You’d be surprised how many women fantasize about rape. Not a majority, but more than I even used to think. We don’t like to talk about it. Why? Rape isn’t just taboo. A confession that I fantasize about rape would give all kinds of fodder to the alt-right. Most people wouldn’t understand. Only judge. People excel at judgment. And yet I’m going to write about it. Because I’m drunk, and I believe in busting taboos whenever possible.
I’ve fantasized about rape since puberty, but the past decade or so I’ve gotten really good at it. Imagine. I’m walking home from my office at night when I notice a dark figure lurking on the edge of my vision. I turn, he’s gone. A few minutes later, I’m climbing into my car. A tall, handsome man appears behind me. He grabs me by the hair and wrenches the keys from my hand. “I want you,” he whispers in my ear. “And I’m going to have you.”
With a knife against my back, he walks me toward an empty office. He stands with his knife held mid-air, telling me to undress. I do as he says. Every layer of clothing I remove makes him smirk. “Good,” he says, “now your bra.”
When I’m nude, he places his knife in his pocket and appraises me. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”
The man comes closer, places a hand at my back and strokes my cheek. “Amazing,” he breathes. “Whoever made you did an excellent job.” At first, I resist. But his strength wears me down quickly. He retrieves his knife. The blade traces my flesh, and I freeze. I’m too scared to move. The cold metal makes me shiver.
There’s a warmth in this eyes, though, that eases my terror. I’ve been watching him, following his gaze along my body. He looks like a young Harrison Ford.
By now, we can hardly call my fantasy rape anymore. He tosses down his weapon and bends me over the desk. As he enters me, I smile to myself and watch the knife wobble to the rhythm of our love-making.
Real rape is never sexy. But why does fake rape turn us on so much? Some would say power and control. That makes sense. I’m a moderately successful college professor. I’m an associate chair. I have power. I also exercise discipline over every aspect of my life. You might even call me a control freak.
But during sex, I prefer someone else to take charge. I’m submissive in bed. Being controlled, bossed around, slightly degraded. It turns me on because it’s new and different. Strange. By entering into victimhood, I’m voluntarily giving up control over myself. I’m giving my body to someone else.
These deepest fantasies play out mainly in my head. I’ve never done a full rape play with my spouse. I’ve done it a few times on Second Life, with enormous success.
Actually, power might have nothing to do with sex. Appetite drives us in bed. Fetishes are like ice cream flavors. We all have our favorites. Some of us like to blend them.
We hunger for what we don’t have. That’s human nature. Why would sex differ? I have power and control over my life. Always have, even when I was hiding from my mom in a closet. I fantasize about losing that power.
Gang rape holds a special place in my heart. Let’s say I’m riding a subway home late at night. A group of cute guys keep glancing at me while I’m scrolling my tablet. One of them tries to strike up a conversation with me, and I politely ignore him. His friends soon join. They mix compliments with vulgar insults. They talk to each other about me in the third person. “She’s a cutie,” one of them says. “Best one I’ve seen all day. What do you think her pussy looks like?”
When I stand to leave, they surround me. Before I know it, their hands are all over me. I can’t get away. The more I struggle, the faster my heart pumps, the more futile it seems. “Just relax, baby. We’re gonna take real good care of you.”
One of them shows me a gun. So I accompany them back to their apartment, where I become a sort of call girl. Except I’m not working for money. I’m working for my life. They take turns all night. Finally, they promise to let me go if I do one last favor for them. They want me to lay on the floor and pleasure myself while they make a film. One of them hovers over me, snapping pictures.
The highlight of this little fantasy? I’m the center of attention. Am I trapped here, or have I trapped them?
At dawn, I’m released. Soon after, the pictures of me flood the Internet. A video of me goes viral.
For days, I can’t even order at Starbucks without overhearing random strangers talk about me. “Hey, that’s her. The girl from Pornhub. Man, that video has a hundred thousand likes. She’s even hotter in clothes!” The humiliation is complete. Except it’s a fantasy, so the humiliation is fake, even gratifying.
Rape fantasy comes with a fair amount of guilt. Am I a bad feminist by fantasizing about it? These kinds of things happen to real women, and it’s shameful. Is there something wrong with me for fantasizing about such traumatic events? I wondered if I should even write this post. It might inflame sexists and feminists alike. They’ll storm my blog and take me hostage. Maybe they’ll tie me up and punish me somehow. Even spank me? Maybe a sexist-feminist gang bang party in my honor? I’d better stop. I’m starting to arouse myself.
Maybe women shouldn’t feel that guilty for fantasizing about rape. You shouldn’t have to apologize for your sexuality. It’s yours. In fact, guilt-tripping someone for fantasizing about rape might qualify as contributing to rape culture. Blame women for their fantasies. Use them to justify the actual rapes that men commit and brag about. See? They really do want it! No means yes after all!
Keeping rape in the realm of fantasy, recognizing its risks and possible perversions, harms nobody. What does hurt our culture? Normalizing rape. There’s a big difference between personally getting off to a light rape fantasy and blaming women for actual rapes, pressuring them into silence, giving convicted rapists extra light sentences because they’re on the swim team. Or maybe I’m just rationalizing. Maybe I should see a therapist. Know any good ones?