This one comes with a trigger warning. If you don’t like trigger warnings, feel free to keep it moving. Not interested in why you don’t believe in them. Not everything is about you, boo.
I’ve talked about my rape several times in print, broadcast media, and live on stage. Over the years, there has been incredible support at times and far too often, blatant victim-shaming and blaming. Too often, the former has come from alleged allies and fellow activists.
My story has included information about my rapist, how she subdued me, and the effects over the years. After spending later winter and spring in exposure therapy, I’ve decided to add some more context to shed light on how female-on-male rape can play out. The additional details aren’t gratuitous. They are my actual life.
The Timeline: I was with my rapist for about 18 hours. Late on a Friday and well into the afternoon on Saturday.
The Setup: She told me she had no ride home and asked if I would hang out with her and drive her home at the end of the night. Basically, she pulled a Damsel in Distress con on me. Instead of robbing me, she raped me.
The Incident: Raped overnight while asleep and woke up to her on me again in the morning. I’m not going to rehash it all here. You can find it quickly via Google.
The Weapon: She fed me alcohol and then I suspect she drugged a cup of water at the end of the night. She was very insistent that I drink that water before lying down to sleep.
The Setting: She had asked for a ride, but gave me enough alcohol to ensure I wouldn’t be able to drive her home. So, she picked a motel next to the club and we got a room with two beds. I woke up to her raping me. The ride was a distraction. It worked.
The Threats: I was warned “don’t be forceful” and told not to move. When she was sore later, I was blamed and it was insinuated I could get in trouble for it.
The Follow-Up: Once she finished the second rape, she insisted upon that ride home. I was in shock. I drove her home. Yeah. That happened. Freeze, then Fawn. It was all autopilot.
The Day: After taking her home, I was expected to sit with her on her couch. She fell asleep on me. Yeah, I had to lay there perfectly still out of fear that I might wake her up and the threats may escalate. So, I regulated my breathing as best I could and tried to let her sleep, hoping she would be nicer when she woke up.
The Meal: When she woke up, she cooked up lunch. I was expected to eat lunch with my rapist like we were old friends. She had the nerve to make small talk. I ate what she served as politely as I could and then couldn’t eat that food again for nearly 20 years. It never dawned on me that was the reason why. I just developed an overnight revulsion to that dish. No, I’m not going to name it. I still don’t like it. Does it really matter what it was?
The Mess: In the morning after the second rape, she insisted I move quickly to take her home. I wasn’t allowed time to wash her off me. I spent the next several hours covered in her sweat and vaginal fluids. She seemed to enjoy the fact that I couldn’t wash her off me. Yeah, not as sexy as the TV comedies that make fun of female-on-male rape make it seem.
The Injuries: Something I’ve struggled with over the years was the baseless assumption by incompetent activists and advocates that because my rapist was a woman, there were no injuries or lasting effects. Physically, she left scrapes, bruises, and sore muscles. Contrary to the myths peddled for decades about female rapists, she was not gentle, loving or sweet. She was rough, repeatedly impacted parts of my body over and over and twisted my erection violently in different directions while on top of me. My bladder was full, my muscles sore from staying in place for long periods of time. The pain from her rear end crashing into my testicles over and over and the impact of her body hitting my crotch and abdomen repeatedly only made the pain in my bladder worse. No, I wasn’t hospitalized. A lot of survivors avoid medical care following rape. Still, she left significant amounts of forensic evidence on me and didn’t let me wash her off.
The Options: What she did to me in 1990 wasn’t considered a felony in North Carolina, nor would I have likely been believed by police or the Corps had I reported. The SAPR program didn’t exist and male survivors were still treated like ticking time bombs with the assumption that we would all become offenders based on 1960s and 1970s junk science and myths. I had a vested interest in remaining silent. So I did.
The Audacity: When she first woke up, she had the nerve to chew me out for her vagina being sore. When she raped me both times, I just lay there quiet and unmoving – at her demand. Any soreness in her vagina was self-inflicted. Still, she blamed me. I suspect the reason she pointed it out so harshly was due to her likely intending to commit a third rape.
The Rest: Eventually, she got bored and wanted to sleep some more. She told me I could go after giving up on her vagina recovering enough to go again. I drove home, still in shock. Thankfully, my roommate was gone for the weekend. I put my clothes in the laundry basket, took a long shower and fell asleep. The next morning, my roommate was still gone. I walked to the mess hall for lunch and ate in silence. There were no words.
I would keep that secret for the next 18 years.