To Her Rapist


You’ll want to read this by yourself, somewhere no one can read from your shoulder: not for her sake, but for yours.

If you had to describe to someone who she is to you, what would you say? If you had to tell someone how long you’ve known her, what would you say? If you had to tell someone what kind of friend she was to you, what would you say? If you had to tell someone what she means to you, what would you say?

If she had been asked these questions  last year she would’ve said you were someone who she trusted with  her life, who she’s known since she was young, maybe 7 years old, who has helped her get through the roughest of times by reminding her who she is and what she’s worth. But now? She wouldn’t trust you with a pen, let alone her life.

Let’s think back to your times together in good ‘ole Istanbul*. Do I really have to say how bad her second night there was? Is there any way that you could possibly think what happened was OKAY? Let’s set the scene. Two young adults who are somewhat attracted to each other, unclear in what ways or what this will mean for their relationship, decide to spend a little less than a week together. There’s some flirting through text message beforehand. Some suggestion of what might happen, but who knows what’s really going to happen in person? Our protagonist– let’s call her Adeline*, arrives in Istanbul and has a wonderful first night with her close friend and his roommates. She sleeps in the same bed as him, she trusts him. They wake up late the next day but decide to get a move on, on seeing the world. Well, mainly Turkey*. The day is well spent and they move on to night festivities.

To your credit, you were very gentlemanly for the first part of this trip, a great tour guide– she saw the nerdy side of you that she appreciated and thought she could learn to really care about. She saw you in a way that she hadn’t before.

As the second night begins, Adeline chooses to let loose and go with the flow: you only live once, right? She chooses to try the stronger drink, some beer, this and that. She bar hops with him and starts to lose track of what drink she’s on. They finally get to the last bar where she meets some more of his friends. They were all funny– but then again she wasn’t really sure if they were because she had to pretend to laugh at most of what they were saying as she was too intoxicated to understand half of what was said. After the about the 50th time peeing she decides to let him know that it’s time to go home.

He orders a cab, they get home, he feeds her, and they watch the Simpsons. In bed, they watch one more episode of the Simpsons before she sees the laptop screen shut and the room goes dark. Off to dreamland Adeline went. But wait, do you remember what happens next? Because she always will…

She’s abruptly woken up to fingers inside of her. Inside of her what? Her vagina. “Wait what’s going on? Where am I? Why is it so dark? Why am I so confused? Is this Brock?”

It was.

And then the inevitable happened, and He was inside Adeline. When He finished, it took her a few minutes to process what had happened. Her first question: “Did you finish on the bed?” As the bed seemed damp. “No,” he replied. Two minutes go by. She calls his name with no response.

Adeline rushes out of the room to wash up– to process, to think, to ask questions she didn’t want to ask. Still slightly intoxicated she started to wonder if what had happened had really happened. She messaged her friends from home to try to wrap her head around what had happened: “Did I just have sex with him? Or is it more like he just had sex with me? Or maybe it was all a dream?”

They still had a few nights left together and as Adeline was so exhausted she went back to sleep in bed with him and woke up alone. She didn’t know how to approach him in the morning, so pretended like nothing happened around him and his roommates. After breakfast she took what felt like the best and longest shower. And spent the rest of the days with him in Istanbul pretending like nothing had ever happened.

On her flight back home something felt wrong. She started to reflect on her week. She decided to sleep most of the way as to not think too much. When she arrives she finds that her luggage did not arrive with her, and she has to take the bus from the airport back to main town, and then walk back home. This small inconvenience sets her off: it hits her.“My luggage is gone, along with my innocence. I’m disgusting, he has disgraced me.”

She cries all the way home.

When she finally gets the courage to try to talk to you about it, you try to be helpful, but quickly become unresponsive. “What about Skype?” Nothing.

Adeline chooses to live on, move on, she can live without him in her life. Eventually she’s back home and it’s Christmastime. He’s back in Los Angeles, and she is soon to visit family, neighboring his house. There’s some contact but very minimal. When the family festivities have ended the two of them get time to talk. They’re snuggling on the couch, slightly cross-faded when it’s suggested to become physical in a subtle way. Unwilling to let what happened last time continue, Adeline tries to explain what she felt last time, but doesn’t make it quite clear enough, as she’s soon to learn.

You were somewhat respectful, but the next night, you didn’t seem to care. When she tried to explain to you that the time in Turkey was not okay, did you understand what she was saying? She said it was complicated, and she was really drunk. Could you not assume what she was saying? Yes, she did say, I’m willing to try things– but sober. That didn’t mean: OH RIGHT NOW WE’RE NOT GOING TO HAVE SEX, BUT TOMORROW YES. You seemed to be receptive, but maybe you really just didn’t understand.

Back to that next night– they’re snuggling again, sober, listening to records and some words are exchanged and she falls asleep. What is it with girls who fall asleep next to you? She wakes up to you– again being fingered and then asked, “Should I cum in my boxers?”

Where the actual fuck was your dick.

Am I being bitchy? Am I being condescending? Am I saying things you don’t want to hear? Probably. But I don’t care.

I want to make one thing clear: I’m not writing this for you, I’m writing this for her, and any other girl who gets involved with you.

Don’t you ever, EVER, ever, EVER EVER EVER, do what you fucking did to her, to any other person. Do you understand me? Is it clear enough yet?

The only credit that I will give you is that each situation was complicated, and she was never at any point able to say to your face that she felt like you sexually assaulted her. But she’s saying it now.



A Friend of Hers


*Names and locations of this story have been changed to protect the people involved.