I watched him lolloping towards me like an unusually handsome spaniel, and checked my watch. Exactly on time, as always.
He was so naïve; he actually thought we were best friends. My plans for today would put an end to that idea.
“Hi Sophie, what shall we do?” he said.
I was sick of hearing those words, day after day. I took a deep breath, smiled, shrugged.
“I don’t mind,” I said, “I’m easy.”
“Shall we go swimming?”
“I haven’t got a swimsuit.”
“What do you want to do?”
I reminded myself that once the deed was done, I would never have to hear him speak those words again. “I’m easy,” I replied.
Shall we go for a walk?”
“It’s too muddy for walking.”
“Well, what shall we do then?”
“I’m easy.” I paused, and, as if it was an afterthought, added “Let’s go back to your place.”
Back at his place he said “What shall we do now?”
We’re going to make sure you never ask me that stupid question again, I thought, but I said “Why don’t you show me your room?”
I followed him up the stairs, reaching inside my bag, reassured by the feel of cold steel against my fingertips. He opened the door to his room, blithely unaware of what he had coming to him.
“What do you want to do up here?”
I sat on the bed, patted the counterpane beside me in invitation, removed my cardigan, and, grasping the metal concealed in my bag, said “I’m easy.”
Who’d have thought that little wimp had it in him? He suddenly leapt at me and pushed me onto my back. He pinned me down with his legs and roughly shoved a hand beneath my T shirt, hurting me. This wasn’t the way I wanted it. It was meant to be my show. I struggled to escape, but the handcuffs must have fallen out of my bag, because he grabbed them and cuffed me to the brass bedstead.
I cursed my failure as he pulled off my jeans. It was meant to be the other way round; him helpless and me terrifying the daylights out of him, before taking my pleasure through applying a carefully balanced combination of force and seduction.
It was disgusting. Forty seconds of grunting and he was boringly, messily, spent. If I had done it my way, at least one of us would have enjoyed it.
Next time I’ll target someone with loftier morals.
When I started writing this, it was intended to be humorous, but as I worked my way through it, the protegonist became a sinister predator, and I was horrified when her intended victim turned out to be just as bad.
She had intended to rape him. The subject of male rape often elicits a titter or two, and someone usually asserts that a man cannot be raped by a woman. I disagree. Some years ago a male member of my family suffered such an attack, but no-one believed him. He recently shared with me his feelings about the incident. It was a horrible experience, made worse by his friends’ reactions. He has carried those feelings of violation and humiliation with him ever since. It must have been about ten years ago, and in all that time he has not had any desire to be in a sexual relationship.
When a woman rapes a man, it is only possible because his body lets him down by becoming stimulated. The physical reaction overcomes the psychological aversion. I am a woman who was raped a long time ago. It didn’t stimulate me sexually; such feelings would probably have added fellings of self-loathing and shame to my already considerable distress.
©Jane Paterson Basil