Content warning: This story includes descriptions of sexual abuse that may be distressing to some readers.
“We were having sex, and he thought I was in pain, and he stopped. He stopped right in the middle of sex!”
My friend looked at me, puzzled.
“What's unusual about that?" she asked. “Isn’t that normal?”
It was in stark contrast to the marriage I’d left a year earlier, where pain during sex was code for him to go faster – whether it hurt or not – "so it would be over sooner".
For 15 years, I'd had a husband who taught me that my pain wasn't enough to stop him enjoying pleasure.
It wasn’t until I’d been out of my marriage for a few years that I started to talk to more friends and realise something: lack of consent is the marital problem we’re not talking about.
For me, this specifically revolved around anal sex. The first time I tried anal sex, I was adventurously young and naïve. Still, I believed a partner was someone you tried new things with, then stopped if one person didn’t enjoy the experience.
Unfortunately, my husband enjoyed anal sex enough to decide he didn’t want to stop.
From that first time I tried anal as a teenager, it was always there, unspoken, in our marriage. At first it was only every six months, when he'd ask for it as a special treat. After I stopped birth control following pregnancy and medical issues, however, he started to use it as an excuse not to wear condoms.
Saying no was tiring, so after weeks of constant cajoling and pleading, I’d finally give in.
It was five years that I spent giving in; five years feeling like I’d be rewarded with some peace and space if I just said yes, even though I wanted to say no. Five years before I took the pain and fear into my own hands and bought a book on enjoying anal sex for women.
The book helped me immeasurably in trying new positions and tricks to lessen the pain and damage. I started to tell my husband I liked it, and that I wanted it, because it gave me a sense of control and allowed me to feel like I could choose the timing.
For a few days afterwards, he'd be gracious, grateful, and do fun couple things with me – it felt almost like a trade for me giving him what he wanted.
It wasn't enough, though.
I still dreaded it, and despite the five-second orgasm I'd taught myself how to experience thanks to the book, the five minutes of intense pain and up to five days of recovery weren't worth it. I came to anxiously anticipate those few days when he wouldn't chase me for sex, and dread the following weeks when I knew he'd slowly become more and more insistent.
After 15 years, I left.
Yes, we had other problems in our marriage – but if it wasn't for the continuous countdowns to pain, I might have chosen to stay.
It wasn't until I met my new partner that I realised just how bad my marriage had been and that the problem could be summarised in one word: consent.
I met a man who took "no" as a sign to stop immediately, because I wasn’t equally enjoying sex; a man who interpreted even a flinch as a sign to pause and make sure I was okay.
He's the type of respectful partner I wish everyone could have.
I wish I'd learned about the many intricacies of consent as a teenager, not just the black and white of “yes” or “no” – or the shoulder-shrugging “Well, that’s marriage” that I lived with until after I’d finally separated from my husband.
In a marriage, consent can become a complicated and confusing matter, especially when you don't realise that being worn down to saying "yes" isn't the same as genuine consent. In fact, it’s rape.
In the beginning, it’s hard to believe that your partner would ever intentionally harm you. However, as time went on, I found myself in situations where my boundaries were gradually pushed and my comfort levels questioned.
For me, it started with those subtle moments when I felt coerced into intimacy. It wasn't blatant or forceful, but the constant pressure to say "yes" began to chip away at my confidence in myself and my ability to maintain my boundaries. I wanted to please my husband, to feel like I wasn’t being selfish in our relationship, and so I reluctantly gave in to “get it over with”.
It's hard to put into words the internal struggle that unfolds during these moments. On one hand, you want to believe that your partner loves and respects you, and on the other, you can feel the erosion of your own autonomy. You might not even recognise it happening, as it occurs so gradually with every forced, “Okay, if that's what makes you happy.”
But deep down, I knew something was amiss. I began to feel detached from my own body, as if I was no longer in control of my own choices. The emotional toll was immense, leaving me feeling confused, disconnected, and vulnerable.
I realised that being worn down to saying "yes" wasn't real consent at all. It was a painful awakening, but it also marked the beginning of my journey towards reclaiming my autonomy.
True consent is about freely and willingly giving permission, without fear of repercussions or guilt. It’s about not feeling as if you need to put up with the bad just to experience the good.
And I want to be clear. While anal sex was the specific act I never consented to in my marriage, this applies to every aspect of sex. Consent should be enthusiastic and ongoing throughout every sexual encounter.
Today, if a friend told me their partner wanted to do anything they didn’t like in the bedroom, I’d tell them to stop and have a serious discussion outside the bedroom, because I know exactly where it can lead.
I want others to understand that consent is an ongoing conversation, not a one-time agreement at an altar. It's about respecting each other's boundaries and feelings, and ensuring that both partners feel comfortable and empowered to enjoy experiences equally.
If this has raised any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) – the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service.
Feature image: Getty.
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