Something Wild- A Rape Story

Five minutes to ten...
I think I'm going to come out of my skin if I have to be here one more hour, waiting for that megalomaniac to finish his fucking client!
At this point I hate how loud he talks. I hate his celebrity clients that I wish I'd never met, and I hate my position in their world.

The phone rings. Probably another entitled prick! I say to myself.
Unexpectedly, it's a man's voice on the other line. He's making an appointment for his boss, who works for a major production company.
I'd be lying if I said that didn't excite me a little. I've only been living out here for five months, and the place I moved here from is nothing glamorous. Probably never will be.

He tells me I'm the nicest person he's talked to all day. I'm not surprised. Many people here freak out on me for shit I think makes me seem ordinary. They can't believe I'm not rail thin with an eating disorder, or that I don't care about dressing to the nines and faking some fashionista persona. I thought I'd be invisible here. I thought I'd be able to quit empty, casual sex, and this inability to form a healthy love attachment.

Yet here I am--- working in Beverly Hills. A world I don't belong to, and didn't even want. I'm the only one here who isn't a struggling actress or model. I didn't come here to get famous. I came to get a better education, but I won't kiss ass to do it. In fact, I've learned I'm not capable of kissing ass. I'm hardly capable of lying. I mean... I'll do it to survive if I must, but I really resent the necessity of it.

He tells me I should let him take me out to dinner, "You know... as a thank you for being so nice."
I'm hesitant. He sounds like he's used to making winning pitches. I tell him we're total strangers. How does he even know he'll like what he sees when I get there? To which he responds with something lame, like, how he can tell I'm attractive by the sound of my voice. I roll my eyes as if he can see me through the phone. He's lying. He knows I'm attractive because I work in the boutique of a Beverly Hills salon. They wouldn't have hired me.

We close the conversation once he's talked me into asking his boss to vouch for him when she comes in for her appointment. I just can't say no. Daddy trained me too good. It's almost physically painful for me to wound a man's ego when he wants to have me. I tell him yes. After all, what's the worst that can happen? He works for a well known company, and his boss knows my boss. And besides, he'll be on his best behavior now that he's declared himself the nicest guy I'll ever meet.

The following day his boss gives him an A+. She says he's a fun guy to be around. Always making people laugh. I call to tell him yes, but my jitters are still there. I've never been on a blind date. Hell... guys don't usually ask me out on dates, to be honest. I'm one of those chicks you're not quite sure about. Not quite girly enough. Not quite... the tan, long haired blonde who always gets her nails done; always looks the part. I'm the girl guys hang out with in a group first, then decide it might be OK to fuck me and see where it goes from there.

It's not just their fault, of course. I have serious intimacy issues. I only know how to give of myself physically and intellectually. The rest eludes me. I feel like I'm always on the outside looking in. That's another reason I've agreed to this date though. I want to know what it's like to be the girl you take out somewhere nice. One you open doors and pull chairs out for. A class-act kind of girl.

Red Flag Number One: He's not coming to pick me up. I hate driving in LA during the daytime when you can see everything for what it really is, let alone at night when everything looks like the stalking-serial-killer version of itself. Why is he making me drive to his house? I get lost. I'm always getting fucking lost in this shit-hole city! He lives in Hollywood, and surprisingly, it's not that great looking. I get butterflies as I pull up to his house.

Red Flag Number Two: He wants us to drink before we go out. I immediately put my guard up. Why would he want to get buzzed first? He throws on some vinyls. Somehow, he senses that I'll be impressed by his punk rock collection. He puts on a band I know and love very much. It triggers nostalgia I've not felt in a decade, and I tell myself to give him a chance. Maybe he's just nervous like me.

An hour later, once we've finished the first bottle of wine, I'm wondering if we're really going on a date. My disappointment creeps in. This was supposed to be the night I was going to be treated differently. I was going to eat at some great restaurant off Hollywood and Vine. I was going to sip my wine slowly and talk about places I needed to go sightseeing at. He was going to be that gentleman that wanted to take things slowly. Just wanted to make me laugh.

I had to ask him if we were still going to get something to eat once he was halfway through the second bottle of wine. I'm only pretending to drink now. I don't want to get anymore buzzed than I already am. He acts like he was just waiting around for me to be ready. Why? Is that really how this works? Do I have to plan this whole affair? But he knows what he's doing. He knows where he's taking me.

He calls a cab, and rattles on and on from one subject to the next the whole way to the pub he thinks I'll like. I can hardly get a word in, but I'm OK with that. Once we sit down to order though, he starts asking me questions. I hate to be asked so many questions. My life is a series of tragedies I can't seem to escape. No good ever comes from asking me questions. But at least he seems interested in getting to know me now, he had me kind of worried back at his house, when it seemed like he figured he'd get me lit and just head straight for the bedroom.

Before I moved to Cali, I started smoking again. It was the only thing that calmed my nerves. Fortunately, my date wasn't bothered by that because he was a smoker as well. But they just recently passed a law prohibiting smoking inside, so we agreed to go outside for a smoke after we finished our not-so-glamorous pub food. He ordered my drink for me. I wasn't well versed in cocktails. I really didn't want to drink at this point, but I also didn't want to be rude. He was paying for everything.
Everything started to seem like there was some sort of race against time I wasn't let in on, after that drink.

When we stepped out into the cool spring night, I felt myself stagger a little. We were talking so passionately now. He'd had a shitty past too. We were connecting. Right?
And he really was funny. He lights my cigarette for me, and I feel more at ease once that nicotine makes contact. I'm convincing myself once again that this is all going better than I think.

