A Woman’s Guide to a Good Rape
Madison Ava Jones
Smashwords Edition
American Taboo Press
Los Angeles
Second International Edition, December 2011
Copyright © 2011 by American Taboo Press
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by American Taboo Press, Los Angeles.
I want to confess that I was raped and tell you how good it felt.
It wasn’t truly a real rape, at least if real means an experience of disgusting horror that ends in a man being locked in prison. But it was real. I deserved it and it was as close to real as a rape artist like myself can get. It was real in the sense that it was one those rare moments when you meet the man who knows how you tick, wants you uncontrollably and will go to extreme ends to take you forcefully the way you want to be taken.
I used to tell my boyfriend in college to pretend to force me into having sex, but it just didn’t work. No matter how much I struggled and pushed him away, both of us always knew that it was all a game and that I really did want it. There was never a point that either of us believed he was forcing himself on me and there was never a point that I really didn’t want it. Plus, he was always afraid to be rough with me. I just gave up the whole rape fantasy, except in my head, where it always played out so much better than in reality. In my mind, the man could never keep himself from trying to subdue me no matter how much I struggled. He wanted me so badly that everything I did made him want me more. It was my own twisted way of controlling the uncontrollable.
But then I met Violet. Violet didn’t belong in proper society. She was the polar opposite of the woman who wants to settle down. She wanted to rage loudly into that good night and didn’t care what other people thought. She was a party girl from a wealthy New York family but had transformed herself into so much more than that. She taught me the fundamentals.
“Don’t waste your time with the white sheep. Go straight for the black sheep.” The white sheep were the masses of average men. The followers. The weak-minded. The unaware. The guys who always travelled in packs. The black sheep were the rare species. The deep thinkers. The strong-minded. The aware. The smart attackers.
“The smart attackers?” I asked her. We were drinking vodka at the bar at Grand Central, looking down at the commuters who streamed across the atrium from all directions.
“The men who would attack you because they know how. The ones who could mentally break you down if they wanted to,” she told me.
“I have no idea what you are talking about Violet. How could you possibly figure that out?”
“It’s in the eyes. The stupid ones just stare at you like stalkers. The good ones look at you like they are planning a war.”
“You are crazy.”
“You’re right. But you’ll learn to be too.”
She was right, but it was one of those moments that only take on their gravity in retrospect. Violet thought in broad strokes that went right pass the normal chit-chat.
“Look at that man eyeing you from across the bar. Classic stalker.”
I turned to see who she was talking about. There were two businessmen across the bar from us. When I turned my head toward them, one of them was glaring at me with this intent, unblinking look in his eyes. It almost made me laugh how true she made it seem.
“So what’s your reoccurring fantasy?” she asked me, moving from one subject to the next in her haphazard fashion.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Your reoccurring fantasy. Every woman has one. That one thing that always slips back into your head in a million variations.”
“I guess that would be the raped in my own apartment one,” I confessed without hesitation.
“Oh, nice,” she responded gleefully. “I love that one too. It’s like playing with fire. Could end up seriously damaged.”
“Damaged?” I asked her.
“Well, yeah. I mean if you chose the wrong one and really did get raped.”
“Chose the wrong one? No, I mean it’s just my fantasy,” I clarified to her.
“Oh, Harper. When are you going to learn? Fantasy is for the white sheep.”
I just shook my head and took a sip of my drink. She talked to me like she was an older, wiser sister instructing me on the ways of real living.
“So you mean you think I should pursue getting raped?” I asked her in disbelief.
“It is your fuck fate. You won’t be satisfied until you get it and if you wait until you are too old, you will regret it. You’ll have no choice but to fantasize.”
“You seriously think I should try to get raped?” I asked her in a loud voice, causing the bartender to look up at us.
“Yes. I think one day, you will be so good at it, you’ll be telling me how to do it.” There was nothing you could tell Violet that didn’t end in her upping the ante somehow.
It was the last thing I remember talking about that day. That was nearly two years ago and she had, of course, been right. I had learned to be damn good at it. But what she wasn’t right about was me telling her about it. She had gone off on an adventure in Africa a few months after the conversation and I had lost contact with her. And who else could I possibly tell about getting raped?
