Image from RAINN
I’m one of those women. You know, the bothersome type who have used #metoo. I have to admit, even though I’ve experienced harassment, at least a half dozen times, I’ve never been raped. Think about that for a minute.
I. Am. Lucky. Because. I. Have. Never. Been. Raped.
I wonder how many times you thought to yourself: She wants it. I’m rich. I can have any woman. They are lucky that I’m interested in them at all. Because, hey, if a rich guy like me finds them attractive, well then, they must be worth more than those other women that don’t merit a second look.
I was 16 when my mom’s doctor tried to kiss me. In a parking lot. I was on my way to work. I dodged his toad lips. I told my boss; she revoked his membership. I was lucky.
I was 17 when my sister’s college boyfriend groped my breasts and ass. She was standing next to us, clueless. That time, I was so shocked, I had no idea how to react. She eventually broke up with him and married a nicer guy. Sort of lucky.
I was 19 and at a college party and I turned around and some frat guy grabbed both of my breasts. In public. He had an on-going bet with his friends to see how many women he could feel up. He walked away, laughing. I kicked him in the Achilles’ tendon. Hard. With silver-tipped cowboy boots. I was lucky.
I was also lucky that my parents raised my sisters and I to be strong, opinionated, self-assured women. This rearing stood me in good stead when alone on a dorm elevator, three big ten football players got on. They surrounded me, asking me if I wanted to go down. I was 98 pounds and stood at 5’3″. I told them to fuck off; they laughed and got out of my way when my floor came up. I was extremely lucky.
You know who wasn’t lucky? My roommate. She was at a party. Someone slipped something into her beer. She woke in a frat house. She’d been raped. She walked around campus for a year. She tried to handle the attack on her own. She never told us. She would see her rapist on campus, and he would wave at her, all happy, like he hadn’t done anything wrong.
One night, we were at a bar. She saw him. She lost it. She turned to me and our other roommates and said, “That guy raped me.” He waved at her and winked, she smiled back and walked over to him. Then, she smashed her beer bottle over his head. My other roommate kicked him where it counted most, and I explained the situation to the bouncers. That guy, Joe Fratboy, was banned from the bar, a big deal when you go to a big ten school. I drove my friend to the E.R. where she had to endure stitches on her finger from the broken beer bottle. She was not lucky.
I’ve been groped, and felt up, and verbally intimidated, and pawed at, and pinched, and so-many-other-fucking-things-that-I-need-a-thesaurus-to-name-them-all. And I feel lucky? Do you think, you self-admitted grabber of pussies, that the women you physically harassed feel lucky?
Let me answer that for you: no, they are pissed.
Oops. I forgot. According to you, these we women are lying. Because, really, it is so much fun to tell others about when we’ve been sexually assaulted. We ALL know who the @realliar is.