Rape Forced Rough

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Rape Forced Rough
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This article was published more than 8 years ago
[WARNING: This essay describes sexually explicit situations.]
“I made these for us to celebrate,” he said, sauntering out of the kitchen with two shot glasses full of a red concoction.
He cocked his head to one side. “You’re here!” he cheered. “You finally made it.”
I had been on a long, grueling bus ride up from Washington DC to his apartment in New York. It was already 9:45 p.m on a Friday last summer. I felt sore and had just taken a shower to rid the bus experience from my skin. I laughed and, holding the towel around my waist in one hand and the shot glass in the other, I looked at it. “What’s in it?”
“Gin!” I thought he said, more excitedly than he should have. Gin makes me sick. “That’s not really my thing,” I said. Then he pouted, comically and even adorably: “But I made it just for us.”
So I drank it and it was a bit sharp but really delicious, like tart watermelon. “You can hardly taste the gin,” I said.
He laughed. “I said G.” He meant GHB, gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, commonly known as the date-rape drug. Later came several more druggings, as he held Gatorade up to my limp lips with who-knows-what mixed in. I spent the weekend — about 60 hours — semi-conscious and didn’t leave his apartment until Monday morning. Sometimes I think I never left his apartment, that someone who merely looks and sounds like me walked out.
I had received anal sex twice in my life before that night. By weekend’s end, it was 17 times, according to my fog-of-war count. Eyes squeezed shut, the tally was the only thing I focused on at times — like a ticking clock in a solitary confinement cell. Every addition to the tally meant I was one moment closer to the end. He moved out soon afterward, which helped erase the existence of that place for me.
I was raped. I had met him a few weeks earlier at a house party, and we had hit it off. He was handsome: 30, well-built, tall with long black hair, a surfer’s laugh, and great taste in “X-Men” (Gambit). He was not some lecherous old man. He was not a sexually repressed loser. There was nothing about him that was “rapey” (a word I detest). The sex itself was — I can’t really say it was “good,” because that’s far too moral of a word and far more than he deserves, but it was highly skilled. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to stimulate me. What he didn’t know was when to listen to me saying “no,” when to stop, when to realize that my kicking and punching and shoving and screaming and writhing was not just some sick roleplay while he blasted Lady Gaga’s “I Like It Rough.” He covered my sobbing mouth with his hands. He hushed me and called me “sexy,” as in “You got this, sexy.”
When I wrote about men who are raped by women , for Details magazine in 2004, it caught the eye of Bill O’Reilly, who discussed it on his show. “If you’re lucky enough as a guy to have some girl come on to you in that manner,” he said, “but you don’t want to reciprocate, you stand up and you leave, unless the woman is 240 pounds and tackles you. The man is traditionally stronger and better equipped to leave the room.” There is a great disbelief out there, despite the numbers — from the CDC! the NIH! the Justice Department! — about how 1 in 33 men have experienced “a completed or attempted rape,” or 12.9 percent have been sexually assaulted. Mostly it’s by men they know. (I have a couple dozen mutual Facebook friends with my assailant.)
Some people still see rape according to the old cliche: vile men dragging innocent women into dark alleys and then brutalizing them. As we are finally learning, the reality is much more complicated than the conventional-wisdom cartoon. Sometimes those women experience orgasm, which can be psychologically devastating. I was erect for much of my rape (at least the parts for which I was awake, but probably other parts, too); my assailant knew how to stimulate the physiological response of an erection — as opposed to the emotional or psychological response — even if I was crying or actively trying to think about unsexy things. I wasn’t handcuffed or tied up, but was in a version of dissociated shock. The invisible, immeasurable shackles of such a violation are immense.
From the bed, I could see the front door, but it was miles away and I thought, No, I won’t be able to get to the door, unlock it, open it and escape before he beats the hell out of me . And what was my option, anyway? To run naked and groggy through his halls and down Ninth Avenue? It’s amazing how much fear can make you want — really want — to appease a captor.