My forages into rape play started with a whimper and ended with a bang. I learned that there are certain men who are better predisposed toward it than others. Wall Street types, politicians and dissatisfied managers tend to love rape play. But the true “black sheep,” as Violet would put it, are the ones who you would never suspect on the surface to be the type.
They are hidden in the world. They might walk on the streets or live in the suburbs. You never know about the black sheep until you get up close to them and see that look in their eyes. Their desire to saturate a woman with their dominating urges is too much for even them to bear. They must find women who willfully want to be sexually annihilated like that and fulfill their own sexual destinies. He could be anyone when it comes down to it. He could be an attorney, an artist, a dentist, a mayor or even a man of faith.
My own early forays into rape play with men were all over the sexual map. I had a tryst with an off-duty cop who could not sustain my constant urges to challenge his authority. There was another with a man who had served in prison. He knew about brute force but my femininity made him break down in tears. He was so overjoyed to be with a woman on the outside that he just wanted to be tender and loving. Men are so interwoven with what they do in life, and how well they are executing that doing, it’s like you have to find the right man at that choice point of his life when he believes he is in control of everything but senses how out of control the world truly is.
My rapist was a livery driver from the UK. He had dropped out of medical school and had come to New York to reinvent himself, in typical American fashion, as a film director. He drove a black Lincoln Town Car for one of the many livery companies in the city to pay his bills. It gave him access to good stories, he told me.
“I like to watch,” he said to me on our very first ride. My initial impression of him came from his dark blue eyes reflected in the rear view mirror. When he said something, he stared straight at the road and casually drove. But after he finished, he would look back to me with a short, penetrating gaze for just a second, and then just as quickly look away. It was as if he wanted to make sure I heard what he said and acknowledged it with my own eyes. It was provocative and subtly controlling.
“This is your first ride with me,” he said.
“Yes,” I responded to his statement. “I mean, I just call the service. I don’t request a particular driver.”
“You should request me next time,” he told me, giving me that same brief glance. The way he said it was more of an instruction then a suggestion.
“Oh, should I? And why’s that?”
“Andrew. I am the only Andrew at the company.” He had coldly ignored my question. He gazed back at me again. “Ok, Harper?” he added after looking over at his call sheet.
A shiver went down my spine. I had hardly been in his car for more than two minutes and I already felt a strange sense of being violated. I knew, at once, that he would be the one. I looked back at his gaze in the rear-view mirror and then looked away without saying anything. I could see him smiling out of the corner of my eye. He was really a cute, smug type of prick.
“So is this your only job?” I asked him condescendingly.
“Yes,” he responded flatly in his British accent. “I left medical school in the UK a year ago. I’m pursuing film directing now.” His eyes rose to give me the rear-view mirror look again.
“How’s that going?”
“Slowly. But I’m a patient man. I know what I’m doing.”
We didn’t say anything else for a few minutes as the car flew up the Hudson Parkway. He broke the silence by asking me if he had the correct address. I confirmed that he did.
“Do you go there frequently?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure how to take the question. “Sometimes,” I told him.
“Is it your boyfriend’s apartment?”
I looked at him in the mirror. “No,” I said coldly. There was a moment of silence.
“That is good,” he said back. I glared back at him but he was now looking straight ahead. We pulled up at the address where I was going. He calmly got out and opened up the car door for me. I glanced at him, standing there in his black jacket and white dress shirt, before getting out. He was definitely a bit psychotic, I thought. When I got out of the car, he placed his hand on the small of my back for a moment as he closed the door. I pretended to ignore it and quickly walked away. I could feel his eyes follow me as I entered the building. I almost thought he was going to follow me right there, but he didn’t.
He was noticeably different than the other men. Up to that point, I had initiated every instance of each play rape, but it had never moved beyond play. I had learned the fine art of bringing it into the conversation after I had been approached by a stranger in a bar, or during a chance meeting somewhere. My variations ran from the subtle to the blunt.
“Do you think no means no?”
“Would you ever follow a woman?”
“What does rough mean to you?”
“Doesn’t that woman over there just look like she’s asking for it?”
