Story Of An Admitted Rapist

The Story Below May Offend The Sensitivities Of Some.

I raped a woman. I do not believe that I am a
pathological sex offender, but all the same, I raped. I
don’t think I am a bad guy. I have a college degree in
the arts from a prestigious school and I get along well
with my parents, who are still married. I do not hate
women or the world, or myself, for that matter. My
female friends, as well as many of my ex-girlfriends,
think I am a bright, caring, understanding person. But
all of that did not keep me from raping.
I did not understand that what I did was rape until
about a year ago. What made me finally recognize my
crime was the recent surge in media cover about date
rape.
I went to a New York City bar, scamming‹ looking of
someone to bed for the night‹ with some of my
friends. We had already been drinking steadily and by
the time we got there, we were still coherent but
basically numb.
Through the entire night, even though I was drinking,
I remained in control of my body. The booze made me
feel invincible, immune to rejection. That night,
whatever I wanted I was going to take, and nothing
was going to stop me.
I met her at the bar. She was from England and had
come to New York for a short time to tour with a
musical revue. When I walked in I knew I wanted to
bed this girl. I wanted to have sex that night, and she
looked like an inviting prospect.
That was a period in my life when I was “slutting”
heavily. I would pick a woman up at a bar and sleep
with her the same night. I started to think I was entitled
to sex. After talking a girl up and buying her a few
drinks, I would do everything I could to make her go to
bed with me. Usually she was willing. Sometimes it took
a little more work to convince her.
She had only recently arrived and did not know much
about the city. We talked for a while and a mild
seduction took place. It was clear she’d been drinking
before I arrived, and we had three or four drinks
together. As the alcohol made her less guarded, I
convinced her that I was interested in what she was
saying and was beginning to really care about her.
Our thighs rubbed together, my arm brushed against
her breast.
I was getting to her. We drank some more and I grew
confident that I was not going home alone that night.
She was staying at a friend’s place downtown, and I
assumed that when we left together, it meant she was
going over to my place.
I always had a secret agenda with women. I would do
anything I could to seduce them. I would use empathy,
understanding, humor, even my deepest secrets to get
them on my side. I would show that I was a sensitive guy
and use that for the sole purpose of bedding them.
This time I used a woman’s drunkenness and
unfamiliarity with the city for my purposes. Once I had
her out of the bar, she had no friends to help her, no one
to call, nowhere to go except where I wanted her to go.
We started walking and she asked, “Where are we
going?” and I said, “Just walking,” knowing that we
were heading in the direction of my apartment. We
would stop sporadically and make out. During one
heavy session, I said to her, “Come back to my place,”
and she refused. I said, “What do you mean, no? This
is New York City. You don’t leave a bar with a guy
and not sleep with him. C’mon, this isn’t England, this
is the big city! This is how we do things.” She still
refused, but I could tell I was influencing her with
that ridiculous line. We walked some more, all the
time getting closer to my apartment, and I used that
line time and time again as I took her through
unfamiliar streets. We reached my apartment and I
asked her if she wanted to come up. She said no, and
I said, “Just come up for a little bit and then I’ll take
you back.” That sat better with her, and I
congratulated myself for the brilliant sell.
We got up to my apartment and I began kissing her,
but now she was not responding like she did on the
street. I asked her, “What’s the matter?” But she just
stared blankly past me. I began to touch her more
aggressively, squeezing her breasts, rubbing the
inside of her thighs. Still no reaction. I felt like I was
fondling a rag doll.
Not that I cared. I did not need any response to get
what I wanted.
I eased her down on the bed. She did not resist me
but moved like dead weight, staring straight ahead
and grinding her teeth furiously. “Christ, what a
repulsive sound,” I said, and I thought maybe she was
trying to turn me off enough so I would stop what I
was doing.
I was not going to stop now. She was half naked on
my bed with no one around. I was going to have this
girl. I began removing her pantyhose and she firmly
crossed her legs.
Grinding her teeth and tensing her body were the
only ways she could safely express her fear. Here
was a girl in a dark apartment with a man she had
never met before who could have easily killed her, in
a city that he had described to her as a moral
vacuum. She did not cry, scream, or fight.
The sex lasted about a minute or two, and when it
was over, I had the familiar aftertaste left by
unsatisfying sex. My coercive power, which had been
so relentless five minutes before, was spent. The
manipulative force I’d used had left me empty.
I did not want this girl sleeping in my bed.
I also did not want to walk her home. She sat up in
bed and said she wanted to leave. By now it was four
AM and I could not let her go out alone, even if she
did know how to get back.
“Just sleep over,” I said reluctantly. “You can leave
when it’s light out.” She did sleep over, and didn’t
stop grinding her teeth through the entire night.
My male friends say they have been in similar situations.
One said, “I feel guilty, but what can you do? You try not
to make the same mistake again.”
Others do not see that what they did was wrong.
Another friend told me, “I did something like that once,
but I don’t think it’s rape. Come on, it’s not like you
forced her to have sex with you.”
But didn’t I force her? What constitutes force? Do I have
to threaten her life? Do I have to physically hurt her as
a way of making her submit?
If I were walking in a dangerous and unfamiliar
neighborhood and a man twice my size walked up to me
on a deserted street and said, “Give me your money,” I
would probably hand it over. I would think, “This guy
could easily kill me. He did not threaten me, but merely
demanded I give him something. I could run, but I would
not know where to go for help. I may lose my money
and feel violated, but it is better than having him kill
me.”
I feel now that the power to rape is still inside me. Now,
when I meet a woman and see that she likes me, I am
very cautious not to make the first move. I will talk to
her, still possibly thinking about being intimate with her,
but I will not seduce. I will not try to pull desire out of
her, whether it is there or not.
Even after she makes the first move, and things
progress to sex (now a matter of days or weeks later,
instead of hours), I am far less aggressive and far more
careful in my actions. Until I understand my own power,
I will not use it. I never want to rape again

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