Asking For It? A.V. Walters–
Billy and I were assigned for the same two days off, a near miracle in our heavy summer schedule at the restaurant where we both worked. We planned it all, hiking and fishing, evenings with friends. Since I had pulled the late shift for our “Friday,” we agreed to meet at his place after I finished. He lived in a little studio in the upstairs of his sister’s summer cottage. I arrived just after our 9:30 meeting time but there was nobody there. I waited outside on the porch for a while, but the mosquitoes were biting. The short sleeves of my little German dirndl waitress outfit, didn’t offer much protection in the cooling summer evening, so I let myself in and went upstairs.
His room was sparsely furnished, a daybed that served both as a sofa and for sleeping, an end table with a alarm clock and a small table with a couple of chairs. I sat down at the table to wait. After about twenty minutes of clock watching, I got up and flipped through the books on his end table. I selected an anthology of sci-fi short stories and settled onto the daybed to read. After a couple of chapters, I dozed.
I heard him stumbling up the stairs, and could smell him, even before I opened my eyes. He was wildly drunk. Even from across the room I couldn’t avoid the rank stench of sweat and stale beer. I glanced at the alarm-clock, radium hands glowed just past midnight. Billy flipped on the light and I flinched in the glare.
“Hey babe, there you are,” he slurred. “Been looking for ya.”
“I’m right where I said I’d be. I guess you’ve been at the bar.” I was peeved, and my voice didn’t hide it.
“Aw, don’t be mad. It’s our weekend. Time to party.” He came over and sat next to me on the daybed. He didn’t smell any better close up.
“Jesus, Billy, what the hell have you been drinking? You smell like a brewery.”
“Beer and shots—I kept winning rounds at the pool table…” He stooped to kiss me, but I pushed him back, mostly because his breath was so rank. “Don’t be a party-pooper, it’s our weekend.”
“Jeez. Go brush your teeth.”
He swung his leg over me, straddling me. He leaned towards me and blew in my face, laughing. I turned my face away, nearly gagging, and put my hand up to ward him off. He slapped my hand away and resumed blowing. In no mood for his antics, I put my hand up again to deflect his breath. Rougher this time, Billy grabbed my arm and pinned it under his knee. He leaned right up to my face and huffed his stale breath my way.
“Billy!” I pushed him with my free hand, “Stop it.”
He laughed again, “Ya gonna make me?” He pushed his face into mine for a long slobbering kiss. Even with my face turned I couldn’t avoid it. Billy outweighed me by forty pounds and was a lot stronger. He grabbed my free hand and held it against the bed frame above my head. With his other hand, he grabbed my chin and pulled my face straight, then kissed me again, this time with his tongue in my mouth. I jerked my face free, gasping and he laughed.
He let go of my face and started rubbing his hand on my breast, “I missed you tonight.”
“Billy, stop, just stop.”
“We got big plans for the weekend, remember?” He unbuttoned and then unzipped his jeans, reaching in and stroking himself. He leaned over for another kiss, but again, I turned my head.
“Billy, let me go. You’re drunk.”
“Not too drunk. You’ll see.” He leaned in for another kiss. I felt his weight shift and squirmed, trying to throw him off of me.
Light flashed across my closed eye, as my cheekbone and brow exploded in pain. I screamed and opened my eyes to see him pull his fist back for another blow. I tried to roll my head out of its path, but his fist found my jaw. Pinned in, there was nothing I could do. This was going to happen. The third punch convinced me. It split my lip over my incisor. I was no match and he was just going to batter me into submission. I went completely limp—but took one final blow before he had registered my surrender.
“That’s a girl, there we go.” He pulled the skirt of my uniform up over my face and wrenched my panties to my knees. He wrestled me into position and took what he wanted. I stayed limp and unresponsive.
When the grunting and heavy breathing were over, he started giggling. “Where are you?” as he pulled the skirt down off my face. “There’s my girl. Not so bad, after all.” He kissed me and stroked my hair. I retched. Billy leaned his head in the crook of my shoulder and rocked. “There, there.” Soon, he relaxed and his full weight settled on me as he started to snore.
After several attempts to push him off, I rolled him towards the wall and extracted myself from under him. He never woke up. Shaking, I straightened my clothing and stole down the steps and out into the night. It was only a couple of blocks home.
I stayed up all night, icing my face and pondering what to do over cups of hot tea. I never wanted to see Billy again. I was clear on what had happened, and who was wrong. The only question was whether I should go to the police. I weighed the evidence. We were boyfriend and girlfriend. We’d had sex before. It happened in his studio, where I’d gone willingly to meet him. He was drunk. Neither of us was “local” and with the summer season winding down, we were both about to leave town. The only evidence of a crime was my swollen and bruised face. I knew it was my word against his, and that they’d never pursue charges.
At dawn, I showered and dressed for hiking. I didn’t want to be around when Billy came for the rest of “our weekend together.” I stayed away that day, and most of the rest. If I wasn’t going to press charges, I wanted away. I wanted peace. I didn’t want anyone to know. I was afraid that if my father discovered what had happened, he might kill Billy.
