My body started to leave the room, to other times I had been raped, in the same manner. All those other one-minute-egg rapes.
I was raped again last night. Again. It was a small rape. Un petite râpé (it sounds so much softer, less threatening, in my mangled French). A rape with a soft small limp dick, no bigger than three inches at its height, that felt barely even there. There was no tearing, bruises, or visible scars to prove it had even been there afterwards (or at least until an STD test result says otherwise). It was like being violated by a mushy intrusion of Play-Doh. Turn the crank and the Play-Doh extrudes like a sick soft grayish tongue.
The actual non-consensual penetrative event lasted for less time than it takes to produce a one-minute egg.
Here is my One Minute Rape story:
I was on my back when it happened. In his bed. It was the wee hours of the early morning, the magic hour as it is known in film. Not quite night, not quite day. Not quite rape. He had kept edging closer and closer, despite my protests that he must wear a condom, pushing his button head under the hood of my clitoris, circling the lips of the opening. He had continually promised to wear a condom. As I’d laid in his bed, he’d said, I respect you, I respect your boundaries, I’m not that guy, all while edging closer and closer to violating them. I’m just trying to rub it on your pussy to get hard, he had said, putting the onus of his lack of an erection squarely on the shoulders of my requirement for a condom. I promise I’m not going to put it in without a condom, he’d stated repeatedly, up to the moment right before it happened. I respect you . . .
Our Memories Of Rape May Be Buried, But They’re Never Gone
Trauma is like an underwater tea party where you scream and hear nothing at all.
At one point earlier, I had even stopped things, shut them down, rolled on my back and refused to look at him. I said, “I don’t feel you’re respecting my boundaries.” He said it was all a misunderstanding; he would never do anything like that. Then, after a moment of silence, he mumbled a meek but defensive sorry. We fell asleep. When I woke up a few hours later, I was in the midst of a panic attack. I had a smoke on the balcony. I told myself not to be silly, not sure why I felt fretful: “It’s not like he’s going to rape you.” It must be all in my head. I tried mindfulness to calm down so I could go back and fuck him, because I’d promised him I wouldn’t disappear before he woke up, like other girls do, and have.
There’s nothing to worry about, I heard his voice in my head say.
But now, here we were, an hour or so after my panic attack. And as he inched his unsheathed dick closer and closer to the opening, I clenched my thighs close around his waist, trying to ensure that the fingernail’s distance between his head and my vag would not be broached. He tried to get hard by stroking himself between my legs, all the while inching his pelvis forward, his chest bearing on top of mine, crushing the wind out of me. Suddenly, his hand wrapped around my left thigh and jerked it up quickly, so he could enter me, and I realized he’d done this before, and knew exactly how to move a leg to allow entry without a fight.
Is this happening? I asked myself. Is he actually going to rape me? Is he raping me? Am I letting him rape me? Have I allowed him to rape me all morning?
Coming To Terms With My Rape Fantasies After Being Assaulted
I’ve found that playing out rape scenes helps me regain some of the power my rapist took from me.
My body started to leave the room, to other times I had been raped, in the same manner. All those other one-minute-egg rapes. I saw his curled-up hand on the bed beside me like a fist and I thought of other fists curled up in the shape of a hard-boiled egg. Panic began to swell and my eyes glazed over. Just let it happen, I thought. Let it happen and get it over with and get the fuck out of here. But suddenly I forced myself back into the present, steeled myself and said: “You need to pull out and put a condom on, dude.” I looked up with a challenging glare.
“Fuck . . . Seriously?” He grunted as if this request was so sudden, so out of the blue.
“You promised,” I said, swallowing slowly.
“But it feels better without one,” he complained. He had complained about this earlier and throughout the night, each time following up with, “Don’t worry, I’ll wear one. I’m just stating a fact . . .” as if I didn’t know what facts are.
What’s The Establishment Community All About?
I’m here to answer all your burning questions about becoming an Establishment member.
“I know, and I told you several times I don’t care,” I said, trying to make my voice steady. Why am I not leaving? Why don’t I just get up and go and leave? I’d been asking myself this since five in the morning, shortly after I’d gotten into his bed in the first place. I had asked myself that again when he had pulled off my panties the first time, despite my protests, holding up my mattress-sized cotton pads drenched in pink in the air as Exhibit B. “See,” he had testified. “Your period is practically over.” How could I argue with science when my own body was betraying my sense of autonomy? What was I afraid of exactly?
He had wooed me with the promise of sleep and cuddling because he “misses that, and needs that tonight,” and vowed only to hold me lovingly in his arms with no further expectations. And I have so missed cuddles and falling asleep with arms wrapped around me that I ignored my inner voice which said it’s four in the morning and this is not a good idea. I ignored my inner voice to get the hell out of dodge as the hours passed, while he repeatedly pulled off my panties after I kept telling him not to, reminding him of his seductive promises to “only cuddle and sleep.” And instead of leaving, I bargained that he could fuck my ass when we woke up so he’d leave my sore crotch alone now and I could finally get some shuteye.
I ignored my inner voice to get the hell out of dodge.
“It’ll probably break anyways,” he was saying now, his voice cutting through my memories of his promises. He was wrestling to put a condom on, his dick rapidly shrinking like Pinocchio’s nose caught in a truth.
“It might,” I said, wondering if this would be a self-fulfilled prophecy.
So finally with the condom on, his dick now shrivelling softer than the soft it already was, smaller than the three inches it had managed to engorge to, the rape had ended and now the consensual sex began, I guess, with him flailing on top of me and me trying not to cry. He gave up after a few moments, admitting defeat and blaming whisky dick and the condom while I lay there wondering, How long does a rape last for it to count as rape? When does it begin? When does it end? When exactly am I allowed to call it rape and not talk around the word as if the word itself is a trap for me to be caught lying in?
Is it fair for me to call this rape, anyways? I wondered while lying curled up in the bed, trying not to cry, feeling too small and weak to find my clothes. Not when my friends whom I love have suffered real rape, violent rape, brutal rape, rape with bruises and scars. This is what my inner voice was arguing, but then another voice countered: Dude stuck his dick in after being told no repeatedly. It’s rape.
After Rape, The Most Devastating Betrayals Came From Those I Love
Maybe it was a hard thing to understand, how it’s everywhere.
And yet, right now, it feels to me like such a small rape. A one-minute rape. A rape I don’t have the power to talk about as if it has an impact like real rape; like a car that has been thrown when crashed into with violent force. No, this feels more like watching someone defiantly key your car as they are saying the words of promise: I will take good care of it.
But of course women aren’t objects. They aren’t cars. It’s the worst analogy, and the oft-used one. The misogynistic cliché. Rape is like stealing a car. Rape is like robbing a bank. Rape is like any other violation except the violation of rape. These useless analogies help those who haven’t been raped understand what rape is, and those who have been raped think of their body as a crumpled-up car or an empty vault or a stolen credit card. We are never to acknowledge a woman’s mistreated body — one that has been raped, even for only a minute.
Right now I feel like I have left my body and can’t talk about my body now, so I talk about cars, and someone keying my car, and how many men have keyed my car repeatedly, and the accumulation of key scratches on my fictional car (I don’t even have one, I can’t even drive — this is the irony), the accumulation of small rapes, of one-minute egg rapes, and me sitting here, waiting until a fucking egg-timer can go off somewhere and I feel like I can breathe in my own body again.