Rape is my language. Rape is the way I talk to myself. I know some people have dark fantasies, sexual fantasies. I have them, too for sure. Rape is different, rape is not joy or even pleasure. My language of love is different. Whisper, touch, skin on skin, weight against weight. Rape is the knowledge of who I am.
Rape is the way I talk to myself 'cos there are no other ways to talk. About these bits of knowledge. I only know them through rape. I resist but I am eager to learn. I am frightened and this fear tells me something. I don't even hate the guy. I go numb but consciousness is there. The body is limp and inert. It is not like “this cannot be happening to me!” It is more like when I was eight and thought I was not my body. I just looked through my eyes. My body was a thing that I carried around. Freedom would be leaving this body, spreading particles of my mind over the horizon like a thin veil of awareness.
I tell you this because I worry. I think I could turn any guy into a monster. They see me, they resent my coldness, because sometimes I am hot, but at other times, I am cold. Icy. Completely withdrawn. Then they want to shake me. Slap me. Rape me, if necessary. I say, 'don't touch me' and of course they respect that. They are the good guys. You are a good guy, a lovely trickster, a smoothie. You would not hurt me because you want other things, respect, love, maybe some money and comfort, pride that you could have me, after all. Some good use of me as I am. All of me. So you wait patiently. For a while. Then you shout at me, snap out of this! I hear you. I'd love to get hot, to push my body against yours, to kiss your temples and eyes, but not now. Then your frustration turns into anger. Then, you are almost ready to hit me but you would never hit me. This is how you are a good guy. I learn from this too. It might be your self-respect, your manly image, your fear of the kind of disgrace when a guy hits a woman. Also, you might be afraid of the consequences. Of what happens after. What would be your next move. What would be my next move. I might dump you. But there is the love, too.
“I am afraid you want me to rape you. I am afraid this is the thing you enjoy! Look, I am into any games but games just games, just fooling around, pretending. I am not a monster.” You say this.
Oh, no no no. It's not that. I love you, I love having sex, I don't want you to rape me. Rape is not love. It is �" I don' know what it is. It's learning about who I am. About how far I'd go in search of knowledge. Also, I learn about them. Their misery. They tremble and sweat. They labor on my body, it is like labor, I mean when you deliver a child. I am some kind of stuff they want to dig into. A substance where they want to hide for just a few seconds. Their consciousness is out. And I am wide awake. I pity them.
“Are you out for a wild ride? For another taxi driver?” You are jealous. I love this, it is flattering, but it's far off the mark. I told you about the taxi driver. It had nothing to do with you. Or with my love for you. Or sex, in general.
I was not yet twenty. Working at night. I usually left just before sunrise. The city is beautiful then. I had to walk through the center, the very center with all the luxury shops, shopwindows with no one behind them. No customer, no staff. Just the stuff. Things. Lifeless mannequins gesturing toward the empty sidewalk. A completely silent world. It felt like revenge. Then a taxi driver pulled up beside me. Want a ride? He asked. I told him I can walk fine. So where do you go? I told him. My place was in the outskirts, 2 hours on foot but I did not mind. Actually, I am going there. He said. Come on, let me get you home. It is still dark and a young girl like you might get hurt. All right, I said. We drove in silence. He asked questions, as taxi drivers do, but I did not say much. He was a plump little man, middle aged, bold spots. He complained he'd had a divorce. He complained about his wife. He was doing the night shift so he would not think so much. I sad I was sorry.
He took me right to the door of the building where I rented a room. I said thanks and wanted to pay. Oh, no fare for a nice girl like you. I did not like that. Just kiss me good by, he said. I looked at him. He was sweating. He grabbed my hand. Don't go, he said. Don't go. I have to go, I said. I am tired. Look, look, I had not touched a woman for months. I've never touched a beauty like you. Already he was pulling off his pants and he pushed himself between my knees, moaning with the effort. It was very awkward, uncomfortable, me under his soft and sweaty body, in the front seat, with my seatbelt still on. He got hold of my slip then tried to enter me. “Oh, I am so soft, I have to get hard, I have to, I have to have this, I have to have this”. I felt truly sorry for him. Finally, he came. He rested. Then raised his head and had a look at my half naked body. God, you are so, so perfect. Everything in a tiny case. Like the very mold of a woman.
I got out. He asked me if he could see me again. I said no. I said I paid for the ride. I said I never wanted to see him again. Next day, he was waiting outside. I just passed by him. I saw his miserable face behind the windshield.
I told you this because you said I was such a perfect mold of a woman. Everything in a tiny case. It did not sound so honest. It sounded like a compliment. At forty, such words are compliments. But his words were no compliment. They were a confession about his pitiful life. They were the memories to come, about this thing, my body, that he took. That he stole. Once. Yeah, I did not mind being a thing. It was all right with me. I was a thing. I wanted you to understand that. Your smooth seduction does not work on me. I am a thing. You can take that thing, I give it to you because I love you. I give it to you because I want to have sex with you. You ask what I want. Like oral or anal or that kind of stuff. You say it helps hell of a lot when women have regular sexual lives. They get quiet. They get content. I agree. But what I want is this: help me get rid of this body. Help me get outside. Immaterial. Not content.
