Revelations Over Getting Railed

Trigger Warning: contains descriptions of sexual abuse

TW: content contains descriptions of sexual abuse 

Okay, now that bit’s over with, let's jump right in with Urban Dictionary’s definition of “Railing”:

“The act of fucking the living shit out of something or someone, preferably a female.“

SO, I’ll wave my hand up in the air and boldly admit that I have been a very loud lady, shouting from the rooftops (of social media) the belief that rough sex is programmed into males and females via porn and that the women in the porn videos getting “railed” are likely screaming through pain and not pleasure.

I’ve been SO behind this narrative of getting “railed'' meaning pain, that I built an entire healing system on the core belief that one should do the opposite of “getting railed” in order to heal and find true pleasure. 

And whilst I do still believe the above… actually, honestly… lately I’ve really been enjoying a good railing.

More on that shortly, but first…let’s take a journey back in time to paint the picture, shall we?

The Weird n’ Unboundaried Era (God bless it)

In my early 20s, I lived in a rotten house in Mile End, shared with 3 other girls. We did what I assumed all the “cool girls” (lol) were doing at that time which was…

• Drinking Champagne (which I mean to say was Tesco’s Cava) 

• Grazing on peanut m&ms, hummus and sweet potatoes as our core nutrition as vegetarians 

• Listening to our friends (who were DJs) mixes (did I mention I was cOoL?) although we all much preferred to listen to Drake

• Sniffing drugs on any occasion, including Monday night after dinner because Tesco’s Cava was always in the fridge, plus back a cheeky line didn’t get give anyone a life altering crisis comedown, and instead would provide hours of intense and frantic dancing / girl chat  

• Having all the “after-parties” at our house (flashes back to me standing on top of a rickety old chair, next to the makeshift ”DJ booth” in the kitchen, throwing punches at the ceiling to the beat of the music, and lobbin’ a still lit cigarette across the dance floor (aka the place where the dining room table usually resided). Did I mention I was classy?

• Going to the occasional yoga class because I was certain that the above life wasn’t sustainable / entirely for me 

But mainly. And I mean mainly…

• We were obsessed with boys*

*they were certainly not men / we were certainly not women.

Now let me be clear: this was before my “healing era”. So all of the activities outlined in bullet points above (plus what I’m about to tell you) were occurring when I was a 20 somethin’ year old, who held only a smidgen of self-value and self-worth.

Add that to the cauldron, along with having limited (by which I mean ZERO) awareness around boundaries. Plus absolutely no positive role-modeling around healthy sex and intimacy.

A cocktail for success, am I right!?

It was a messy time, in more ways than one.

At some point during this era, I was dating a guy called Fred. (Not his actual name, but this is fun). I met Fred at a house party with my trio of housemates. Needless to say we were being obnoxiously loud, which we assumed meant being the funniest people at the party (but actually probably made us the most annoying).

Fred took a keen interest in me immediately. I thought he was a bit tall and toothy, all limbs n’ no substance. I wasn’t interested in Fred at all until my housemate Lola (made up names are fun) seemed to fancy him, and then Fred became hot property.

Mine and Fred’s relationship didn’t get off to a fantastic start. I snogged his housemate Luke in a grotty night club in Dalston which I occasionally did cloakroom for. On the same night, I stayed in Fred’s bed (platonically) and snuck out in the morning before he’d woken up.

Eventually, Fred and I started having sex. I was mad about him for no apparent reason apart from the fact he was hideously emotionally unavailable. Our sex was always a bit rough and because we were always inebriated during it, I didn’t notice how rough. On one occasion I woke up with bruises on my breasts. And by the way my vagina felt over the following days, I assumed there were bruises inside of me too.

At that time of my life, this kind of situation with various love interests was the norm. I cannot tell you a time during that era where I had sex which I even vaguely enjoyed. 

During all sexual occasions, Grace (that’s me) would leave her body (and likely the building) and a part of my consciousness would hover above the two naked bodies below.

With gritted teeth and painful sounds, some type of wild and seemingly “up for it” character had taken over the reins of my body, and I was getting “railed” by a man who just didn’t care. 

I couldn’t have felt less fulfilled. In fact, I felt completely vacant and empty.

For days after all (and I mean all) sexual endeavours, my pussy would hurt inexplicably. No amount of the concoction of prescription painkillers I’d been prescribed for Vulvodynia could dull the deep pain my body was carrying.

My body (rightly) responded to sex as unsafe. “Rightly” not because sex (in general) is inherently unsafe, but because the kind of sex I was having was ridiculously disturbing. 

