My Dearest Rapists,
I’m sorry I didn’t say yes. It’s my fault for not holding my liquor on our date so I could give my at-least-buzzed consent, as I most definitely would have. I mean, I was dressed like an all-access pass. I’m glad I at least looked “dead” enough for you to bone. Neo-necrophilia is so hot.
A picture’s worth a thousand words, and I cannot use enough of those to express my regret that your photos didn’t come out better, or that I let you take them at all. I should’ve known they’d only cause you pain and embarrassment. There are some things you just shouldn’t take pictures of- like my ravaged, catatonic body.
I should have waited to reject you once your brains finished developing. They hadn’t finished weeding out synapses that keep your “No means no!” flowers from growing in your adolescent garden of understanding. I should only let adults rape me. It’s difficult being 16 and having a silly concept like “consent“ betray you. Believe me, I’ve been there.
But, as CNN reported, this isn’t about me.
When I wake up screaming at 4 a.m. from night terrors or recoil at the touch of a man, it will be from the guilt I feel for not stopping you from assaulting me like everyone taught me. It is the woman’s responsibility to keep guys from ramming into her cave of sin. Some argue you should learn to not shove your man shafts into every pussy within reach. But you’re male athletes. You’re mascots for the All-American Dream. You deserve our vaginas. Besides, restraining your urges is unnatural. I mean, does a farmer ask a field before he plows it?
And let me apologize to your future, which I destroyed by letting you get caught. My victimizing has ruined your plans to roofie incoming freshmen at the college you can no longer attend. No one will report your harassment to HR because they’ll never hire you after seeing the black mark I left on your background check. It’s in your Y chromosomes to have careers and I’ve stripped you of that. I took away your hopes of a bright future without asking. I forced my rights on to you while you were drunk off testosterone. I raped you of your potential. I didn’t think it was rape at the time. I thought it was justice. I am shocked and ashamed of my actions. Had I known that enforcing my rights violated your plans, I would have put a stop to it.
And as if I couldn’t emasculate you enough, I made you feel things. It was never my intention to hurt you by calling you names like “guilty” or “criminal” regardless of whether they’re “accurate.”
I’m sorry to put you through this. Next time, I’ll make sure my meat wallet is marinated in love and ready for you. And I’ll take it like a lady.