Chapter Five - Paul B.

I met Paul through some friends. He was a computer genius that was into all the same local music all of us were. He was quite a bit older and I don't really recall ever showing any interest in the guy. But, he was the guy with the biggest car - a 1960-something sedan that would hold, like, 12 people - so he was always willing to drive, so we saw each other a lot.

Paul wasn't a love interest; he was a "date" rapist, although there was never any date involved. So, does that just make him a straight-up rapist? I suppose.

On his 21st birthday, he asked if he could stop by and bring me a piece of cake and some champagne. We were both night people; he worked graveyard at some oil company in their IT department, and I just had my days backwards. He showed up at about 11pm and came in with cake and a bottle of champagne. I had no intention of drinking any of it, either. I've always gotten terrible headaches from just one glass. At that time, I wasn't a big drinker anyway and, when I did, it was usually just beer or wine coolers.

However, I brought in one glass and two plates. We ate cake and he poured some champagne. He was drinking out of the bottle and told me that glass was for me. Only it was really more like a tumbler, not really a glass. I figured, "What the hell...it's Moet, not Korbel!" We talked about just random stuff, some bands coming up that we wanted to see, gossiped about friends...you know...nothing of substance.

As it turned out, I got pretty drunk and told him it was time for him to go. He said it was fine, and he picked his stuff up and started to leave. I told him to let himself out and, very quickly after that, I passed out.

I don't know if he ever even really left, or if he left and came back, but I woke up with him on top of me, damned near beating the hell out of me. I weighed all of 90 pounds. Paul was skinny, but over 6 feet tall. I tried pushing him, I tried fighting, but he got what he wanted before I was able to do too much about it.

I could have screamed, I could have yelled until my father came running, gun in hand. In my shock, I actually thought *I* would be the one to get in trouble because I was drunk. I wasn't thinking straight at all.

As soon as he was done, he got up, zipped up his jeans, said, "Thanks. See ya around," and walked out of my house, leaving me in a limp huddle, crying uncontrollably but silently. The very next thing I did was vomit a few times - more from disgust, not drunkenness - take a shower, and pass out in the bathtub.
Like most young women, it went unreported. I felt ashamed that I could have let it happen. I felt guilty because I let him into my home. It was my fault, right? Having a 21-year old guy come over at that hour of the night, even if I thought he was a good friend, was a foolish mistake, and it was my bad judgment that caused that situation, right?

Apparently, like most guys who do that type of thing, he didn't think he'd done anything wrong. Any time I saw him out somewhere, he acted all friendly with me, as if nothing had happened. My friends had no clue why I refused to go anywhere with him, although they suspected something pretty bad had happened between us because I refused to discuss it.

You would think that I'd learned a lesson from that. I didn't. As you already know if you've been a longtime reader, I continue to put myself in risky situations.

He took something from me. When he left my house that night, he took my Give-A-Shit. In the 4 people I'd slept with, the 'relationships' ran the gamut of circumstances. I guess I felt like, at that point, sex really meant nothing at all. If it was so easy for someone to get that from me, regardless of the method, then it must not be that special after all, right? That was a turning point for me. I realized that the giving and withholding of sex gave me a sick amount of power. He'd stripped me of my dignity so there was no point in trying to recover it. Or so I thought.

That previous paragraph was sort of a revelation. I hadn't really analyzed what had happened; I'd pretty much just skipped over it and never dealt with it. Never talked to my shrinks about it, never really talked about it with anyone. I guess I just figured some stuff out, huh?

Where is he now? Beats me. After I told my friends I never wanted anything to do with him ever again, I didn't see him again. Somebody gave me an update on him awhile back, I think, but it might have been about someone else. Really, any time someone would speak his name, I'd tune out.

So, I'm not sure if he should be listed here, but he is. Because it happened, and it still counts. Just not in the good way. For the record, I was raped again several years later. Someone followed me up to my apartment when I left the pool. He came in the door and attacked me. My roommate came in - just a few seconds too late to prevent the actual rape part - but she scared him off and he ran away. Again, I never reported it again. I didn't get a very good look at his face and neither did she. I had no idea who he was, so what was the point? That event, however, is probably what gave me a huge aversion to very dark-haired men. It makes my skin crawl. No matter who it is, how nice they are, that's all I can think about.

And that's the end of that. Time to move on.

Next up: Mike S

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