At the end of that second day, I covered my bruises with make-up and went down to the restaurant to quit. I kept my eyes down, the swollen side turned away, “I’ve decided to head downstate early, to get ready for school.”
The owner shook her head. “You know, we were kind of counting on you to work through color.”
“I’m sorry. I’m a transfer student this year. I think I need to get my bearings.”
She eyed me and put her hand on my forearm, “You know, we could just fire him.”
My eyes filled with tears and I waved my hands, “No, no, I’ve just got to leave, got to get out of here.” She nodded and I left.
From the moment the first blow landed, I knew that Billy was a monster. Drinking may have clouded his judgment, but it didn’t change who he was and what he could do. I never questioned myself. It was so clear whose fault it was, that I was relieved of any guilt or self-doubt. It wasn’t about me. I was lucky to get away. Mostly I felt unscathed by it. I didn’t dwell on it; I didn’t talk about it. It didn’t interfere with my sense of personal safety, or factor into my relationships. For almost two decades, I never even said the word out loud—raped. I knew that by most measures I was lucky that I didn’t carry baggage over it. That was, until June, when George Will wrote that column.
In his infinite wisdom, George Will criticized government actions to make college campuses safer. He opined that rape-victimhood had become a coveted status that confers privileges. How dare he? He, who has the ear of the nation, but knows nothing of the facts, how dare he malign the victims of rape? I am not a violent person. I’m not one given to the solace of revenge, but on that day in June, I desperately wanted someone to do to George Will what Billy had done to me. Rape is not a club. It’s not a coveted status on campus, or anywhere else.
We have a rape culture in this country, one that favors the perpetrators of the crime. It’s evident in the pointed questions that arise after a rape is reported— Was she drinking? What was she wearing? What was she thinking? Did she lead him on? Well, what did she expect? Blame the victim—Boys will be boys, after all. I guess she just changed her mind about having sex with him. She’s only trying to ruin his reputation. She’s just looking for attention.
No, you assholes. Given how victims are treated, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that most rapes remain unreported. Victims do the math, like I did, and know that the game is rigged against them. All you have to do is watch the news to know it’s easier, and less painful, to let it go. (Why would anyone want to be violated, twice?) I left town.
If I have any guilt, it’s survivor guilt. He got away with it. Did Billy go on to assault other women? Would a conviction have made a difference? I’ll never know. He was so drunk, I don’t even know if Billy knows that he’d raped me. I do know that nothing will change until the culture changes. We need a culture of respect and affirmative consent. We need to teach young men responsibility for their actions. I don’t laugh at rape jokes—but I see them telling them on the news.
It’s been nearly four decades, why bring it up now? Because nothing has changed! Yes, George back-pedaled later, admitting that he thinks recovery services are appropriate in cases of “real” rape. And we’re regaled by politicians and pundits who make exceptions for “legitimate” rape—in terms of victims’ rights. How is that helpful? Of course, any rape allegation will be challenged and have to be proven in court. It’s clear that the victims of sexual assault will be subjected to the same pre-screening, prosecutorial gauntlet that has always existed, and that prevents so many from speaking up. What exactly was the lesson of Steubenville?
So, yes, when more than one victim speaks up, it empowers others—not because their claims aren’t legitimate, but because victims have no expectation that their lone voices will be heard. So I add my voice in hopes that when our numbers are realized, society will be forced to rethink the gauntlet.
Meanwhile, the media idiots on Fox, in particular, are lining up to reinforce the women-hating status quo. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it from men, who have mothers, wives, sisters and daughters, and still feel it’s simply about sex, about titillation and about keeping score. It’s not. It’s a depraved, violent crime against women. It’s about power and control and entitlement.
And, I certainly don’t understand the women who spew the same victim-blaming blather—and I mean you, Ann Coulter, you and your ilk. Go ahead, line right up with the rape apologists and media whores. You must live in a magic bubble where you’ve never had to deal with the unwelcome advances of men. You help to create the atmosphere of denial that lets men believe they’re not responsible. I guess we’ll all take comfort in knowing that if you’re ever confronted by a rapist, you must have asked for it and, if you have the gall to report it, you’re just looking for attention.
tworockchronicles 
And your mind never lets the details escape even after four decades… I still remember the manager who assaulted me at my first job, lots of groping, pinning me down etc. Do I remember the scumbag’s name, you betcha I do. And he was married and had a kid!
And let me add a tidbit to your life experience you shared. A husband can also be guilty of rape. I know you didn’t know that as a teenager, and I understand your deductions of the situation fully, but for any woman coming across this post, I just wanted to make that point too.
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Some memories just won’t fade-even if today you cannot find your damned keys. While I wouldn’t have thought of marital rape at the time, I note that, in most states at the time there was no such thing as marital rape (as a crime.) Sadly, in some states there still isn’t. I guess it’s just too simple to label non-consensual sex as a crime.
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What a horrible experience. It’s frightening to know there are ‘Billy’s’ all over the world who get away with these acts of violence. I haven’t read George Will’s column (I don’t even know who he is, thank god) but I can just imagine – a ‘good old boys’ reaction written by an ignorant deadshit.
