Have I Been Legitimately Raped?
I think I have but I’m not sure, I was hoping you could help make sense of it. Let’s see.
If “legitimate rape” equals “rape with no resulting pregnancy,” then at least once for sure, thanks for clearing it up. I was a bit confused. See, I wasn’t entirely sure if the stranger and the roofies and the whole forced-intercourse thing were enough to qualify the experience as legitimately rapey, but okay, now it makes more sense. No pregnancy, one legit rape. Score.
But the second time, I don’t know. I mean yeah, there was that whole non-consensual sex thing, but the legitimacy of that one is kind of questionable because I went out and got Plan B the next day instead of waiting around for a verdict from my magical rape-identifying uterus. So, I don’t know, does it count? Maybe it was actually romantic heartfelt rape and I could have had a beautiful rape baby, but now we’ll never know because I killed it with my whore medicine. Damn.
Let’s be fair and call it a legitimate rape and a half.
I wonder, though, what you’d say about this girl who was my neighbor in high school, who showed up at my house in the middle of the night and was shaking when I answered the door, whose blood I wiped off her neck and chest with a damp towel because she wouldn’t let me take her to the hospital, whose magical uterus must have been defective because the pregnancy test came up positive?
Oh right, you’d probably say it doesn’t count because her boyfriend did it to her.
So when does it count? When is it real? If I told you it happened when we were stone sober locked in a tower wearing chastity belts and nun costumes, would that make it better? No?
Wait, we’re still wearing our bodies.
I exist therefore I’m asking for it.
Why haven’t they invented detachable mouths and vaginas and assholes and penises so we can walk down the street at night and feel safe? When are you finished with your stupid questions?
What were you wearing?
What were you doing?
What were you drinking?
Did you deserve it?
America is this correct?
A | A | A
Yo, don’t judge me for getting my eyebrows waxed, you uncivilized sucker!
Your best friend is the person you can confess your deepest fear to as well as your second deepest fear: that the population at large will discover the thing you fear most is accidentally hitting ‘like’ when you are a year and a half deep into your crush’s Instagram.
In an idyllic world of complete emotion control, this might be sound advice. But truth be told, I’m still trying to find out how to do that. It doesn’t matter how often I tell myself nobody has the power to make me feel a certain way, except me.
And I got what I wanted — a dream arrangement that allowed me to live my life without compromises.