Why You Don't Make Jokes About Rape

The two criteria my mother was adamant about me finding while I was shopping for apartments were:

• secure parking, and… 
• a gated entry  

I landed on a property with a gated carport (but sports a wall in the back I could easily step over), and an entrance every delivery guy and plumber in town has the code for - including my pervy boyfriend.

Wall "protecting" carport.

But my favorite amenity of the property is "the rapist gate."

The rapist gate is my pet name for the insurmountable obstacle that stands between safety and a torn perineum.  It's like Ft. Knox, and it's the only way to access my building from the carport.  The problem with this Sentinel is that it possess a persnickety lock that mocks me every time I attempt to use it, and flat out rebuffs me whenever I'm in a hurry.

If you're still having trouble picturing this, imagine my gate is Gandalf:

I stick my key in the hole: frozen.  I jiggle it around: nothing, no movement at all.  It's getting dark, I glance over my shoulder - right to left - I'm feeling exposed and vulnerable.  I jiggle some more: my key won't budge.  Sweat beads form at my brow.  I can feel a presence, I know it's coming.  Through the gate I spy the front door to my apartment - it's so close!  The hair on the back of my neck raises - do I hear footsteps?  I jiggle the key in the lock more furiously: it's fucking jammed!  And then, without warning, he's on me, slamming my face against the wrought iron, mussing up my good hair day (a gentleman he is not), and it's game over.  As predicted, this gate was the death of me, and my vagina.

At least this is how I imagine it would go down.  It's never actually happened to me.

The question I like to ask is: Is it still considered rape if I get wet?  Because I'm the fucking sicko that likes to joke about rape being a high form of flattery.

Fast forward - I'm at a housewarming party, talking to a group of acquaintances (aka: people I barely know) when I bring up my "rape is flattering" philosophy.  I can tell my audience doesn't take me seriously to begin with, so why not spice up the conversation a bit?  Fuck it.

Luckily for me, everyone laughs and plays along.  We're not squares here!  One guy even jumps in and starts talking about the time he took a shower in the fetal position after a bad date.  Okay… We all kinda quiet down, our faces still holding half-cocked smiles, as this guy proceeds to explain that everything was going great!  They were hot and heavy, really going at it… he was definitely aroused and this girl obviously knew how to work it.  She had a bit of a reputation for being a whorebag, so she better know what she doing!  So there he is, hard as a rock, going at it with this chick on the couch, when she slides her panties off from under her skirt, pulls him over to her, and rams him inside her.  Before he could stop or back away, she wraps her legs around his waste - locking him into place - and goes to town.

At this point, he's the only one laughing as he tells his "joke," while the rest of us stand there, mouths agape, staring at him in silence, until--

Me: "Um… that's called rape…"

Party-goer: "Yeah dude, you got raped."

You see, it's all fun and games until someone actually gets raped.

Now everyone's just getting fidgety and downright uncomfortable, so he tries to explain that the real reason he was rocking back and forth in a fetal position in the shower afterwards was because he was afraid she gave him an STD.  Yeah, I'd be afraid of that too, if I got RAPED.

Suffice it to say, don't I feel like a goddamn asshole.  And I no longer joke about rape, I keep it where it belongs: in the bedroom, during role-play.

Drawing From "Experience"

"Write what you know."  A phrase commonly thrown around and all too often misunderstood.  Point in case:  I don't know shit, but I still write.  Here's how (as any of my close friends can attest to):  I draw heavily on the experience of others.

I mean, sure - I've seen my share of crazy, but it's so much more fun to embellish on and exploit another's (and somehow it feels less narcissistic).  Plus, I'm burning through material pretty quickly, so I'm forced to steal from others - which is actually the very essence of being a writer. 

Bottom line:  life is short, and one can only glean so many personal experiences, so it's important to pay attention to what's going on outside of yourself and learn from others in order to maximize your overall life experience.  

Point in case - I did not party my face off the night before I had to be at work for some big, important certification exam.  It was not I who couldn't complete the fifty foot jaunt from the sidewalk (where I was dropped off) to the entrance of the building, and I certainly did not pass out on the front lawn of my office for all my co-workers to see.  Also, I never would have had the audacity to act as a human speed bump for the poor gardener, who was forced to cut the grass out and around me.  

No, I am not the ballsy centerpiece of this tale - because I don't have balls.  It takes a special kind of idiot to pull off a stunt like this, and that idiot is a man.  Nay, a silly little boy.  And that boy just happens to be related to me, so in a sense, this is like my story by proxy.  But if this friend of mine had not told me about his regrettable little tale, I wouldn't have the teaser to a comedy project I wrote and recently shot (above).  

Oscar Wilde opined that Life imitates Art more than Art imitates Life.  If this is truly the case, maybe I should rethink the quality of my contribution.  Surely what the world needs is more drunken assholes.  Instead, I contend that [writing] what "I" know supports the latter theory that Art imitates Life, and as opposed to perpetuating a generation of idiots, I'm merely contributing to the record of our current state of affairs.  Either way, it's depressing as hell, but at least this way I don't have to assume responsibility.  I've never been very good at that, anyway.

P.S. Be careful what you tell me.  

I Love Butt Sex

There's varying degrees to which this is true, but it's an attention grabbing headline, no? Since I'm a bit hard pressed for submission material, I may as well throw myself on the cross with this one. 

(If you think this is crass, you only have yourselves to blame. Send me your stories. This is intended to be a forum of shared experiences.)

That said, here's the deal: wine did funny things to me. If I want to add a dash of accountability (choke, cough, spit), irreverence (still) does funny (totally subjective) things to me. But add alcohol to my already inherent lack of respect for all things socially appropriate, and what you end up with is an obnoxious 20-something year-old floozy sharing the intricacies and pleasures of anal penetration at a neighborhood dinner party hosted by her parents.

As recalled by my BROTHER... I have no recollection of this happening, so as far as I'm concerned, I allegedly love butt sex. My parents' neighbors, however, are fairly certain I'm a prostitute.

…I'm sorry, Dad.