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Kitty with a key

Found the Kitty with a key blog today while looking through the sites that refer traffic to me. It’s written by a woman who keeps her man locked up. Women-written chastity blogs seem to be the minority, so it’s always good to find a new one. I also approve of its design (which is a feat all by itself). It’s only been around since April so catching up won’t be too hard. You should check it out.

It’s funny to me that I don’t really read that many blogs on this subject. There are a few I like, but even then I fall behind and have to catch up. Except for Twitter, I’m a bit of a recluse, really. Antisocial. But…you know. Introvert.

In the comments, name a chastity blog you think is great. Only one, though, and not this one (or your own, though feel free to mention that if you have one). Go!

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Altered

As I said in my last post, I’ve been out of the Steelheart due to a chemically burned penis. I’m back in now with nary a complaint from the healing wound so things are pretty much back to normal. 

But, being out this morning allowed me to make an observation as I got out of bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress with a stiffy between my legs I noticed that the dent in the erectile tissue put there by the Steelheart is both apparently permanent and quite obvious. I mean, if a week’s worth of unrestricted erections didn’t do anything to lessen the dent, it will apparently need more out time than it’s likely to get to go away. Also, as I said, it’s pretty obvious. It’s like the penis is wearing a tiny little invisible belt around its middle. 

Sitting there looking at it I realized I have complicated feelings about being dented. Even when I’m unlocked, even if I’m ever “set free,” my denied and controlled state will always be there. I may carry a physical reminder of chastity for the rest of my life. Every time I look at it, every time I or anyone else holds the hard shaft, it will be seen or felt. No getting around it. I’m marked as well as if I’d been tattooed. 

A few days ago while getting ready to go to work, I took my wedding ring off while applying lotion or hair product or whatever. I left it in an unusual place and totally forgot to put it back on. I went to work without it and didn’t realize until I looked down and saw the dent in my finger where the ring usually goes. 

Same kind of dent. Same reasons for being there. 

Chastity and denial are just as much a commitment to Belle as my marriage vows were so it’s fitting that the two pieces of metal I wear as a result of both should leave me similarly marked. I feel just as weird when either of them are absent. I can’t imagine what life would be like without them and have no intention of finding out.

The dent on my finger doesn’t matter since the ring that made it is nearly always covering it up. The dent on the penis is only apparent when Belle wants it to be. And in those times, it’s a reminder to us both of how my commitment to her has left me altered, inside and out. 

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Hair of the hare

Got a text from Frodo the other day.

“You OK?”

And I was like, what did I do? Did I put something vague on Facebook? I texted back that I was fine, maybe a little grumpy, but otherwise OK. He was asking because my last post here was a while back and I was talking about anxiety and he’s a nice friend, etc., and was just checking in.

Last night, Belle also commented on the lack of posts. I said I just haven’t had anything to write about.

“So have we become boring?”

Gah! No. Sheesh.

I had been thinking I’d write about hair. Icky, nasty, profuse pubic hair and how one deals with it vis-à-vis chastity (and yes, I am exactly the kind of guy to use vis-à-vis unironically and correctly). And then something happened that gave me a good reason to talk pubes. Whew. A blog post was born.

A lot of guys who get locked up also remove their pubic hair. It’s a chastity thing, I guess. Some people (like me) just prefer to keep their bush trimmed (or more) while others get off on the supposedly emasculating aspect of being required to remove their pubes. I get that, but for me it’s a combination of simply preferring controlled hair down there and the fact that once they get to be maybe half an inch long or so, they tend to get caught in the little crannies of whatever device I’m in and get pulled out painfully at inopportune moments.

I keep my pubic hair trimmed to about a quarter inch or so and shorter the closer they are to the A-ring. I also shave the hair from the shaft of the penis (it goes about a quarter of the way up) and off my balls, but that doesn’t always end well. I think hair on the shaft and balls is unattractive and I far prefer the look of clean skin in those places. The tricky bit is being locked up with the stubble that comes 24-72 hours or so after shaving. Whatever device I’m in, the stubbly skin is pressed against itself setting up a significant irritation opportunity. For whatever reason, this was especially bad in the CB6K but can also be an issue in the Steelheart.

