> The only one that got to me was a date rape, because I had > trusted the bastard.Thank you, Terry, for saying this. I don't remember just when you showed up here, but a month or two ago, we were talking about *telling* about our rapes. I hang my head in shame because, although I came on here talking about doing it, I couldn't bring myself to tell my own story.
Most of what we have heard here has been stranger rape. There was one user who spoke of her experiences with marital rape, but not, as I recall, with much detail. We've read from adult survivors of child abuse, and one encounter with homosexual-style rape of a male. But I think I needed to read *this*, that someone else here was raped by someone she'd trusted enough to go out with. So, do ya mind if I get something off my chest?
A friend of mine, Tommy, played in one of the many country/western bands that most bars in my old town hired. I spent a couple of years "doing the bar scene", which is how I met Tommy. One night, he told me of a friend of his, who was recently separated from his wife. Would I go out to dinner with this friend, cheer him up?
Terry, I was just barely 20 years old at the time. When I was still a virgin, I'd known what it was to spend the night with a warm body -- and I'd known men who could just *sleep* with me all night long. I used to go to the campus computer site, the only one that was open 24 hours a day, in the middle of the night (even though it was a block away from the local "Hooker Avenue") so I could do my homework programs, without a worry as to what might befall me in that neighborhood. Spent my life in a middle-class neighborhood where people had to gossip about folks lookin' cross-eyed at 'em, there was so little bad stuff that went on. I'd spent my teenage years listening to my alarmist mother cautioning me against all those nasty things boys would want to do with my body -- and with all the boys in my life refusing to give me so much as a second glance, much less want to have sex with me. Are we surprised that I didn't know enough, then, to say "no" to a blind date?
So, I agreed to cheer up Tommy's friend. (Almost ironic, I can remember everything about that night, *except* his name.) We met where Tommy was playing, and we danced a few sets. Got into his car to go to a restaurant. While we were driving, one of us commented on what a nice, clear night it was. He told me of a park he knew, asked if I'd been there before. I said I hadn't. He asked if I'd like to stop and look at the moon for a little bit. I said, sure, why not? We pulled in, and talked about his estranged wife for a bit. He seemed really depressed. We got out and walked a little bit. Then we got back into his car.
He started stroking my hair. Not unusual for me: I have very thick, very soft, very red hair, that has been at least shoulder-length ever since Mom started letting me make the hair-length decisions. It's very strokeable, and every man I've ever dated has wanted to stroke it. This time, though, I was pretty uncomfortable; he kept talking about his wife and stroking *me*, and that didn't feel right. I asked him to stop, but his only answer was to wind his fingers into the short hairs at the base of my neck. I tried to get out of the car, but that's when he brought my head around up to his. He said, "You're not going to leave me, too, are you?" I said something like, "Let me go!" but it was already too late.
I don't know when he had zipped down his pants, but they were unzipped by this time. He threw my head down to his lap, not caring that I hit the steering wheel. When I tried to buck my head back up, I hit cold steel on my forehead. That's when he put the sucker on my left eyebrow. He said, "I bet you'd like to bite my d*ck off right now, wouldn't you? Try it, and I'll blow your brains out."
He used his grip on the back of my head to move my mouth up and down on him. This wasn't something I was very used to doing, and I'd never done it with my throat doubled over. (Imagine the position you'd be in, if both of you were in the front seat of a car.) When I gagged, he told me again that he'd have no problem blowing my brains out. In fact, he talked all the way through it, and I really do believe that he got off on my fear. Right before he ejaculated, I started to gag so bad that a vomit was starting. He told me that I'd better not puke on him, because then he'd have *no* problem blowing my brains out if I'd already gotten his jeans dirty. That was when I got to swallow the whole kit 'n' kaboodle -- the regurgitated contents of my stomach, the contents of his ejaculate, the contents of my runny nose, my tears, and my pride.
He drove me back to my car, saying that he didn't think he would bother spending any money on dinner. (Like, I'd really stick around, after that, to have dinner with the bastard?)
You know, I didn't cry that night. I did stay home from work for the rest of the week. I cursed myself for going out with him, I cursed Tommy for setting me up with such a crazed individual -- but it was years before I cursed *him*. Nobody told me it was "rape" if you had actually agreed to go on a date with your rapist! Heck, in those days, it would NOT have been rape, legally, since the part between *my* legs hadn't been involved! The few times I tried to tell anyone, it was widely agreed that it was my fault for having gone out with a stranger. (And ya know, one of the most often- used lines used to excuse pooh-pooh'ing date rape is, "If you have to convince her she's been raped, it wasn't rape". To that I say b*ll caca!)
I know, now, that it wasn't my fault. But there were a lot of years when I believed that it was.
Thanks for listening. We now return you to your regularly-scheduled echo.