Four out of the last five girls I went out with told me they were raped. And two of them told me this within the first week of dating.
One girl said, “My rape happened during freshman year.” As if she knew that every other girl I was hanging out with had also been raped. As if all girls were raped. As if rape was happening everywhere. As if right at that moment there was probably someone being raped out in the parking lot while we sat at the bar and drank our beers.
She of course expected me to frown and nod and be worried and concerned for her. Which I was, because what the hell else was I going to do? I was also worried and concerned I was on a date with her. What kind of nutjob says something like that to someone they barely know?
I began looking around the bar. Which of these people could be a witness to the fact that I had NOT raped her? How was I going to politely wrap this up and get out of here? Maybe go to the bathroom, climb up on the back of the toilet and crawl out that little window? But that might be a form of rape. It probably is.
The next time this happened, I handled it better. We were on a second date at a dumb Japanese restaurant. When she dropped the R-bomb, I maintained a firm and neutral demeanor. I did nothing and stared down into my thirteen dollar bowl of ramen noodles. Then I changed the subject by cleverly taking one detail of her rape (in a youth hostel in France) and asking her something about it. “Really? You got raped in France? I heard they have good wine there. They say the cheese is awesome.”
The way these girls talk about “their rape”, it’s like their pet, or their imaginary friend, or some sort of bauble they can show off to each other. These girls must get together to talk about their rapes. In the old days girls gathered to compare notes on their boyfriends:
“Mine smells bad after he eats Doritos.”
“Mine falls asleep still on top of me.”
Now they gather together to compare and contrast their rapes:
“Mine was in a youth hostel in France.”
“Mine was my best friend.”
“Mine was with my boyfriend, after we broke up.”
Women do this to compete with each other. Whose was the most embarrassing rape? Who was raped at prom? Whose been raped by a famous person? Being raped by a famous person is like having an ace in the hole in poker. If you’ve been raped by a famous person, hold back for a while before letting everyone else tell their story and then BAM you smoke everyone with your incredible rape story by a real celebrity. (Of course you let him have sex with you, but if he hadn’t been a celebrity, you probably wouldn’t have, which is rape.)
Obviously, this phenomenon is all about the redefinition of the word “rape,” which now means “sex,” or actually just the word “no,” since you can be raped by hostile words or inappropriate staring or someone following you home, even though he wasn’t following you home—he just happened to live in the same neighborhood and was going to the same store.
Women are literally out of their minds at the moment. How do we re-attach them to reality? Oh right. They were never attached to reality in the first place.
Of course, everything they know about rape they learned in college. When I gently suggested to one of my dates that an incident she described might not be rape, she told me, that no, it was definitely rape because “rape isn’t about sex, it’s about male power,” she knows this for sure, she told me, because she took a class in it.
I’m sorry but my definition of rape is when a man forces a woman to have sex against her will. But that’s just me. I’m old fashioned I guess. In the meantime guys, better work on your “rape face.” A lack of concern for past rapes may constitute rape.
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