Past trauma, including the continuing array of unconscious and physically destructive interactions I was allowing inside me, was lodged into my flesh. 

The memories lived in me. And that’s why upon discovering the world of sacred sexuality and neo-tantra, life fucking changed. 

The Sacred Sexuality Era

In those “sacred” circles, where sex parties were called “Temples”, no one was allowed to as much as hug you without you gaining your “full body yes” consent. 

On one occasion, a man with long thinning grey hair, a protruding beer belly, and a passion for talking about dragons and fantasy creatures without taking a breath at dinner, asked me for a hug. I was walking towards an area where a large group of us were doing all sorts of “wouldn’t tell ya mother” sexual healing activities. I knew a hug from a man like this wasn’t going to be a quick slap on the back and onwards we pop. It’d be all deep breaths and put your heart (breasts) against my chest, little lady.

Instead of waiting for me to do the ol’ check in for a full body yes thing, he lolloped towards me, his white linen shirt translucent from sweat, arms wide open ready to embrace, and as he moved closer, I found my feet stepped (aka leaped like a dressage pony) backwards and said with a new found strength “No thank you sir” and trotted off proudly. 

In the world of sacred sexuality, I was able to speak my truth, Instead of giving my body away as a form of currency to gain others' approval and validation.

In this world, your Pussy transformed into a Yoni, and Yoni is translated from Sanskrit into sacred space or temple. So I quickly went ahead and got 100s of black cotton tote bags printed that stated the words “My Pussy is My Temple” so I could parade these bags around London (along with my friend Hannah’s boyfriend Si who also loves to rock said tote bag on occasion too) in order to ground my stance on the kind of relations we should all with having to women’s bodies 

I found a voice that was confident. A way of being that was able to give me some “control” over my sexual experiences, where before I’d had none. Rather than disassociate and let my body be used for someone else’s pleasure, I became aware of what I did and didn’t want. And what I didn’t want was any disrespectful dickheads inside me… literally

This time was necessary for me to regain some soul parts. I had historically given myself away completely to men who didn’t deserve a piece of me, let alone all of me.

In this phase of my life, I found autonomy, authority and sovereignty over my body.

SO, getting overpowered (AKA railed) was absolutely off the table. And if sex would ever veer in the direction of me feeling even slightly dominated, feelings would erupt in my body holding memories of all the times that were terrible before.

The Pendulum Swing 

What I see is that there is often a pendulum swing after we have been going absolutely hell for leather with a certain opinion / way of being / way of thinking for an intense period of time. 

This happens collectively with trends (like when everyone who was anyone was a vegan and now the same people are drinking raw milk and yamming down bone broth like there’s no tomorrow - cough cough, me).

My personal pendulum swing with sex was…

Before: I had zero sexual boundaries.

So I had to go the other way and have all of the sexual boundaries, which I clutched onto quite tightly. 

A couple of years into my work as a sexuality coach, I felt rather cocky (which in actual fact was self-sabotage-y) and decided to meet up with an old flame called Jack who I’d met during the weird n’ unboundaried era.

Until then I’d only been trying out my sacred sexuality endeavours with other people who were down with the lingo and thought Pussies were temples (they are btw). 

So this meetup was essentially a toe dip into the world of “regular” blokes.

Apart from Jack wasn’t technically a “regular bloke”. 

Quite fit n’ well dressed, silly / fun, loved techno, and the table turned from “regular bloke” to questionable choice for me because he was a heavy user of alcohol and party drugs and lived for all things wild and unboundried. Basically, we were the perfect match during the “weird and unboundaried era”. But now…?

I had loved the fucked up bones of him for years. And for those years we’d both been in a casual yet desperate fantasy over each other because it was one of those never-quite-the-right-timing things. 

Jack had gone travelling. And I’d excavated my guts in the healing area.

We were worlds apart now, but my heart was tender and searching to rekindle a time when we were young, stupid and falling in love.

I needed to go back one last time, just to see.

One last hurrah, ya know?

When we began having sex, he hadn’t slept for 24 hours and had just come back from a rave. I on the other hand was well rested and completely sober. 

My vagina physically contracted and everything inside of me that was my wisdom and intuition said “NO”. 

However, for whatever reason that I don’t need to psychoanalyse myself over for this particular Substack, call it one last dance with danger, I pendulum swung right back over to my original dwellings (AKA totally boundarylessness and self-abandoning), and even though I was internally distressed, I pretended not to be, and decided not to listen to my body’s genuine alert of “Danger!”

Out of nowhere, without rhyme, reason or consent, Jack slapped me really hard across my face whilst he was inside me. He managed to make direct contact with the same eye that had been punched when I was sexually assaulted as a teenager.

