Tag Archives: rape

Party Life, Sexual Harassment, & Fantasy

Parties here are unrestrained, almost Hobbesian. We all are hard working students by day, but at night the mask comes off, and everyone wants to get some. All you have to do is tap someone on the shoulder to see the sex rise from them like fumes. Two nights ago people were vomiting into all the sinks and breaking glass everywhere. Creepier still was the girl with pig tails wandering around with green x’s taped to her nipples. I remember her because her eyes had a certain plasticity to them as she wandered from room to room like a somnambulist. On nights like these, no one is sleeping. Someone is always getting fucked up somewhere. Or fucked. When the rules are no longer in place, all decorum dissolves, which is particularly troubling for what is supposed to be an enlightened campus. Saturday night I had to save a girl from sexual harassment. When I wheeled her away from the boy in question, she thanked me. I headed back to the party room, and on a sudden the same guy took me up into his arms for some awkward dancing. I had to edge away. This was the same guy who left my best friend collapsed in a bathroom in a pile of her own vomit when they were supposed to be having a date. He found me later in the upstairs part of the dorm. I asked him, What do you want? He said, You know what I want. And his white arms encircled me, his soft angel hair nuzzling, his musky ape-scent invading (and probably still caught within) my nostrils. And I can’t explain what in that moment I felt when he kissed me, I can only approximate it as something between complete mental revulsion and awakened bodily desire. And I know that this is what abusers do: they use their sex to wreak havoc. The kiss was not romantic at all. It was an act of revenge for helping the girl escape. He probably wanted me to keep thinking about him, and he probably wanted to plant the illusion that he could be an option. When he was kissing me against my will, four bystanders clutched their beers and said nothing.

On this campus everyone is to be treated as a sexual plaything. No one is really himself in the eyes of others, only the fruition of a fantasy. I understand what the lonely young man must feel. All the dancing women look like spinning clothing racks of spurned wishes, and he cannot refuse the temptation to touch. Every time the weekend comes around, I always think of the creepers in the corner beckoning the girls to come dance on them, or they wait to zero in on whoever’s still left at the end of the night, so that they can drink the last of their dregs.



Aug 7th

I had gone to visit someone I considered an old friend who I had not seen for some years. She lived thirty minutes away from me, in a high-rise a few blocks away from the Hudson River. At around 4, her boyfriend and two other men came over, and we all began to partake of an illicit substance. 

When he walked through the door, her boyfriend was quiet as a ghost. He relegated himself to the corner. Angela herself sat to my right. To my left sat an Indian man, who was the building’s super. One heavy set man, whose name I cannot remember, was on the floor, and another man nicknamed Pudy placed himself next to Angela on her right.

As we passed whatever it was around, Pudy told us that when he was younger, he would trap and lick his girlfriends against their will, and force them to have intercourse with him. He told me about his current relationship, which was on the rocks. He was angry that his current girlfriend was unwilling to reciprocate. I could tell that he thought of himself as an Adonis, the world’s gift to women, but above all, he had no respect for women. The heavy set man frequently interjected in the middle of Pudy’s stories with his own jibes and informed me that Pudy was a story teller, good liar, and a womanizer. I also knew, within the first five minutes, that Pudy was a drug dealer.

The conversation weaved in and out and I turned to have an intimate moment with Angela. Suddenly, she began talking about my sister, how voluptuous she was, how much she had grown, and asked me if she was now in highschool.  “No,” I replied, “She’s still only twelve, and she’s in the seventh grade.” Angela got me to start talking about how pretty my sister was. I told her what school she had been going to, and on a sudden, I became quite apprehensive about her enthusiasm over my sister’s looks and well-being, and about all the questions she had begun to ask me. I peered over her shoulder, and it seemed as if Pudy the womanizer could have been listening. Was this conversation engineered? Did she want to make manifest a situation in which the womanizer would feel compelled to seduce and chase after my sister? Or was I being entirely paranoid? After all, he was a drug dealer, and if he knew where to find my sister, anything could happen. 

As she kept asking me about my sister’s whereabouts, my voice began to falter. It was as if she could smell the hint of fear and could follow it as if it were a piece of string that guided her through a maze. She walked with a club to the center of my being, and it hurt. But somehow, she could tell by my apprehension that I was catching on to her game.

She slit her eyes very narrowly, and with an even tinier voice, said… “and she still lives between so and so, in front of the pharmacy and the corner store?”

She was relaying to him all the information he needed to hear, so that, if it struck his fancy, he would be able to find her. I was in utter shock, horror, and disbelief. “Yes…” I answered, in the smallest voice I could muster.