I blame my recurring rape fantasy on the fact that I’m a feminist. I’ve never made any bones about getting boned in exactly the fashion that I want. But as a girl, my equipment can be trickier to manage, therefore I need to be a boss in the bedroom to ensure I get worked the right way. It gets really tiresome always being the one in charge, and don’t shrinks say that people usually fantasize about the opposite of their reality? I guess that’s why I find myself wishing that my typically sugary-sweet sexual encounters were sometimes peppered with assault. I decided that the best way to forfeit that controlwhile still holding on to a modicum of it for safekeepingwould be to hire someone for the job. Not to put too fine a point on it, I wanted a male whore to rape me.
My first thoughts were of New York artist Brock Enright, who founded Video Games Adventure Services in 2002. It’s a company that provides a rather violent “designer kidnapping” for a price that actually rapes a wallet more than it does the customer, but I’d heard tell that some escort services provide similarly realistic rape and abduction scenarios for a fraction of the cost. I didn’t want mine to be crazy violent, with, like, punching and stuff. (I wouldn’t mind some fingerprint bruises on my wrists, but my face needs to stay pretty so I can keep getting sex for free on other occasions.) I also didn’t want any duct tape involved, and I didn’t want to be gagged (unless, you know, it’s with a cock).
And so began my quest to hire a rapist. I started by reviewing hustlers’ profiles through escort websites, but I was totally turned off. Even when they said they only serviced women, they all looked like total homos. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against gay dudes. I just don’t want to get raped by one. I knew they wouldn’t be “up” for the job, har har har. I actually had a lot more luck in the “erotic services” section of Craigslist. I didn’t have to go through a middleman, and all the dudes I corresponded with were more than happy to send me cock shots, free of charge.
The pictures were really important to me. One of my main concerns about hiring a hooker was that he might be ugly. I’m not one of those girls that needs an emotional connection to fuck a guy. Shit, I don’t even need to know his last name. But he needs to be attractive. Swagger and wit can only get one so far. I’m into faces. And I wasn’t sure I could get into it if he had an ugly one. I decided he would need to wear a ski mask, because then I wouldn’t know if he was ugly, and because it would also be extra scary and thrilling and hot. Of the dudes on my short list, only one of them had a ski mask. But he also mentioned in the same sentence that he had a gun we could use, and thus ended his brief tenure on my short list.
I ended up making a date with a 21-year-old guy (let’s call him Dick), who said that he exclusively services women. I liked him because in the picture he sent to my phone, he wasn’t ugly. He looked half-Guido, half-frat-boy, and that seemed like a pretty rape-y combo. He assured me he could handle the rape fantasy, as role playing was his specialty. Dick said he would perform the whole fantasy, with no time limit, for $300.
Even though he wasn’t heinous looking, I still wanted him to wear a ski mask. Because of my preconceived notions about hookers regarding their reliability and character in general, I decided that I’d take the reins on procuring the mask. I made the trek to a large sporting-goods store only to find out that ski masks weren’t in season. Oh well. As I left the store, sans ski mask, I was gripped with just how real this was. I was going to be face to face with my rapist in a few short hours. I called Dick up and told him that there was a change of plans. Instead of accosting me outside of my apartment building, we decided that the best way to go would be date rape. We agreed to meet at a bar in my neighborhood, and get a few drinks first.
I went to the drugstore and picked up some condoms and some Tucks. I was so nervous that I was like borderline diarrhea. I knew he was just some whore, but I still didn’t want to have a dirty butt in front of him. I also stopped at the liquor store, bought two bottles of wine, and began drinking as soon as I got home, to help me relax.
About an hour before our date, I got a text from Dick: “Yo, I don’t want to charge for this.”
I texted back, “If it’s all the same, I’d rather just keep the arrangement as we have it.” He responded with, “Are you a cop?”
Oh God, I thought. I called Dick up and explained to him that I didn’t want to get raped for free, because I felt that the exchange of money was the only way I’d be able to maintain the small amount of power I needed to feel comfortable. Besides, at this point, a large part of the allure of this whole thing was that I was actually going to fuck a hooker. Giving me a freebie would’ve robbed me of that opportunity. I set him straight and an hour later, I got a text letting me know he was at the bar. It said: “I’m here babe.”
As I walked up the street toward the bar, I could see him having a smoke outside. He was cute enough, but skinnier than his picture, and he looked younger than 21. I’m 28. Christ, I thought, who’s raping who here?
Blurry photos by the author (apparently it’s hard to take pictures while you’re being violated).
We hugged briefly, then went inside and began pounding vodka sodas to cut the tension. I was pleasantly surprised that Dick immediately took control. He decided that our safe word would be surprise, and he told me that he was just going to keep coming on as strong as possible, until he heard me say the word. We played a few rounds of Erotic Photo Hunt on the bar’s Megatouch. I was taking the game sort of seriously, but he wasn’t really paying attention to it. He kept pushing his face into my neck, and saying stupid yet appropriate things, like, “Oh, you’re such a dirty girl,” and, “Yeah, I like when you touched her titty,” referring to the naked girl in the game. He put on the full-court press, groping my boobs and reaching his hand down between my legs, beneath my minidress.
By this point, I was sufficiently drunk and getting turned on by his dirtbag display. My tights were soaking wet (which he, of course, pointed out). I began to think I wasn’t really cut out to play the victim, because I was fighting my inner slut, which ached to push my crotch toward his hand, instead of pulling away like my fantasy required. I knew it was time to get the show on the road, before I ended up ruining the whole thing by dragging him into the bar bathroom to fuck him in one of the stalls.
