When I wrote about men who are raped by women, for Details magazine in 2004, it caught the eye of Bill O'Reilly, who discussed it on his show. He hushed me and called me "sexy," as in "You got this, sexy." He covered my sobbing mouth with his hands. What he didn't know was when to listen to me saying "no," when to stop, when to realise that my kicking and punching and shoving and screaming and writhing was not just some sick roleplay while he blasted Lady Gaga's I Like It Rough.
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He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to stimulate me. The sex itself was - I can't really say it was "good," because that's far too moral of a word and far more than he deserves, but it was highly skilled. There was nothing about him that was "rapey" (a word I detest). He was handsome: 30, well-built, tall with long black hair, a surfer's laugh, and great taste in X-Men (Gambit). I had met him a few weeks earlier at a house party, and we had hit it off. He moved out soon afterward, which helped erase the existence of that place for me. Every addition to the tally meant I was one moment closer to the end. Eyes squeezed shut, the tally was the only thing I focused on at times - like a ticking clock in a solitary confinement cell. By weekend's end, it was 17 times, according to my fog-of-war count.
I had received anal sex twice in my life before that night. Sometimes I think I never left his apartment, that someone who merely looks and sounds like me walked out. I spent the weekend - about 60 hours - semi-conscious and didn't leave his apartment until Monday morning. Later came several more druggings, as he held Gatorade up to my limp lips with who-knows-what mixed in. "I said G." He meant GHB, gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, commonly known as the date-rape drug. So I drank it and it was a bit sharp but really delicious, like tart watermelon. Then he pouted, comically and even adorably: "But I made it just for us." "Gin!" I thought he said, more excitedly than he should have. I laughed and, holding the towel around my waist in one hand and the shot glass in the other, I looked at it. I felt sore and had just taken a shower to rid the bus experience from my skin. It was already 9:45 p.m on a Friday last summer.
I had been on a long, gruelling bus ride up from Washington, D.C., to his apartment in New York.