My Rapist Doesn’t Think He’s A Rapist

Age Putra Photography
Age Putra Photography

My rapist doesn’t think he’s a rapist.

Instead, my rapist manages everything that went down between us with one word. Vodka. He chalks everything up to that one noun. Those two syllables. That one factor. He uses it as his ultimate defense mechanism, his over-sounding justification. His foolproof why when recounting that night.

Because my rapist doesn’t think he’s a rapist.

My rapist doesn’t know what the word consent means.

He might think he does, but he was blind to it when it came to me. The words, “I mean…” and “Fine,” and “Whatever,” meant: “Yes.” Or at least they didn’t hold any weight in his head in lieu of hearing a real, unequivocal, yes. They were suggestions, maybe. Really though, they were hypotheticals. There were extras.

They weren’t worth anything.

Whatever they were, they 100% weren’t something he needed to worry about.

My rapist doesn’t think he’s a rapist.

He has a girlfriend, a life. He smiles at strangers on the street outside of the bodega and looks down when women seem uncomfortable in bar hallways. He calls himself a, “nice guy.” He’s normal. He has an entire existence that has nothing to do with 2007 and (even further) nothing to do with me. He probably wouldn’t pick me out of a lineup and definitely wouldn’t think of me when he hears the words, “SEXUAL ASSAULT.”

Because my rapist doesn’t think he’s a rapist.

My rapist doesn’t find himself in dirty, cigarette smoke filled hair the next morning after a blackout. I smell that a mile away, but rarely associate it with him and 9 years ago. He’s not in between each sip of vodka sodas at 2 AM. I’ve long forgotten the taste and turn it down when someone tries to remind me. I don’t feel him on my skin anymore, don’t find him hiding between the words, “blackout,” and “bloody,” forget the month when they were tangible if I don’t really focus on it.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not a rapist.

Because the truth is,

He raped me.

He did.

he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did he did

And it doesn’t matter where that narrative, where that truth is found. It doesn’t matter how “discrete” someone could have been or how “the cigarette burns don’t show anymore.” It doesn’t matter that, “no one remembers” and that, “he’s really SUCH a nice guy.”

No matter what people say to make it easier to swallow…

It happened.

He was there, when I was 100 pounds and downed a bottle of vodka and started puking on his naked torso while he still worked his way inside of me. He was there, while he still tried to see if I was wet with his sloppy fingers when I cracked my head against a wall, when I broke a window with my body that couldn’t stand. He was there, when he didn’t care that I was cut and bleeding because, “He wasn’t gonna get laid otherwise.”

He was there.


My rapist doesn’t think he’s a rapist.

In fact, my rapist thinks he’s a normal teenaged boy who partied too hard one night.

So what, to you, does that say about what we need to teach boys today?

What should I say to the rapist, who doesn’t think he’s a rapist? Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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