Rape may be as bad as murder, but, like murder, there are many kinds of rape. War-crime rape, date rape, rape as a ritual for pledging a fraternity, spousal rape, incest, rape with known assailants, rape with unknown assailants, police officers sodomizing a man with a broomstick. Rape contains multitudes. Any discussion of rape is going to require us as a culture to get much more imaginative about it. (Helpfully, the Justice Department just expanded its definition to include men.) Every time we discuss rape as if it’s only men dragging women into alleys, we make the act of reporting it all the more uncomfortable, burdensome and alienating for women being raped by their boyfriends, or students being raped by their teachers, or men being raped by women, or men being raped by men. It is an act of theft on top of an act of rape.
What’s shocking about this limited perspective is, sadly, how much opportunity there is to see the full spectrum of rape in our culture. Not only are dozens of colleges currently embroiled in sex assault investigations — including James Madison University, which just punished three rapists with “expulsion after graduation” (or, as a friend noted, just “graduation”). There are the twin revulsions of Dov Charney and Terry Richardson. New York magazine put Richardson on its cover last month with the question “ Is Terry Richardson an Artist or a Predator? ” as if a person cannot be both. There’s self-described “Vine star” Brittany Furlan on the red carpet for Soap Opera Network’s Daytime Emmys coverage telling a male actor “We’re going to get you away from us before we rape you.” It’s a world where George Will realistically can defend writing that sexual assault survivors “make victimhood a coveted status that confers privileges.” The Web site GOPrapeadvisorychart.com , which tracks Republican blunders on rape, is now in its eighth edition.
When male victims are discussed, it’s almost always about children — the Sandusky stories and all their perverse variants. For adults, in or out of prison, male-on-male rape is mostly thought of as an attack on a heterosexual victim, rape adding homophobic insult to injury. Yet rape is, ironically, always on the tongues of men. “I’m gonna rape you in Halo!” “This Monday morning is raping me.” “Paper jam? Ugh, I wanna rape this printer.”
The terrible thing about being a gay man is that it is dependent on expression. If you’re straight and have never had sex, you’re a virgin. If you’re gay and have never had sex, you’re confused. How can you know you’re gay unless you’ve tried it? In the wake of my nightmare — and all the subsequent nightmares and daymares that have come with it — I wanted nothing to do with sex. But what is a gay man who doesn’t have sex? I wasn’t even sure what I became.
When I finally freed myself from that apartment — I flatter myself; the truth is, he was done with me — I took the next train out of town. I wanted to be as far away as I could. From the lobby of Union Station in D.C., I sobbed into my phone and told a friend what happened. He might have saved my life by urging me into a cab to Whitman-Walker Clinic, where I began a 30-day anti-HIV drug regimen (I am HIV-negative, thank God). In the exam, when the nurse asked me to exhale deeply, I could smell his sweat and semen on my breath, and I began crying all over again, because I didn’t remember giving — or being forced to give — fellatio, and suddenly I realized there was a whole extra circle of Hell, hidden horrors done to my unconscious body with no way of ever knowing fully what happened.
I wasn’t going to write any of this. But even given all those statistics, I’ve never heard a story told from my perspective, and certainly never expected to be the one telling it. I had come to accept my life as a kind of ongoing closet: a secret room in which a plaything called Richard — called “sexy” — broken by some zealous child. But the untold stories are precisely the most important stories to tell. The more stories that are told, the less they can all be the same.
I know how dumb and selfish and even endangering this can sound, but I don’t want to charge my attacker (not everyone does) . After the JMU assault, the survivor told the Huffington Post that “It was kind of hard for me to deal with. I just tried to diminish the situation. I didn’t want to bring it up, didn’t want to talk about it.” That resonated with me. I don’t want anything to do with him. I don’t want him in my life, even in a courtroom. I kept imagining, perhaps too cinematically, that he’d toss off some haunting quip as he was hauled away. I won’t let him. I won’t even let him have a name now. He’s a nameless demon who has taken so much that I don’t want to give him even the possibility of taking more.
