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20 January 2006



The question then becomes why I lied to myself and to others, why I manufactured this fiction. And the answer, I think, is that reality was more painful. It hurts more to realize that I cared so little for myself that I repeatedly put myself in these situations where I could and did do things that hurt me emotionally and physically.

I remain constantly fascinated in the various ways we each attempt to impose some sort of narrative structure on our lives in an attempt to understand ourselves. It's a way of explaining ourselves to ourselves and also a way in which we explain ourselves to others.
I think here not just of your story but also of others. Another 16 year old girl might convince herself that actual date rape was "true love" and that she has been "swept away", for example.--a different sort of story that serves different sorts of goals, perhaps, but with the same desire, that of explanation, translation, that of convenient narrative, that of eliminating messy ambiguity too.

I wish I could pick up the phone and call the 16 year old you to tell you how lovely and rare you were and are, how worthy of love and respect, how worthy you are of care-taking.


Hi... I'm Chris. I remember that night sort of anyway. What I remember most is that it was COLD! Beyond that I really don't remember anything else. Sorry about that. Just kidding, I enjoy your blog.


This is one of my favorite posts of yours so far. It's very naked and I identify with a lot of the feelings you express. O said it best and I have to agree. I wish I could call your 16 year old self and mine and tell them to find forgiveness for the things that they hold against themselves, and that they are worthy of more than they allow. The pain you feel now is lingering pain from then. I've found it's best to open the door to fault, both yours and not, and love and learn from it.

You rock, Babe, never forget it...


A fantastic post, and one that had to have been difficult for you. I, too, wish I could all the younger you and talk about things (but in 78 I was only twelve, and it sounds like you weren't that into younger men at the time)

Take care of you..

Raschied Britannica

Seems to me, CG, that the rapist(s) were the ones that took your self esteem away long before this incident. Maybe I haven't read deep enough into the archives, but if you haven't talked about it, I'd like to hear more.

I've been the guy in this morality play before, and in my case, I didn't have a clue I was doing anything wrong. She was the aggressor, we were both drunk, and I didn't find out 'til later that she was 14(!) and I was her first. (I was 17 at the time.) Confronting her later and apologizing just made her angry and she didn't want to speak to me again. Reading this makes me wonder if she did the same as you.


Good writing. Thanks!

Karl Elvis

You know, I think you're my favorite blogger in the whole world.


Such an honest and open post - maybe by telling yourself it was unwilling was actually recognising the part of you that was sorry it was done, and the part of you that was ashamed....

There seems to be so much importance attached to 'losing one's virginity' and sometimes the bathos of the situation is so unexpected....

I found this really powerful - thank you,



There's a dissertation or several in there to consider all the angles. But 'Swept Away' is already a book about parts of the topic. But a great and complex post CG, thanks. Cheers, 'VJ'


I love your writing.



I love this story, you have peeled away so many layers of the date-rape experience that usually don't get exposed. And please please hug that scared sixteen-year-old you for me, she turned out pretty great after all.

I was date-raped at eighteen, early in my freshman year in college. I've mythologized it every which way over the years since: It was awful, it was trivial; he was a bastard, I was asking for it; it was violent, I let him; it was horrible, it was hot; poor pitiful me I'm a born victim, HA you can't rape a wet cunt, boys, bring it on! Sigh.

Actually it was some of all those things. It wasn't very traumatic, he was pretty sweet about it afterwards, it was pretty hot, I was barely bruised the next day and he sent me roses, he correctly read my body language, which was saying *yes yes yes*, ignoring my no-no-no lips, I *was* asking for it even as I was denying it, within an hour I was getting properly yes-fucked instead of no-fucked, and then I even *dated* him for a couple of months. All over the map, huh? I know I got incredibly lucky. I didn't get traumatized or have to go all self-righteous "rape survivor," I didn't become afraid of sex or rough sex or men or even rough sex with rough men, and I learned a little more about what a slut I am. Maybe I should send *him* roses...

tom paine

Sad that men can celebrate casual sex, but that women feel compelled to have some level of intimacy, or else believe they were "coerced" into it. C. used to say I "pressured" her into encounters with other women, ignoring the orgasms I witnessed with my own eyes. Fictions are how we cope with the disjunction between what we think happened and what we want to have happened.

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