Shocked and swallowing down the tears and memories of the assault, I threw him off me, ran downstairs, and pulled myself together. When I could think straight again, I returned to the bedroom, found my voice (and my boundaries thank God) which had moments before gone missing just as quickly as I’d lost my clothes and body to his. 

“You need to get out of my house” I said. 

And after some firm persuasion, he left. 

Upon telling my therapist the next day, he responded by saying “That’s it, Grace, you cannot inflict any more sexual trauma onto yourself”.

His stern response to my shaky tale emotionally sobered me. So I let go of Jack and never looked back. 

I had so wanted to love Jack because he represented and mirrored an old part of me who was lost. And instead of loving my own sloppy and un-boundaried part, I was trying to externalise and love him, instead of accepting the younger version of myself.

It was time for…

The Middle Ground

I needed to find a middle ground. I wasn’t planning on spending my life with deep-breathing neo-tantric men. But also, I wasn’t going back to sleeping with unavailable men, disassociating and waking up with a bruised body.

After that night with Jack, I wrote the following words and posted them on Instagram:

“Sex for me is about connection. It's absofuckin'lutely sacred. It's about souls meeting and finding something in common beyond what is possible to communicate through words alone. There is something that gets sparked when we can slow down. Be present. Breathe together. Tune into the subtleties. I want to feel you. I don't want to fuck. I'm done with fucking. See me. I want to see you. Let's spend hours like this loving. I don't want to choke on your cock or have my pussy slammed. I'm not a pornstar, I tried to channel that energy for most of my 20s and all it did was hurt. I'm highly sensitive. I'm a god damn temple. Sex me back to divinity. Show me parts of your soul that you've never shown another. I don't linger at safe shallow waters. Dive deep with me. The more I heal and learn about my sexuality, the more important it becomes. I open my gates to those who honour me. My body isn't a casual space. It's my home, my sanctuary. The way to my heart is through my Pussy. The way to my Pussy is through my heart. This sex for me is a sacred ritual. So hear me when I say these words... I don't fuck. I make love.”

Those words were a prayer for my soul. 

Those words still ring as true as they did when I first wrote them.

Those words are the work I teach and the sex and intimacy I live for.

The Getting Railed, with LOVE Era

I’d now like to fast forward, way forward, missing many more moments and years because I never set upon making this long form into a small book.

Recently something interesting has happened.

At the age of 35 (15 years on from the weird n’ unboundaried era, I’ve been getting railed, and God… I love it!  

I’m in a relationship with a man in which I feel the most safe with. 

Not safe because I’m constantly setting boundaries so I feel sexually safe in his presence (like I did in the sacred sexuality era).

But safe because he is actually a really fucking good man. 

In response to his energy, my body has opened up and now I’m getting absolutely railed into oblivion. 

So railed that I become putty, animal, wild, and completely n’ utterly surrendered all in the same moment.

And my Pussy is the most happy she’s ever been, like ever. 

Let’s have another look at railing shall we? 

Urban Dictionary also says:

“Dicking someone down hard in an ultimately sexually satisfying way causing multiple orgasms and pleasure through intense hardcore dominant sex resulting in a state of cumatose it’s like getting mentally branded.”

First of all: lol.

Secondly: I literally could not and would not find getting railed by anyone other than the man I love, and who respects every inch of me, enjoyable. 

Why?

Because my body DOES need safety to let go.

And I would argue that most (if not all) people's bodies need that too. 

Years ago, a lover once told me that my Puss changed dramatically during the course of time we were together. Initially, he said, it was “rock hard” and as we got to know each other as people, the walls of my vagina became softer and receptive. AKA my vaginal muscles relaxed.

Psychosomatic init babes?

If you feel safe, your body goes from contraction to relaxation. 

I now find myself in the arms of a man who I trust.

He’s not making a song and dance or anything…

It’s just his actions match up with his words.

And his energy comes with the utmost ravishing. 

And the crystal clear clarity of commitment and love.

My Pussy feels that. 

So she softens…

And wants to be fucked, taken, and dare I say it obliterated by him.

I have found the kind of solace that I didn’t really know that I needed in our connection.

It’s not complex. I haven’t had to light candles, eye gaze and energetically connect for hours before penetration.

I simply melt into his touch, caress, lips, and I allow myself to be pulled, pushed and spanked. 

Not one part of me doubts his integrity. 

I get railed. 

And I ask to get railed even harder. 

The kind of railing that I used to fear 

Is now what I fancy. 

It’s truly a revelation.

A revelation over getting railed.