IF ONLY there was a way to get at that hair in a way that would reduce stubble or last longer than just shaving that didn’t require nuclear lasers mounted to sharks’ heads. That’s when Drew innocently mentioned a product he uses called ballsBALM (yes, that’s how they spell it…fucking marketing people, I swear). A little voice in my head said with an alarmed tone in his voice, “WHAT? A chemical depilatory on the penis!? The hell, you say.” But I ignored him because Drew used it successfully and it had four and a half stars on Amazon.

Yeah, it didn’t really work. Maybe it got rid of the scotum hair (mmmm, sexy sexy scrotum hair) but the hair on and around the base of the shaft was left pretty much untouched except for some, well, melting that left the hair on my body but all shriveled up and sorry looking. I still had to shave the melted hair balls off (mmmm, sexy sexy melted hair balls).

But you know, whatever, I can still shave. The real problem with the stuff with the silly name is that it burned the fuck out of the penis. On the right side of the shaft was a spot about the size of a small fava bean (or large pea or very small gumball or ridiculously large very small rock) where the skin was taken right off. I didn’t feel this while the burny goo was on, only once I washed it off. And it fucking STUNG.

The thing about penises that live most of the time in dark steel tubes is their skin is more sensitive and fragile than normal ones. I can barely stand to go commando when unlocked even without second-degree chemical burns. If I was allowed to jack off as much as I want, I’m sure I’d get blisters from it. Being perpetually locked up makes the penis a tender little flower of a thing and maybe I shouldn’t be slathering hair melting goo all over it.

Anyway, this explains the picture I posted on Tumblr the other day.

That was all on Sunday. I have been unlocked since. Belle would much prefer I be in the Steelheart and, truth be told, I would too, but no dice. I tried yesterday since the burn is nicely scabbed over (mmmm, sexy sexy penis scabs) but the location of the burn is exactly the spot where the PA fixing comes up and intersects with the edge of the tube and it was too painful. I’m starting to feel the itchy jumpy feeling from having freely accessible penismeat and a healthy craving for playing with it. Being unlocked for this long feels very odd but, on the plus side, I’m getting really good sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

Maybe I can go back in today. If not, it’s up to her, but perhaps we’ll wait until Sunday when I nearly always am locked back up anyway.

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High anxiety

I was supposed to be driving right now. The plan was for me to be leaving on a week long trip into the wilderness (literally — no plumbing, phone, roads, etc.), but I’m not going. The reasons are complicated.

Purportedly, and for all the world knows, it’s a work thing that’s held me back. That is arguably the truth. I can even convince myself that’s what happened too, though I know it’s not the whole truth. To be sure, sticking around would make things better at work (mostly for other people, not me), but had I wanted to go badly enough, I could have made it work. But I didn’t. I mean, part of me really did. But…complicated.

For the past several years, I’ve noticed the idea of leaving Belle and home has made me feel very unsettled. I’d even use the word anxious. Angsty. Nervous. Emotional. All of the above. Nothing about it feels healthy and there’s nothing she’s been able to say to make me feel any better about it. This does not happen the other way around. I don’t like it when she goes away, but if I’m left home, it’s all good. I can handle it. It’s only when I leave, for any reason and for any amount of time (though the longer the time, the worse the anxiety). I’ve been able to recognize the issue but have been clueless about the cause. And, as I said, it’s been getting progressively worse.

So, even though there were people counting on me and the plans for this trip have been set for months and months, I have been really itching to not go. I’d say my mood has been affected for three weeks thinking about it. It just loomed out there sucking in all my energy. When the work issue came up, my mind immediately latched onto it as a plausible reason to cancel. It is plausible, but it’s not insurmountable. But I took it anyway. And now, while I’m greatly relieved to not be going, I feel really bad about letting my friends down and even disappointed that I won’t be there. Nope, nothing healthy about any of this.

It occurred to me the other day that this may be caused by the denial of my orgasms. The brain chemistry behind sex and mating and desire is fucking potent and one of the main reasons to practice denial, I think, is how it motivates one to be so attached and attracted and focused on one’s partner. Belle is more than the controller of my orgasms, she becomes the proxy for most of my real-life erotic urges (not counting the few days each month I see Drew which are simultaneously different but the same in ways I can’t explain). I don’t want to orgasm, but I desperately want to feel the desire to and that desire is totally focused on her (that part is very different with Drew — I never want to come in, on, or around him). Beyond that, she’s the sole arbiter of when I even get to feel pleasure from the penis which is such a basic and foundationally wired thing for a guy. We play with our penises from nearly the time we’re born. But now it’s not there and I’m not allowed and my higher brain does everything it can to control my base urges and live up to that expectation because all that, every bit, is focused on her.