Sending you hugs xxxx
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Unfortunately, Will is a “thinking man’s conservative.” But for all that thinking, he still got it wrong on every level. I guess thinking only works if you first set aside your preconceived notions, biases and privilege. Don’t know if the problem stems from “thinking,” from “man,” or from “conservative.”
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This post makes me angry. Perhaps it isn’t the right reaction, but I imagine someone beating Billy senseless with a baseball bat and it makes me feel better. How do we stop this? I’m an idealist. I like to believe that with moral suasion we can draw the goodness in people in part by revealing the things that are wrong and the wrong-thinking that leads to them. Your post and other stories like it will hopefully be part of the solution.
I don’t know if it is an appropriate response to your post, but I am also reminded of something a friend posted on Facebook recently that I thought I’d share. Peace.
“Survivors of sexual violence need to ACT UP (a love letter to future sexual assault survivors).
Although the reminiscence is painful, in reading about the crisis of sexual violence on college campuses, I think back to the dark early days of the AIDS crisis in the mid-80’s. There was a serious stigma attached to AIDS ‘victims’ in those days – not just from evangelical preachers who announced AIDS as God’s punishment for sinful homosexual behavior – but stigma also from friends, family, co-workers, and, sadly, from peers in the gay community who were terrified of getting infected themselves. Men who developed AIDS isolated themselves into the shadows to perish alone rather than face almost certain rejection were they to reveal their affliction. Think Rock Hudson. Think Freddie Mercury. Think Liberace, for God’s sake!
A group of incredibly courageous men came to recognize that Silence=Death, and they began to agitate, protest, and demand additional funding for AIDS research and care. Their numbers swelled as the activism gave meaning to the final days of these men’s lives. Soon, those of us spared infection rallied around them, and before we knew it AIDS quilt panels filled the length and breadth of the National Mall. We celebrated the lives of our fallen comrades rather than hiding them from view, ashamed of our own orientations. Eventually, AIDS funding increased, drug cocktails were developed and became more effective, and being diagnosed HIV positive ceased to be a death sentence.
But our activism did not disappear along with the once-ubiquitous obituaries. We kept agitating, protesting, persuading, campaigning, and suing. It took a while, but today gays and lesbians serve out and proud in the military, and we are on the cusp of marriage equality nationwide.
Rape culture will continue to thrive until its survivors summon the same incredible courage demonstrated by those early AIDS patients. Sisters, you need to rise above the stigma, the shame, the fear – and focus on one thing only: the next woman! You need to speak up, report, and accuse – immediately after the crime occurs when the evidence is still fresh – not a year later when you feel less fragile. For some of you, this will be the hardest thing you will ever do in your lives. This burden is NOT fair, but the truth is only you have the power to crush rape culture. The campus community will come around and support your struggle. Not every violator will go to jail, but many will be expelled from school and most will be ostracized socially – especially from fraternities that will not want to be stigmatized as rape houses. Eventually, these bullies will be the ones who fear being stigmatized as rapists even as bullies today fear being stigmatized as homophobic. And, unlike those brave men from the early days of AIDS, you will live!! You will have time to heal, and reflect, and you will grow proud and confident that you did everything in your power to put that bastard away – and in so doing, changed the culture!!
One day, the notion of sexual assault on campus will be unthinkable! Does that sound far-fetched? HA! Imagine how far-fetched, how utterly absurd, how surreal, how downright dangerous (because it would get your ass kicked) was the notion of same-sex marriage thirty years ago. And yet, here I am, picking out rings for my nuptials in two weeks – IN VIRGINIA!!!
Dare to dream – and then, ACT UP!!!”
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I agree with the ACT UP concept. The only problem is the lack of pre-existing social cohort. In the early days of the AIDS crisis, there was an existing gay community. Rape victims are usually young women, who are traumatized alone and then fearful. I was an exception, in that my decision not to prosecute was based on the probabilities of success–and not on the overt bullying of some police officer. So it is difficult to engender that support community for survivors.
More importantly, I’d like the solutions to come earlier than that–more along the lines of prevention. We need to look at how we raise boys! Rape is a power crime. It’s an expression of frustration combined with a complex of sexual entitlement. Much like the fact that violence is a crime of frustration. Studies show that increasing vocabulary before the age of five dramatically reduces frustration and impulsive behaviors–surely, the combination of early education and exposure to a culture of mutual respect would make a difference. Then, intervention in young mens’ development–to enhance mutual respect and minimize the most dangerous “frat” mentalities, could go even further. Sports teams, military training, college orientation should all emphasize mutual respect and self control. It’s not enough to push abstinence–we must teach all people productive ways of dealing with frustration and anger. Only this can really change the rape culture. Violence against women is a symptom of a deeper problem–viewing women as lesser. We see it everywhere, in our advertising, in the social diminishment of bright girls or independent women (not feminine enough), in the failure to respect boundaries (remember George Bush giving Angela Merkl the unwelcome shoulder rub).
The punishment angle is also important–but it should catch the outliers, rather than serve as an attempt to contain an otherwise rampant culture of violence, disrespect and frustration.
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Yes. Well said and I’m in full agreement.
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