Sisters: From a real rape victim to #MeToo moneymakers

“Rapey” is awkward. Rape is hell. But rapey gets you a lot more stuff.

Ah, my dear. That boy was so manipulative about getting you into bed! Buying you all those presents, strumming that guitar, and then he got you drunk… it’s high time you ruined his life. Sure, you never actually said no… but if he cared enough to read your mind, he would have realized he’s a gross dweeb.

Do they still teach kids the story about the boy who cried wolf?

Since #Metoo took the fashionable world by storm, the same thing is happening with girls and rape.

But it’s happening in a Monkey’s Paw kind of way: the girls who lie about rape never seem to be the ones who pay the piper (to mix my fairy tales). Seems it’s you trust-fund entertainment hopefuls, the YouTube flowers, the collegiate gals who point the finger at innocent men; no matter how ridiculous your accusations, you’re rewarded. Then shmucks like me who live in shitty neighborhoods get brutally raped, and half the Internet yells that we have AIDS and we made the whole thing up.

But come on, Ann… even if in this particular case it wasn’t really rape, it’s the principle that matters: we have to raise consciousness about what women worldwide must endure when their friendzone inmates attempt to scale the walls. That was the worst thing that ever happened to me! Our voices must be heard!

Consciousness-raisers like you really make a difference in the world. Unfortunately, it’s never the kind of difference you want (or pretend to want) to make.


Actual rape and sex abuse will never be treated seriously again, thanks to fake accusations, #metoo, and #believeallwomen. Thanks, morons. At least you’ve provided an example of unintended consequences that literally needs to be in textbooks.

It breaks my heart that you had an awkward date, my sister. It’s nice that they discreetly blurred your face, though. Good for you—ya really stuck it to that rotten, awkward nerd who couldn’t figure out whether you actually wanted his cock after he bought you all that stuff!
This is the allergic, full-body rash* (see edit) that I got after I fled Chicago (realizing the cops would do nothing for at least 8–12 months; in Chicago, the PD has so many dead people to clean up that other forms of violence are kind of pussy shit that they’ll get to when they get to it, so quit whining; your rapist has every right to go on peacefully living two doors down) and found the mouse and possum shit hadn’t been cleaned from the suburban LA guesthouse I was hurriedly moving into. My face will probably always be a scarred mess. My legs were once my nicest looking feature, and now I have puffy-ankled grandma edema that doesn’t seem to have any intention of ever going away. Aside from my ankles, the rest of me looks like a stick insect; likely because everything tastes like trying to eat glue. The antibiotics gave me a UTI that makes every piss feel like I’m giving birth to Satan through my urethra. And a shocking percentage of my “friends” have taken a dump on my head. *Edit: The second “doctor” I saw online says I actually have typhus from the possum fleas. Fortunately, I’m bizarrely difficult to kill, so the rash and the couple days’ fever and disorientation seem to have been the worst of it. “TYPHUS?!” you say? Yes, I am aware that it is the current year, and I am not at Dachau; try telling that to fleas, though. (It actually seems to be a fad in SoCal now—well, you knew I was always literally bleeding edge.) But jeez, at least no one bought me the wrong color of wine!

I hope the book deals, TV appearances, not getting caught cheating, political bartering, followers, clicks, etc. were really fucking worth what you’ve done to people who have been violently humiliated, feared for their lives, had their immune systems destroyed by megadoses of antibiotics, bled cash and time, and then been called liars by liars. I really fucking hope you properly savored your 15 minutes.

Because now real rape accusations mean nothing. Especially if you don’t play for teams, or for the right team. If you’re poor, genuinely voiceless, and/or obscure. If you’re an outsider, things go a little different. First you get raped, then you get called a liar. Out here, outside of your bubble, people have gotten used to hearing “rape” and thinking “bullshit.”

But you? God, you probably got a fistful of the finest mood-mending pills each month from your sympathetic mental health practitioner. Or maybe even a shot at writing for the Nation, which you somehow blew; talent and lying don’t always go together. Oh, you probably got money, too, right? Fabulous, I hope you spent it in joy and pleasure.

(Note: obviously, this is only directed at those of you who are lying, or whose stories are more like “drunken regret.” The latter may be unpleasant, but it is NOT IN THE SAME UNIVERSE as rape, ma petite soeur.)

I would never wish actual rape on someone. Because you never recover. That moment will always be with you. Every method of killing you that you imagined him choosing to hide the crime will always have sort of happened, somewhere in your mind. (Oddly, the worst thing about rape is that part: yeah, you’re being raped, which sucks, but how much worse is it going to get when he begins to choke you for real? Can you hear it when your trachea snaps? Or is it more of a crushing sound? Can you feel it? Will individual veins in your skull leak, or will they explode? How much will you hear? How much pain will there be before your system shuts you down? And those final moments, when you must go completely mad—how long will they seem?)

You’ll never feel safe. That innocuous noise could always be him again, that faceless coward, creeping barefoot up behind you in the dark like a worm as you work, about to clamp the foul stale hand of a worthless man over your mouth and nose, stopping your breath till, ashamed and panicking, you slowly quit struggling and begin instead to comply with your own total degradation.You’ll never go back to being someone who has never begged someone to please, please, just don’t rape me that hard. You’ll never stop regretting the way you failed to ever elude the hand that was holding your head forward so you couldn’t see him and ID him. He will always be a pair of feet and a stench; he’s a taker of Italian showers, shit cologne slapped over weeks of unbathed schizophrenia. And he got to take you.

He called you baby.

To wish rape on anyone would make me subhuman—and being human is bad enough.

But for you, I would come damn. Fucking. Close.

Do you joke about your “attacker” being careful about picking up the soap in the prison shower? Does that amuse you?

Because I’m not your only victim. Imagine being the person who went to jail for a rape that didn’t happen. He will never recover either. Who needs flashbacks when every day is spent physically locked inside of someone else’s profitable falsehood? By the time he gets out, he will not be him.

That’s an entire life. You took it in your hands. You smashed it into nothing. Book deals are so hard to get, though! What else were you supposed to do—waste your life learning to write, like I did? Pffft. Anyone who’s not an old idiot knows that shortcuts are the only paths that still go anywhere.

May every scoop of caviar turn to ash on your lying, filth-layered tongue.

You can never scrub it clean. No more than I can. It will always be with you.

I guess we’re sisters.