On these trips, which I take maybe three times a year when I’m able, I sometimes stay locked up the whole time, but more often I don’t. I’ve written recently about how I resent external forces making me come out of a device. Anything that, for whatever reason, supersedes Belle’s wishes. That’s at least part of the deal here, but not the whole thing.

So what I’m left wondering is can this go too far? Can all the good forces of denial become so powerful they become problems? An even more interesting question is, do I care? Or, more precisely, at what point does it become such an issue that I have to care?

What I mean by, “Do I care?” is essentially an extension of the risk/reward thing I wrote about yesterday. Everything has consequences, real or imagined or potential. If one of the consequences of being otherwise very happily denied orgasm means I have this ostensibly unhealthy attachment to my wife, is that an acceptable negative for all the good we both feel comes from me not coming? This is the first time I’ve ever felt like I was close to wherever that line is.

Of course, I don’t know the denial has anything to do with my anxiety. One way to find out would be for Belle to let me come like crazy for a few days and see if the anxiety goes away. But I can’t bring myself to propose that (though, in the meta path that leads through blogging about one’s spouse where she can read it, in a way, I just did). Why? Because I don’t come. I don’t ask if I can come. I don’t want to come. I like myself better when my own orgasm is distant, both in memory and potential. Every single bit of me is so invested in this dynamic that I don’t know I’d ever be able to climb over it on my own. And now, by letting my work issues intercede, I don’t need to.

I don’t have a neat conclusion to this and I can’t know the answers to my question. I know that since making the decision to bail, I have felt more than a little depressed because there was no good choice and none that would make me feel better. And I have no idea if any of this is wired into my kinks or not.

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The coming cancer scare

One thing you often hear when discussing orgasm denial is the concern, based on a few studies and how they’re amplified through internet discussion, that it’s somehow a risk for the development of prostate cancer in men. This perception is helped along by reports like this one called “Best Evidence Yet!: Ejaculation Reduces Prostate Cancer Risk.”

Good news, men: you may be able to decrease your risk for prostate cancer by ejaculating — frequently, according to research presented here at American Urological Association 2015 Annual Meeting.

The frothy advice is not new but is now backed up by the “strongest evidence to date” on the subject, according to lead author Jennifer Rider, ScD, MPH, an epidemiologist at the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health in Boston.

Two things off the bat. First, you do not follow an exclamation point with a colon. Ever. Second, the whimsical use of “frothy” is cute but inaccurate (if your ejaculate is “frothy” you many want to get yourself checked out). But I digress.

The study’s money shot:

After potential confounders were controlled for, the risk for prostate cancer was 20% lower in men who ejaculated at least 21 times a month than in men who ejaculated 4 to 7 times a month. The 20% risk reduction was seen at ages 20 to 29 and 40 to 49, and for the lifetime average (P trend < .0001 for all).

Some perspective. First, prostate cancer affects 1 in 7 men in the United States meaning the average man’s chance of getting it is 14.2%. The chances are far lower in young men and much higher in older men. If this study is correct, frequent ejaculation reduces one’s chances of getting it to 11.4%. It’s not a magic shield against getting prostate cancer. Also, there has been no research that I know of into the opposite hypothesis that infrequent ejaculation leads to a higher frequency of prostate cancer development. There is no data that supports the notion that orgasm denial is more dangerous than not denying orgasms. 

For me, this is another discussion of risk vs. reward. There may be a risk in practicing orgasm denial in your relationship. There are benefits to doing so, however. The question is, which are more important to you? Only you can say.

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Update from the Shire

I chatted with my pal Frodo about his interesting situation. Rosie, Pippin and Frodo’s daughter, is apparently struggling a bit with the revelation of their relationship model. Frodo says she’s “heavily invested” in the concept of monogamy and, of course, why wouldn’t she be? It’s literally the only thing she’s ever known and is the only relationship archetype our culture ever shows us (even though many — most? — cultures do not practice monogamy). We’ve made tremendous strides with regard to same-sex couples and the validity of their relationships in media and culture, but there’s been no Will and Grace moment for polyamory or even simple openness (not counting creepy reality programming). As a young woman, she doesn’t have any applicable life experience of her own with which to help her grok what her parents are doing. It’d be shocking to hear she took it in stride, I suppose. In any event, they’re amazing parents who have proven themselves as fantastic communicators so I have no doubt she’ll eventually find herself in a good place.