We got back to my building and climbed the four floors to my apartment, with him trailing behind, goosing me the whole way. As soon as we got inside, he started in with a DFK (that’s hooker for “deep French kiss”) on my couch.
“Let’s go to your room,” he breathed in my ear. I was about to be like, “Fuck yeah,” but then I remembered why we were here, so instead I said, “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Yeah, come on,” he insisted, as he got up from the couch and pulled me toward my bedroom.
We sat on the bed and he started kissing me again. He pushed me down and I tried to politely nudge him away and sit back up, but he wouldn’t let me. Whoa, I thought, this is really happening! Holy fucking shit! He grabbed my wrists and held them down with one hand as he started frantically undoing his pants with the other. I tried to wriggle free, but I was pinned.
“Don’t act like you don’t fucking want it, you little bitch,” he sneered.
That’s actually when I began really fighting him, because I wanted to be sure that he put a condom on before anything else happened. The last thing I need in my life is a trick baby. Or HPV. I reached toward my nightstand and grabbed the strip of condoms I’d carefully laid out earlier in the evening.
He lifted my dress up over my head, so I couldn’t see what he was doing, and we began a tug of war with my tights, with me trying to keep them on, and him trying to rip them off. The struggle went on for maybe 90 seconds before my tights gave way. He jammed it in.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, and he came. Literally, two fucking seconds, and it was over. Hmm, I thought, I wonder if this is what it’s like with real rape. It makes sense. Rapists are probably not too worried about premature ejaculation. It behooves them to get it over with fast.
Dick immediately began apologizing, saying, “It’s just that you’re so sexy. Give me a minute. I’ll get hard again. Let me just collect myself.” But I drowned out the sound of his voice with the sound of my vibrator. There was no way fucking way I wasn’t coming after all of that. He tried to make amends by putting his fingers in me, but I swatted his hand away, saying only, “Surprise.”
Within a few minutes I came twice, then tossed the vibe on the floor. Dick just stared at me the whole time. Again, he tried touching my pussy, now tender from having been properly massaged. “Surprise!” I hissed it this time, before shooting up off my bed and stumbling into my living room.
Blurry photos by the author (apparently it’s hard to take pictures while you’re being violated).
I poured myself a glass of wine, plopped down on my couch, grabbed the remote, and scanned the TV. Dick emerged from my room, wearing only his boxers. He sat down next to me and rubbed my thigh. “I want to make you come again,” he whispered in my ear. I laughed in his face.
“You’re so cute, how you always giggle at what I say,” and then he started in with another DFK. This time, when I closed my eyes, my head began spinning and I realized just how drunk I was. I thought I might puke in his mouth, so I pushed him away.
“Why don’t you get your clothes on,” I said.
“No, I want to go one more time. C’mon. You know you want it.”
He wouldn’t let it up. So finally I was forced to yet again yell out, “Surprise! Get dressed. It’s time for you to leave.”
He got his clothes on and as he was tying his shoes, I reached into my bag and pulled out an envelope filled with the cash he was owed, plus an extra $50 as a tip. I handed it to him, and he said, “I still feel bad that it ended so quickly.”
“Yeah,” I said, “You’re right.” So I reached in the envelope and removed two of the 20s. “This is for the drinks I bought.” I thought for a minute, reached back in, and grabbed another, saying, “And this is for coming too fast.” I put his $60 docked pay in my wallet.
He hung his head and said, “Yeah, that’s only fair.”
I called him a cab and literally had to push him out of my place. He kept trying to hug me and gently kiss me all over my face. I grimaced as I ducked and dodged his attempts at intimacy or cuddling, or whatever the hell he was trying to do. As soon as he was gone, I sunk back into my couch. About five minutes later I received a text from him: “You sure? I just wanna make u come again and that’s it.”
Ugh! What the hell made him think he did it the first time? I ignored him. Six minutes later I received another text: “Oh great. Story of my life ha ha. I’ll talk with you soon I hope.”
I ignored that one as well. Eight minutes later I received another text: “But hey seriously you were amazing. Def give me a call some time soon.”
I hadn’t answered the first two, so I didn’t bother answering this one either. I drank my wine and eventually passed out on my couch. My phone woke me up several hours later, at around 1 AM. It was him! I pressed “ignore” with more purpose than I ever have in my life. I saw that there were two new text messages as well. One was at 11:54 PM, about two and a half hours after Dick left my place. It said, “You still up? I bet u are… call me.”
The other message was a picture that Dick took of himself—naked and wearing only a bow tie. The text said, “I really like you.”
Oh my God. I ordered a rape and was served a stalker. A little after 3 AM I received one last text for the night, “You still awake? I miss u.”
In the morning, I checked my email, and what do you know? It’s Dick in my box! He wrote, “Hey little lady, sorry for calling you so much last night. I guess I was a lot drunker than I thought. LOL! But really, you are great, and I’d love to see you again. We should really hang out again.”
I wrote him back, saying only, “Yeah, I was really drunk, too. Take care.” That seemed like a sufficient kiss-off to me.
Two days later, guess who called me? Hi, Mr. Clingy Prostitute. I never took any of his calls ever again, nor returned his texts or emails.
You know what really pisses me off? People are always quick to accuse girls of too easily becoming emotionally attached after they sleep with a guy. But I’ve never heard of any call girl who tried to hang out with a John for free because she liked him so much. It just wouldn’t happen. Women are far more capable of compartmentalizing issues of love and sex and work and play than people (dudes) give us credit for.
So, considering the way we each handled ourselves after our business transaction, it turns out that I’m the dick—and he’s a pussy.