Being assaulted changed sex for me. The total absence of intimacy during that horrible weekend restored my need for it. In the world of hook-up apps, where you can know the size of a paramour’s penis before you know his name — if you ever learn his name — sex becomes worse than casual, worse than carnal; it becomes transactional. Using Grindr and its ilk, men order guys over to their apartments as if they were specialty pizzas.
Afterward, the 30-day anti-HIV drug regimen weirdly helped things. I was certainly not about to be sexually active in that time. It enabled a kind of monasticism. My new rule became that I didn’t want to have sex with anyone I wouldn’t bring to a dinner party. I recently spent an evening with a guy that peaked with hand-holding. (It was everything The Beatles promised and more.)
So much — too much — of our collective gay story is about sadness and despair and downfall. “Giovanni’s Room.” “Dancer From The Dance.” “The Normal Heart.” “Angels in America.” “My Own Private Idaho.” “Philadelphia.” “Brokeback Mountain.” “Milk.” “Weekend.” When the two hot teenage boys in “Y Tu Mamá También” hook up, it destroys their friendship. Even “Will & Grace” ended with the lifelong friendship in decades of ruin. It’s an unspoken trade-off: gays can be in pop culture as long as they’re vacuous or miserable or both, as if we’re born with the gene for sad endings (#itgetsbitter).
I can’t offer a happy ending here. I don’t want the sort of closure that turns incidents like this into a neat three-act “Law & Order” episode. I’ve decided instead — and writing this is the first step — that the resulting self-awareness, and hopefully, beyond me, a truer social awareness of rape, is a sufficient coda. It would be pretty ironic for me to force my takeaway upon anyone else, but in the year since my trauma, I’ve rededicated myself to kindness and hope and intimacy, which has made me feel comfortable enough to realize that my story can serve a purpose, too. That, I pray, can at least be an everlasting happy beginning.


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‘POLICE… OPEN UP’: RAPED IN EVERY ROOM OF MY FLAT
KATIE WAS AWOKEN AT 2.45AM BY ‘THE POLICE’ BANGING ON HER FRONT DOOR, DEMANDING SHE OPEN UP. TERRIFIED AS TO WHAT WAS GOING ON, THE 29-YEAR-OLD RAN TO THE DOOR EXPECTING TO SEE UNIFORMED OFFICERS. INSTEAD SHE WAS MET BY DEAN, 32, A FRIEND OF HER EX-BOYFRIEND’S.
HE LET HIMSELF IN AND CHECKED SHE WAS ALONE. DESPITE HER REQUESTS FOR HIM TO LEAVE, HE STAYED AND BRUTALLY RAPED HER IN ALMOST EVERY ROOM OF HER FLAT. HE THEN SAID ‘I’M OFF NOW – SEE YOU IN COURT’ AFTER IMPRISONING IN HER HOME FOR ALMOST FIVE HOURS AND TOLD HER TO ‘TAKE CARE’.
Most people feel safe in their own home, but I can no longer bear to step foot in mine after being brutally raped and imprisoned for five hours by an intruder. Dean Goodwin, 32, turned up at my flat, in Poole, Dorset, unannounced at 2.45am and forced his way inside. He then subjected me to a terrifying ordeal, during which he raped in me in almost every room.
It was a rainy November evening last year, no different to any other. I had cooked dinner, had a bath and got into my pyjamas before curling up on the sofa to watch a DVD. At midnight, I decided to head to bed as I knew I had an early start for work the next morning. But just before 3am I was suddenly woken by a banging at the front door and shouts of ‘Police… open up’.
Terrified as to what was going on, I dashed to the door expecting to be met by uniformed officers informing me of an emergency. Instead I came face-to-face with Dean – a friend of my ex-boyfriend – who I had met only a handful of times. I had seen Dean once or twice, but I’d never really spoken to him, he always seemed very shy. Groggy after just waking up, I couldn’t understand what he was doing on my doorstep at that time in the morning. Before I had the chance to realise what was going on, he barged into my hallway.