Frodo said, “I think my view on monogamy is more nuanced that what you described, but honestly haven’t given it much thought,” and I thought that was pretty funny since they’ve more or less ditched the model for themselves.

He also wanted to know why I used Pippin for his husband’s name and not the obvious Samwise. While I think he was totally ripped off by the Acadamy, I find Sean Astin to be kind of annoying. Plus, I think Pippin’s cuter and Sam is too much a traditionalist stick in the mud to allow for any of this newfangled open relationship stuff. Pippin, on the other hand, is much more a free spirit. Also, while Rosie is not the most obvious female name to use, Tolkien had kind of an issue with female characters and the only other female hobbits I could think of off the top of my head were Farmer Maggot’s wife (that’s literally her name) or Belladonna Took. Neither seemed appropriate.

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A couple of weird ones

This morning, I woke up with a free hard-on thanks to Belle trying to save a little time the night before by putting me to bed unlocked. I wore my heavy circular barbell in the PA and felt it flop hither and to as the erection moved around early this morning. Extremely distracting.

We slept in fairly late for us and are both still sore from a workout class we took together on Saturday. Really kicked our asses. I was pulling my legs out from under the covers and stretching and rubbing my hamstrings and glutes which are still smarting. By then, the penis was back to its soft n’ floppy condition and Belle took the opportunity to reach out and start petting it.

I really, honestly cannot describe how wonderful that feels. The penis rarely if ever feels pleasurable touch like that and the sensation of her fingers lightly brushing its lengthening form, under and up and over and down and around, made me purr and arch my back and bury my face in a pillow. Then it sprang up and she started to give it ever-so-gentle strokes and it felt like I was going to combust into a ball of angsty horniness. I knew I should reposition myself so I could start showing her some attention (she is, after all, the focus of our sex) but the sound of leaking precum smacking at the end of the penis and the feeling of the heavy ring moving inside it with each stroke was too deliciously distracting. So I laid there a bit longer.

Then I just wanted inside her. I figured she wasn’t going to stroke me until I came or anything and while it felt magnificent, the reptile brain wanted pussy so I moved down and went to work. I wasn’t as gentle as usual. I fingered her with two of them and hooked them in and behind her pubic bone before running then back up and around the length of her clit. I fingered the other nipple, rubbing it and pinching it as hard as I dared while sucking the other. I was panting and moaning in heat as her breathing increased and I could feel her orgasm getting closer. She started to gyrate in syncopation with my fingering and with each rotation her hip brushed against the corona of the still rock hard penis between us. Each touch made me gasp into her breast and was enough to make me feel as though I’d shoot if she kept it up for too much longer.

Then the first weird thing happened. She kinda came. Like, maybe 40-60% of an orgasm. She sounded like she was coming and she moved like she was coming, but I didn’t feel her pussy pulsate in waves like it normally does. In any event, she was close enough that she didn’t want me messing with it anymore.

I was still panting, though, and pressing into her and obviously pathetically desperate so she told me I could take my turn. In one motion, I moved up and over her and slid the cock in without even aiming and immediately started to fuck her properly warmed up pussy. As soon as I got in there, she started to make her happy pussy noises that I have zero defense over and are the surest way to make me come. The idea that I would think of something else to distract myself was fantasy as, for me at that time, there was nothing else. Just the feelings of that penis inside her and the sounds it was coaxing out of her. I got so, so, so close to coming and stopped. Dead. And waited.

Even just the feeling of her surrounding the penis was enough. I couldn’t stop it though I tried. I resisted and pushed back against the tidal force of that coming and she told me to go ahead, but it was too late to enjoy. It felt like someone kicked me in the small of my back. Like the penis was burning off of me. My head pounded and my breathing seemed to stop and my stomach clenched. As though instead of riding the wave of the orgasm over the edge I stood my ground like a breakwater and let it crash into me and around me and through me. It was shattering.