Rape is the way I talk to myself 'cos there are no other ways to talk. About these bits of knowledge. I only know them through rape. I resist but I am eager to learn. I am frightened and this fear tells me something. I don't even hate the guy. I go numb but consciousness is there. The body is limp and inert. It is not like “this cannot be happening to me!” It is more like when I was eight and thought I was not my body. I just looked through my eyes. My body was a thing that I carried around. Freedom would be leaving this body, spreading particles of my mind over the horizon like a thin veil of awareness.
I tell you this because I worry. I think I could turn any guy into a monster. They see me, they resent my coldness, because sometimes I am hot, but at other times, I am cold. Icy. Completely withdrawn. Then they want to shake me. Slap me. Rape me, if necessary. I say, 'don't touch me' and of course they respect that. They are the good guys. You are a good guy, a lovely trickster, a smoothie. You would not hurt me because you want other things, respect, love, maybe some money and comfort, pride that you could have me, after all. Some good use of me as I am. All of me. So you wait patiently. For a while. Then you shout at me, snap out of this! I hear you. I'd love to get hot, to push my body against yours, to kiss your temples and eyes, but not now. Then your frustration turns into anger. Then, you are almost ready to hit me but you would never hit me. This is how you are a good guy. I learn from this too. It might be your self-respect, your manly image, your fear of the kind of disgrace when a guy hits a woman. Also, you might be afraid of the consequences. Of what happens after. What would be your next move. What would be my next move. I might dump you. But there is the love, too.
“I am afraid you want me to rape you. I am afraid this is the thing you enjoy! Look, I am into any games but games just games, just fooling around, pretending. I am not a monster.” You say this.
Oh, no no no. It's not that. I love you, I love having sex, I don't want you to rape me. Rape is not love. It is �" I don' know what it is. It's learning about who I am. About how far I'd go in search of knowledge. Also, I learn about them. Their misery. They tremble and sweat. They labor on my body, it is like labor, I mean when you deliver a child. I am some kind of stuff they want to dig into. A substance where they want to hide for just a few seconds. Their consciousness is out. And I am wide awake. I pity them.
“Are you out for a wild ride? For another taxi driver?” You are jealous. I love this, it is flattering, but it's far off the mark. I told you about the taxi driver. It had nothing to do with you. Or with my love for you. Or sex, in general.
I was not yet twenty. Working at night. I usually left just before sunrise. The city is beautiful then. I had to walk through the center, the very center with all the luxury shops, shopwindows with no one behind them. No customer, no staff. Just the stuff. Things. Lifeless mannequins gesturing toward the empty sidewalk. A completely silent world. It felt like revenge. Then a taxi driver pulled up beside me. Want a ride? He asked. I told him I can walk fine. So where do you go? I told him. My place was in the outskirts, 2 hours on foot but I did not mind. Actually, I am going there. He said. Come on, let me get you home. It is still dark and a young girl like you might get hurt. All right, I said. We drove in silence. He asked questions, as taxi drivers do, but I did not say much. He was a plump little man, middle aged, bold spots. He complained he'd had a divorce. He complained about his wife. He was doing the night shift so he would not think so much. I sad I was sorry.
He took me right to the door of the building where I rented a room. I said thanks and wanted to pay. Oh, no fare for a nice girl like you. I did not like that. Just kiss me good by, he said. I looked at him. He was sweating. He grabbed my hand. Don't go, he said. Don't go. I have to go, I said. I am tired. Look, look, I had not touched a woman for months. I've never touched a beauty like you. Already he was pulling off his pants and he pushed himself between my knees, moaning with the effort. It was very awkward, uncomfortable, me under his soft and sweaty body, in the front seat, with my seatbelt still on. He got hold of my slip then tried to enter me. “Oh, I am so soft, I have to get hard, I have to, I have to have this, I have to have this”. I felt truly sorry for him. Finally, he came. He rested. Then raised his head and had a look at my half naked body. God, you are so, so perfect. Everything in a tiny case. Like the very mold of a woman.
I got out. He asked me if he could see me again. I said no. I said I paid for the ride. I said I never wanted to see him again. Next day, he was waiting outside. I just passed by him. I saw his miserable face behind the windshield.
I told you this because you said I was such a perfect mold of a woman. Everything in a tiny case. It did not sound so honest. It sounded like a compliment. At forty, such words are compliments. But his words were no compliment. They were a confession about his pitiful life. They were the memories to come, about this thing, my body, that he took. That he stole. Once. Yeah, I did not mind being a thing. It was all right with me. I was a thing. I wanted you to understand that. Your smooth seduction does not work on me. I am a thing. You can take that thing, I give it to you because I love you. I give it to you because I want to have sex with you. You ask what I want. Like oral or anal or that kind of stuff. You say it helps hell of a lot when women have regular sexual lives. They get quiet. They get content. I agree. But what I want is this: help me get rid of this body. Help me get outside. Immaterial. Not content.