Dean demanded to know where my ex was. But we had broken up months earlier and I told him I didn’t know but he wasn’t at mine. He then calmly asked me to make him a coffee, I refused and insisted that he go, but there was no way that he was leaving and he even started making one for himself. I pleaded that he get out but he ignored me and began wandering around my flat.
He walked into the bathroom, opened the bedroom doors and even checked my airing cupboard. I asked him what he was doing and he snapped: ‘Checking you’re alone.’ I froze with fear and thoughts of what he might do flashed through my mind.
I knew I desperately needed to get out of there, but before I had the chance to try and escape, Dean lunged at me. At only 4ft 10ins and 7st, I was no match for the burly brute. When he ordered me to remove my clothes, pushed me against the sofa – clasping his hand over my mouth – and started to rip off my pyjamas, I was helpless. I tried with all my might to fight him off, but he was too strong.
He hit me around the head and threw me on to the floor, where he violently raped me. I was trapped underneath him and scared for my life. There was nothing I could do. Sobbing throughout, I begged for Dean to stop. When he was done, I prayed it was over but instead he did it again – raping me in the lounge, the kitchen and the bedroom.
What he put me through was absolutely horrific. He raped me over and over again. I thought it would never end. He kept saying he was a bad man and that I would do as I was told. When I tried to resist him he kept gagging me or slapped me around the head. At 6.45am he eventually left, after trapping me for almost five hours.
As he walked out the door, he said: ‘I know you won’t go to the police. I will tell them you were willing and wanted it rough.’ He then added: ‘I’m off now – I’ll see you in court. Take care.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was sick.
I collapsed on the floor in tears, as the front door slammed behind Dean. In no state to think about evidence, I showered and scrubbed myself raw. I got changed ready for my shift, but when my colleague arrived to pick me up for work, minutes later, I burst into tears and revealed everything. Together we called the police and reported what had happened. Officers met me at my work place. I was petrified but I told them everything and gave a video statement.
I had a medical examination to check for evidence and forensics combed my home for DNA. Unable to return to the scene – the flat I had once called home – I went to stay with my sister, while a manhunt for my attacker got underway. I couldn’t ever set foot in my home again. My mum boxed up all of my things and I moved in with my sister permanently. I didn’t want to hear or think about what I had gone through and stepping inside would bring back it all back.
Over the next few days the story was all over the local news – on television and in the newspaper. I couldn’t bear to listen to or read about it. Fortunately four days later, the police called with good news – they had caught Dean. He was charged with raping me and another woman.
When they told me there was someone else, my heart leapt up into my chest. But it wasn’t until the case came to court in April that I discovered how evil Dean really was. Dean was a serial rapist and went on to attack a second victim, a 49-year-old mum on her way to pick up her children from school during the middle of the day.
The vile sex fiend thought he had killed his second victim – a total stranger – after hitting her on the head with a brick during the barbaric attack and dragging her into an alleyway. He raped her and left her for dead before going on to withdraw £90 from her bank account.
I found out that Dean had been released early from prison for similar offences before he carried out the horrific sex attack on me and his second victim. He was a high-risk offender with three previous convictions for sexual assault and was let out of jail after serving 10 years of a 12-year sentence. On the sex offenders’ register, he was supposed to have been monitored by the authorities. In 2000, Dean was imprisoned for 12 years for two sexual assaults on a 13-year-old girl and a 63-year-old woman.
Bournemouth Crown Court heard how Dean had no self-control and how he later told police he had ‘wanted to go out with a bang’ after attacking me. Dean pleaded guilty to four counts of rape and false imprisonment in relation to the attack on me and attempted murder, rape and robbery in connection with the second woman. The judge sentenced him to nine terms of life imprisonment but told him he must serve a minimum of 15 years in jail.
But despite the outcome, I am still struggling to come to terms with what happened. He’s left me feeling wary of everyone. I find it difficult to trust anyone, especially men. I freak out whenever I see anyone of his build with a similar hairstyle too. Sometimes I just sit and cry. But I won’t let him destroy me, I’m determined to move on and put it all behind me.
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