“So you don’t think you’re man enough to rape a woman.”
Sometimes it was just too easy to trigger a man’s impulse. You learn to quickly weed out the true violent rapists- the psychopaths with that distant look in their sleep-deprived eyes, the men who just can’t hold any conversation at all and stare at you from a dark corner of the room, the ones who try to control every word of the conversation and don’t seem to even hear you speak… those are the damaged sheep. Stay away from them.
I’ve learned that the most efficient method to cut to the heart of their impulses is to openly flirt with a potential rapist and then turn him down with a cold comment about his inadequacies.
“You’re just not the kind of man who can take charge.” It definitively separates the men who are just angry at women and the men who see through my provocation.
Charles was one of those who passed that test and was my best conquest up to that point. He was a Wall Streeter. I met him at a party in the financial district filled with aggressive investment bankers and hedge funders. Most of them are money showers. Their pricks just want the women to come to their portfolio. Charles was a true aggressor. He spent his time practicing martial arts when he wasn’t working. He was stocky with a shaved head and was a few inches under six feet.
“So does no mean no to you?”
“Words don’t mean much to me. I just see how far a woman really wants to go.”
“And how do you see?”
He didn’t hesitate to respond. “I see how badly she fights it.”
“That’s really offensive,” I told him.
He just stared back at me. “I didn’t say how badly she fights back. I said how badly she fights it.”
I changed the conversation to something else and turned up the game. I acted less interested in what he was saying, but kept casually brushing up against him and touching him.
“I need to leave,” I said abruptly.
“Oh? Where are you going?”
“Back to my hotel room.”
“Are you? Well I’ll take you there.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” I added as I reached over and kissed him on the cheek, pressing my body against his. I turned and walked away. Just before the door, I turned and looked back at him, giving him a hard “fuck me” gaze. He followed me to the street. I was already in the back of a taxi by the time he got there. I rolled the window down as he approached.
“The W Hotel, please,” I told the driver so Charles could hear. I eyed him as the taxi pulled away, giving him a choice between thinking I was a pretentious bitch or a woman just asking for it.
I kept glancing at the side-view mirror to see if he was going to take the bait. He stood outside on the sidewalk for a few seconds with his hands resting on his hips in a frustrated posture, his jacket pushed back in the sexiest of ways. When I took another look in the mirror, I saw his hand shoot up in the air to hail his own taxi. I knew it was on.
“Driver, do you see that man getting in the taxi behind us?”
The driver looked back and confirmed that he did.
“We are playing a little game. Can you make sure he stays close but not too close?” I folded a twenty dollar bill and handed it over the back of the seat to the driver. “I want to make sure he follows me but knows he has to chase me.”
The driver just nodded and then shook his head as if he had already been through many similar schemes involving sex-crazed women in his cab. We dashed up FDR Drive and then he cut over at 34th. The driver zigzagged down random streets toward Lexington, accelerating through yellow lights but then slowing down to let the other vehicle catch up. We both watched as Charles’ taxi, trying to keep its own distance, raced through traffic every time we accelerated and then abruptly slowed down as we moved to the side of the road as if we were going to stop.
My taxi pulled up in front of The W Hotel. I stopped and got out. As I walked through the front door, I could see the reflection in the glass window of him getting out behind me. I didn’t even bother to turn around. I strutted to the front desk and asked for a room for the night.
As I was waiting with my arms perched on the granite counter, I noticed him out of the corner of my eye walking toward me. I casually turned and stared at him. He smirked arrogantly as if he knew he was going to have me all along. I just ignored him and turned back toward the hotel clerk.
“Do you need one key or two?” she asked me.
Suddenly, I felt his hand rest on the small of my back and then glide down the curve of my hips. I immediately looked up at him.
“She only needs one key,” he calmly told the clerk.
“Excuse me. Do I know you?” I interjected brusquely, glaring at him in beautiful faux outrage.
The clerk looked at him, and then back at me, uncertain herself if I was serious.
“I don’t know this man,” I told her bluntly before looking back at Charles.
“Sir, can you please remove your hand from my body,” I bellowed indignantly to him.