At first, I didn’t know what happened. Was that an orgasm? I didn’t feel myself shoot, but I did. A lot. The penis was still hard but failing fast and electric in the post-orgasmic way they are. I had come, but not in a way I ever had before. Not in a way I ever want to again. There was nothing at all pleasurable about it for me.

I slid off and gripped her hard and fought the swell of sleepiness programmed into all men. I could smell the semen and it was not good. Then, she reached into her drawer and retrieved her little purple vibrator. I asked if she wanted any help but she said no which was a relief. All I wanted to do was doze with my face in her hair. I heard the vibe come on and muffle and growl as it went in and out and over her clit and heard her breathing pick up before she came in a terrific shuddering crash that surely would have woken any sleeping neighbors had she allowed herself to vocalize as she wanted to.

She didn’t say anything about going back in the Steelheart and I didn’t ask. I was left reeling from whatever experience that was and any notion of sliding the wet, sticky penis back into the cold steel left me feeling flat. I’m still out, but not down since writing this after a little time on Tumblr has left my pants full of hard-on and a, ahem, stiff desire to head off by myself and do things I’ll regret later. Plus, Belle’s out shopping. So…bad combination.

But I’ll be good. In fact, I’ll probably go put the damned Steelheart back on right now.

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An interesting situation

The other day, I got a text message from an old friend.

So, I have a situation you may find interesting. One you may want to ask your buddy Dan about.

And I’m like, Dan? I don’t know any Dans.

Dan Savage.

Oh! Yeah, my buddy Dan. We’re like this.

The old friend is the boy (now a man, obvs) I was with during high school and a little right after (the one with the wonderful cock I’ve mentioned…mmm, yes). One of my oldest friends in the world. Best man at our wedding, even. We’re going to have to call him something, so I’ll go with Frodo.

The interesting situation can be summarized thusly. Frodo and his husband Pippin (just to stick with the LOTR theme) have an open relationship because just like all the gays. Pippin is seeing a guy we’ll call Farmer Maggot…no, just kidding. We’ll call the guy on the side Merry, I guess. Anyway, they’re having a nice time together and Frodo is happy for Pippin and all is well. In fact, Pippin and Merry are going on a little vacation together. That’s how cool the whole situation is.

The interesting part involves their teenage daughter. Apparently, Pippin carries on a prolific texting exchange with Merry and the daughter (who we don’t really need to name, but if we did, I’d go with Rosie) is aware of it. In fact, so aware that she asked Pippin if he was in some kind of relationship with Merry.

I suppose as parents we sometimes fool ourselves into thinking our kids are oblivious to the things we think we do unobtrusively on our devices. The other day, I was listening to a podcast and the guy talking mentioned the name of his blog. My daughter said, “Oh, he does that?” and I was like, What? How in the world is she aware of that (totally innocent tech and design) blog? Turns out she sees me reading it on my computer and instead of just ignoring whatever boring gray website her dad is looking at, she actually absorbed enough to remember its name and the fact I’m on it frequently. So sure, they’re paying attention.

Note, I’m getting this whole story second and third hand. And I don’t always remember things well.

Anyway, Pippin was a bit flustered by this bold inquiry (for which, in and of itself, I give her credit — not sure I ever would have confronted one my parents like that). Not having any Longbottom weed to take the edge off with, my understanding is he punted on the question until he could consult with Frodo. I have no idea how you punt, “Dad, are you sleeping with Merry?” but that’s what I’m told he did.

So that’s where Frodo reached out to me. We are in similar situations with children of similar ages and relationships in similar states of openness. He wondered how I’d approach that question from one of mine. Of course, for me, the question would have the additional layer of previously unexpressed bisexual tendencies, but it’s a potential thing Belle and I may need to address at some point.

I told him I would say something to the effect that there are all kinds of relationships in the world and that some people love and trust one another to seek additional companionship outside their marriage and, rather than indicating a problem, allowing it to happen is a sign of significant strength. As unexpected as it may be, when done correctly, openness in a relationship leads to a greater degree of connectedness and affection for the primary partners. Since Rosie is old enough to hang tough in a deeper conversation, I’d take the opportunity to express my opinion that humans aren’t meant to be monogamous. We can be, by choice, but we’re designed to be promiscuous (a loaded word, to be sure). Every bit of physiological evidence points towards promiscuity rather than monogamy. I think we are driven to pair-bond, but that’s not the same thing.

