Last Night

“Do you remember what I did to you last night?”

That’s what he asked when I woke, as if asking me to go to breakfast.

I kind of remembered. Then I turned over and felt the pain. He got me drunk, he drugged me, and he fucked me up the ass. I went home with him willingly; I had the hots for him and hoped to play around. But I did-not-would-not-would-never consent to a virtual stranger fucking me. I couldn’t even remember if he wore a condom.

And I don’t remember if I said anything in my hung-over numbness. I do remember having to get on the city bus in last night’s clothes, wincing as I sat down, certain everyone was staring at me with disgust.

He was hot. Tall, almost cartoon-hero handsome, thick, glossy black hair in a pompadour. Leather jacket, tight jeans. I’d been making googly eyes at him for a week before we went back to his place from a bar I’d managed to sneak into. I was 17; he was in his mid 20s. I was a hot piece of twink ass and I knew it and reveled in how easy it was to get a hookup. Shit—look at this gorgeous man, and he wants me.

I certainly meant to get drunk. But not that drunk. And not drugged. I vaguely recalled him giving me a (some?) pills—another shock as I’d never take drugs from someone I didn’t know.

The whole bus ride home I stayed numb. I initiated this, right? I hit on him and went home with him, right? Why be so stupid and then act surprised? I don’t remember fighting him off (hell, I barely remember much after the initial penetration), so it wasn’t rape, right? Stupid drunk slut.

It was years before I told a therapist about it, and really, I was looking for scolding or absolution from her. Some certain frame to put this in. I still wasn’t even sure I was raped. I was attracted to him, and I did want to have sex with him. Fooling around. Jacking off. Blowjobs. And I was super turned on at the start. So it couldn’t really have been rape, right? My therapist was far more understanding than I was to myself; none of this surprised her and she had no trouble saying, “Yes, you were raped.”

But I did. Hitting a low point a few years later (I’ve always struggled with depression, anxiety, and OCD) I called my mom for consolation. I couldn’t sleep and I was having nightmares when I did. She told me she worried for me. Somehow I blurted out that I was having a hard time processing the fact that I’d been raped. It was the first time I said it to anyone I loved. My mother broke down and told me how much she wished she could hold me, and that it wasn’t my fault, and no wonder I was having such a hard time. Very lucky, I am, to have such a good mom.

And this is the first time I’ve written about it at any length. Only the second time, really, aside from a supportive comment at one of the grueling rape-survivor threads at Pharyngula.

And I sure as fuck didn’t report it to the police. If you have to ask why, then take this opportunity to refill your drink and sit your ignorant ass down.

Report it? To the cops? Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast? Faggots can’t be raped. They’re sex fiends by nature and they never ever turn down the chance to take it up the ass. Because they’re faggots.

Had I reported this to the cops, I would have been put through what nearly all women suffer throughout the reporting process—if they even get past being laughed at or ignored. And the chances aren’t that bad that I’d get an extra rape or a beating for dessert.

I knew just what cops thought of me (and ain’t all that much changed, I’m sorry to say). The year before—that would make me and my friends 16—five of us from school piled into my friend’s car to go tool around after a queer youth group meeting. Loaded up on french fries, iced tea, and Marlboro Lights, we took a whirl through the city park with its rose garden and picturesque water tower. The park was also a known cruising spot (if you don’t know what this is don’t ask me; Google).

Officer So-and-so pulled us over. For what, we asked? He wouldn’t answer. We knew we weren’t speeding, we didn’t have a taillight out. We looked kinda gay though, so you can understand, right?

Officer So-and-so asked us where we had come from (huh?). We told him. And that cost us 20 minutes of sitting in sheer terror in the car while he radio’d headquarters. Was he asking for backup against the blinding power of my bleached hair? Did he need help to neutralize our Sapphic Sorcery? Was there a city ordinance he could invoke against in-the-park-driving-after-fag-meeting-attendance?

We never knew. Officer So-and-so instructed us to leave and stay out of “trouble.”

I didn’t report it, and I didn’t talk about it, because I knew what I might get from “my people.” At about the same time I’d become the city poster boy for the new municipal gay rights ordinance after trying to sue my employer for firing me for being a victim of homophobic harassment. Thugs from school also worked at the store and slammed doors in my face (so that my nose hit them), scrawled on my locker, stuffed it with gay porn, and let the staff know I was available for oral gratification if their bitch wives wouldn’t put out.

Much ink was spilled about this in the press and I appeared on local television to talk about the importance of civil rights for queers. Eventually I dropped the effort from the sheer stress of it. I was 16 years old for Christ’s sake. The final straw was a letter to the editor from a self-identified middle-aged gay man. He scolded me for inviting the abuse and said I ought to spend my time doing “normal” kid things, like baseball. He’d been through my checkout line, see, and he could reveal that I was a brazen tart who came onto men in the grocery line before all and sundry. What did I expect?

When you’re a slutty faggot even to other faggots you know it’s time to cut your losses and go.

Homophobia is just a baroque elaboration of misogyny. Patriarchy divides the world into conquering cocks, virginal angels, and pussies for pounding. As a gay man, I was willingly the most shameful thing one could be—a woman. A hole. A fuckee. A slut who egged men on and then paid the price for being a whore.

Stop asking women why they don’t report to the Proper Authorities. Stop asking how rapists and murderers go free after beating and killing trans women who “deceive” their All American Real Man Cocks.

(editor’s note) We are not hosted on wordpress.com & so your WP login will not work. If you would like to comment please register an account here http://www.morethanmen.org/wp-login.php?action=register & (Sorry, I know it’s a pain in the ass) – Carl