my aunt bought me my first few training bras. She said my breasts looked indecent without them. I was perplexed because up until that point I hadn’t noticed my breasts at all. Still, I wore the training bras and tried to be grateful to my aunt for them. My roommate at the time told me my hugs felt warmer after I started wearing them, a comment that didn’t speak just to her experience, but also to how much social capital came with (seemingly) perky breasts.

Four years later, a guy who kissed me simultaneously reached for my breasts and twisted them like a tap. I tried to get away, but my back was against the wall and I was smaller than him. I went back to my room afterwards and made it a point not to cry. Three years after that incident, a guy I was dating clung onto my breasts as soon as we sat down at my house. We’d been intimate before, but I had invited him over just because I wanted some company while I caught up on my podcasts. Instead, I let him feel my body, and tried not to dwell on how I derived no pleasure from what he was doing.

Recently, my friends were talking about how horny they get while ovulating, how the slightest touch of their breasts can be so arousing. I sat there, alarmed to hear about their experiences. When my breasts are touched, I feel nothing. In fact, I have known for a while that my sexuality may be different from others. I’m not sure how I define it. I understand nice aesthetics: I notice firm abdomens and symmetrical faces, but the desire to have sex doesn’t progress from these observations. When I like someone’s mind or find their back muscles pleasing, I recognize that sex could be on the table. But I don’t feel that knowledge physically.

While these experiences may indicate that I am demisexual, I also think that perhaps because my own body — especially the most “sexual” parts of it, like my breasts — have been used to objectify and violate me so much, I have gradually dissociated my body from any sexual feelings. I know that one’s sexuality is, at least in part, a result of how they are socialized and the experiences they’ve had. I wonder what combination of factors has influenced my sexuality.

In January, I began curating a digital journal about sexual violence. Writing and compiling pieces for this journal eventually proved triggering, as it forced me to confront sexual trauma I had blocked for more than 15 years. For months after this, the thought of heterosexual sex nauseated me; throughout this year I have also realized I personally am not interested in a heterosexual relationship. While I realized that this repulsion was connected to my newly unearthed trauma, I also wondered if my inability to feel physical sexual attraction now is a coping mechanism. I wondered how much of that feeling was born from trauma, and how much of it is a result of actively embracing the possibility that my sexuality could be fluid.

I have had to interrogate why all my sexual interactions so far have been with cisgender, straight men even when I have not particularly enjoyed them. An obvious answer would be my socialization in a heteronormative society, which has made me reluctant to explore a different sexual dynamic. But even with this knowledge, I still have to ask myself if an aversion to heterosexuality, partly influenced by external factors, equals genuine sexual fluidity.

I don’t really have answers to these questions. I also don’t feel like I owe anyone else answers to them, either. I’m still trying to work my way to a healthy appreciation and understanding of both my body and my sexuality. But my interpretation of them is warped by my experiences with sexual assault and objectification, with the need for desirability and validation that has been beaten into me as a woman. At best, I have come to a paradoxical conclusion about them, declaring affirmations during the day and whispering sad truths about the pain they’ve indirectly caused me in the night.