"Hey... you wanna do something wild?" he asks me.
I don't even think about how to answer that. Of course I tell him yes. I love spontaneity, and somewhere buried under all the layers of scarring and neuro-confusion, there's this person who's longing for a romantic story to unfold.
He takes my hand and pulls me across the street into a dark alleyway. I'm thinking things are about to get really great, but that's not what happens.

He unzips his pants and pulls his cock out, then pushes on the top of my head, directing me to get on my knees. I don't resist. Daddy trained me too good. This is the part where I disappear. Instead of choosing fight or flight--- I choose freeze.
Just give the man what he wants, get it over with. 
People walk past us while he fucks my mouth like we've known each other for more than forty-eight hours. I don't know what their reactions are, but they say nothing to us, as if it's just... OK.

When he's done, I try to relax so I don't gag. The wind is picking up, and I'm starting to shiver. I push all my disappointment down with everything I'm swallowing. I can feel the tears forming but I'm not going to let them fall. I put myself here. I could have said no but I didn't.

He decides we're going to some popular club nearby, and I'm definitely stumbling now. I wonder how he can act like we just did the most normal thing. He didn't even ask me if I wanted to before he pushed me to the ground. How can he just assume I wanted to do that? We stand in line for half an hour, and I feel other guys looking me up and down while he keeps grabbing at me, kissing me in front of everyone. This night seems so far away from reality.

Inside, it's crowded and noisy. I feel myself heat up with anxiety. There's nowhere to sit, and I can't find any personal space. He buys us more drinks, but I'm already too drunk and in a bad head space. I drink it anyway. He's paying for everything.
Not long after though, my head is beginning to swim. I know I'm about to be sick. I tell him I need to go to the bathroom because I'm not well. He tells me he'll help me get through the crowd. But he doesn't take me to the lady's room. He drags me into the men's. "There won't be a line to the stalls in here," he says. The men already in there don't seem to care. I can't see their reactions, but they don't say anything about it, as if it's just... OK. He goes into the stall with me. I kneel over the toilette and get everything out. I'm still dry-heaving when he turns me round to face his cock again. He pushes it into my mouth while I gag. It's not even hard. I don't understand why he's doing this. Shouldn't he care that I still have vomit in my mouth? Doesn't he care enough about my well being to want to take me home?

I push him away now. I ask him to get me out of here. By the time he's pulling me to the next cab, I'm seeing double. I've never seen double before. I feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness now. How did I get this drunk? My mind is trying to push through it. I need to think of how to get out of this situation. But I can't escape it. This is where I am now. I put myself here. Now I just have to ride it out. Give the man what he wants and get it over with.

Back at the house, he puts on another punk vinyl. He turns it up so loud I can no longer hear what he's saying to me. He drags me into his room and tosses me onto his bed like a coat. He's pulling off all my clothes and all I can do is lie face down, on the brink of passing out. I tell myself if he sees I'm not responding to him, he won't go through with it. But he just keeps tearing everything off. He seems to think we're both doing this. I'm still face down when he enters me. I stay still at first, but then he decides he wants to take this in a different direction. One I've never had anyone try to go in before. I muster the strength to say a word now.

"No," I say. But the music is drowning me out.

"No!" I scream. He doesn't seem to hear me.

"No... No... No!" I scream, and I'm trying to get away from him now. The pain is searing. I could swear he put a hot poker inside me, it burns so bad.
"Stop!" I scream. But he just seems to get more excited. He grabs my hair and starts to talk dirty. He seems to think we're both doing this.

When he's done, I feel my head swimming again. I run to the bathroom to throw up. I can hear him in the kitchen now. He's looking for more wine. I can hear him saying I may want to get my clothes back on; his roommates will be home soon. The thought of them coming in after this. Their intoxicated vision of what I am. A whore crawling across the floor adding rug burn to injury.

My flight kicks in. I have to get out of here. I suddenly feel sober enough to flee. He doesn't seem to sense my panic. I dress quickly, find my keys and tell him I have to leave. I can hear him telling me he'll call me, as I clumsily make my way down the driveway. I don't know where I am. I don't remember how I got here. The tears can't be pushed down now. I know without any uncertainty that I've just been raped. But who's going to help me out of this? I'm drunk. It was a date. He paid for everything. He works for people who have a lot of money and a reputation I couldn't hold a candle to. He wins.

I drive in circles for a while, but I just can't get my bearings. I find a payphone and call my sister's house. It's almost three in the morning now, and thankfully she doesn't answer. Her roommate does. I ask her to help me figure out where I am and how to get home. She can hear the urgency in my voice and knows without me having to say it, why I'm crying. "Are you going to report him?" she asks. But she knows the answer to that. Who's going to believe me?

A thick fog rolls over the hills as I make my way to the freeway that's going to take me home. So thick, I contemplate pulling over for a while, but I'm terrified that if I do, more bad things will happen to me. She's up when I get home. We don't have to talk about it. She came out here from Detroit to get away from a husband that tried to kill her. We understand that this is just what happens to women like us, sometimes. A predator always knows its prey.

I call in the next day and the day after that. He tries to get hold of me to tell me he still has my driver's license. I don't take his call. Eventually he mails it to my workplace. He doesn't seem to know he raped me like I do. I don't stay in Cali for very long after that. I have been thoroughly put in my place. I go back to where I came from totally defeated by the experience. And now comes the thing you do when you know that you'll never be vindicated for this crime.

Push it all back down. Way, way down... with everything you just swallowed. Somewhere  no one can reach it. And then, convince yourself it wasn't rape. You put yourself here. Now deal with it.