* CAUTION: This post may serve as a trigger for some individuals. All names have been changed.


 

This is the first post in FYV’s “The 4 W’s of Rape Fantasy” Series. This article seeks to address the “who” aspect: who has rape fantasies? We got a first hand account from a young woman who prefers to remain anonymous. This is her story.


 

I was 17. It was summer –  I remember the sound of the cicadas. It was the kind of night where you could comfortably wear a hoodie without sweating, a slight chill in the air that says fall is coming. But the park was as busy as ever, people streaming in to get their summer camping experience in before the season was over. There was a party for a long-time staff member at the park who had recently announced that he wouldn’t be returning the following summer. People were sad to see him go, and since everyone wanted an excuse to have a party anyway, this seemed like as good a reason as any.

I was sitting on the porch, drinking a cooler and trying unsuccessfully to flirt with a guy who was devastatingly not interested in me. I worried that my short hair made me look too masculine. My attempts at flirtation were noticed by a dark-haired stranger, who suggested that another cooler might bolster my efforts. I agreed, and he cracked it open for me.

As cabin parties are prone to do, things started to get rowdier. Someone jumped in the lake naked. Piggy-back rides ensued. I consumed multiple coolers, and found myself decidedly funnier. The group around me, including the mysterious cooler opening guy who I vaguely remembered worked as a guide in town, found my antics utterly hilarious. Jack* informed me  that I wasn’t near drunk enough, and pulled me onto his lap. He then held a beer to my mouth, tipped my head back, and nearly choked me in his attempt to get me to chug the beer. His friend told him to stop. Incidentally, Jack was not drinking that night.

I said I wanted to find the object of my previous flirtation attempts. Jack said he knew where my crush had gone, and would take me to him. In my drunken haze, I was trusting.

Of course Jack knows where to go, that makes sense.

I followed as he lead me, half stumbling, away from the noise of the party. We got to a secluded area by the lake, and I had to sit down for fear of falling over. Jack suggested that lying down might be the best course of action. As I could now barely keep my eyes open, I complied with his suggestion. (Typing this now, I cringe: how much more cliche could my story be? It sounds like a low budget cop show plot.)

I fluctuated in and out of awareness. His hand lifted my shirt, found it’s way down my pants. I tried to slur a protest, but everything was spinning. At one point, his friend found us. I remember the friend shouting angrily, “She said no!“. I remember trying to stop his hands, but finding my arms curiously heavy. I felt his fingers inside of me, and I remember thinking:

How did he get my pants undone?

He had been angry that his friend wouldn’t leave.But his friend must have left, because his attempts became much less persuasive, and much more forceful. He had me pinned, and it hurt. My bra was undone, and he was pressing so hard on my breasts that I thought they would explode. He was breathing in my ear, heavily. My pants were around my ankles.

How did they get there? 

I felt panic, and a very sudden realization that there was absolutely nothing I could do.

Then I remember there was shouting, and the pressure on my chest was violently removed. I was half carried, half dragged away, my pants hastily pulled up, and stuffed into a car.

The park warden working the night shift had come by the party to give his well-wishes to the departing staff member, and had been notified of my disappearance. Jack’s friend approached the warden, and expressed some concern for my safety. He guided the warden to my location, where they found me, shirt ripped, pants around my ankles, Jack on top of me. Which is exactly what they expected to find.

His penis didn’t enter my vagina, so it wasn’t called rape.  It was called an “unfortunate situation”, and a few people whispered about underage drinking and its unintended consequences. The police officer involved in the case had a burning hatred of sexual offenders so hot I wondered if he might erupt. He wanted blood – Jack’s blood. I just wanted it to go away. The humiliation of repeating my story not once, not twice, but three times to the police makes me cringe to this day.

And since I was underage and Jack was not, I had no choice in the decision to lay charges. The charges were eventually downgraded from sexual assault to simply assault, because Jack was young and a sexual offence would have ruined his life.

I am now in my mid-twenties, and I like to think that I am a fully functioning sexual being. I’ve had many sexual partners, and a few serious relationships. I love my current partner more than I thought was possible, and our sex life is fantastic. But I have one pervasive sexual fantasy…

RAPE.

I want to be shoved against a wall and taken forcibly from behind with a sweater pulled over my head. I want to be pinned to the bed with no hope of escape. I want my shirt ripped and my panties pushed aside.

That’s really fucking confusing.

How could I possible have those fantasies? Is it because I have lingering mental issues from the incident so many years ago? Is this normal?

I decided to look into it, and I want to share my findings.


 In the next article in this series, FYV speaks to a man who also has a rape fantasy, and his struggle to understand himself.


 

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