Turns out, even though Frodo and I are both in open relationships, our thinking about them is different in a significant way. His take on what I just wrote is that monogamy is the ideal and that sometimes, it’s an ideal that can’t be lived up to for whatever reason. I totally disagree. There’s an underlying and implied moral judgment in that position I can’t square with. There are too many ancient human cultures in the world in which monogamy would be seen as wrong and unnatural for those of us under the influence of Western culture to award our approach as the ideal. There’s simply no reason to think eternal and exclusive commitments to one other person is superior or even the most logical approach. It also goes against my sense of sexual libertarianism and desire to be non-judgemental in all consensual permutations of human affection.

But ultimately, that’s a not a significant point of disagreement. Fact is, they’re open and they’re going to share that information with their daughter who is mature enough to hear the truth. And I think that’s great.

Funny little coda to all this. I don’t know how the conversation with Rosie went, but I did ask Frodo if he’d be OK with me writing this post. He said yes as long as I was careful with their identities (hence, Hobbit names). Then, while the older child and I were at the movies last night, he sent me this text.

I should have asked Pippin before saying yes. He’s willing to let you blog about our situation, but there is a price.

Oh? And that is…?

Apparently, he wants a photo of you he saw once on your blog. Wearing jeans and with an erection.

Why, I may blush. Wait a minute, Pippin reads my blog? Oh, my.

The picture Pippin wanted in exchange for letting me write my post is this one. I sent it to Frodo who said it was pretty fucking hot and that made me all squirmy. Then I thought about how the entire transaction left me feeling cheaply objectified and, yeah, well, that works for me, too.

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Sansa of the North

I’m going to write about Game of Thrones here because it’s my blog and you can’t stop me.

And yeah, FUCKING SPOILERS. Ye have been warned.

Ramsay Bolton raped Sansa Stark. By now, the entire world knows this whether or not they watch the show. It was horrible and awful. But it was not lazy storytelling on the part of the producers and it was nothing like last season’s creepy twincest scene that seemed to suggest nonconsensual sex could be a byproduct of intense desire and emotion. In this case, the rape of Sansa was totally relevant to the story being told. Awful and sad and terrible, but relevant.

Note, I have not read the books to this part. I know Sansa wasn’t raped in the books, but another woman was. I also know her rape was far worse than Sansa’s (and, of course, they’re all bad). I’m talking about the HBO GoT here, not the one in the books. I honestly don’t think how the books differ from the series is relevant to this conversation. If you want to gripe about how the show is varying from the books, I have no time for you.

The scenario in which Littlefinger has placed Sansa is purely political and reeking of symbolism already. Sansa is, as far as anyone knows, the last living Stark. Her family is synonymous with the North and her marriage into the Bolton family is one way they can legitimize their control over the territory and perhaps align the people to their side prior to Stanis’ coming ass-kicking (I hope, anyway — again, I have not read the books). Seen in that light, Sansa is both an individual and an embodiment of the North. She represents a legitimate claim to rule it. Her children will be half Stark even if they carry the name Bolton. This marriage is not about love. It’s politics. It’s supposed to be what marriages amongst royal and highborn people have always been about: power consolidation, alliances, expediency, etc.

When Ramsay rapes Sansa he is raping the North. He is committing violence against the foundation of its traditions. Yes, he’s a sadistic little worm of a thing who, I can only hope, will die a slow and terrible death, but he’s also a Bolton trying to strengthen his illegitimate grip on a land he hopes to rule one day. Were he not the vile beast he is, perhaps that scene would have gone down differently, but he is truly horrible (worse even than Joffrey). Did we expect rose petals on the bed?

The state we seem to be in at this point in our cultural dialog is that rape on screen is never OK. Whenever it happens now (as it did two seasons ago on Downton Abbey) the writers are accused of using a tired old trope and being lazy. As far as I can tell, the furor over this is focused on the act, not the way in which it’s been employed in the story. The act itself has become taboo.

On a program that routinely shows its characters being casually and chillingly violent to one another in ways far more disturbing than the scene in question, it’s puzzling to me that this is the line some cannot cross. Ramsay literally threw one of his girlfriends to the dogs and I can’t recall reading one article or angry tweet about it. Yes, rape is horrible. Yes, it has been employed in stories far too casually and without reason before now. But that’s not what happened here. Not by a long shot.