martedì 23 aprile 2013

summer 2005.

i had totaled my car and i needed a ride home from the drawing class i worked as a model for. you were the professor. you offered to take me home. i said yes. you offered to take me to pazzo's pizza before taking me home, and i agreed. you ordered a pitcher of beer. i thought that was cool because i'd never had beer in a restaurant before. i was 19.
you said you felt it your job to protect the models from 'looky-loo's,' men who tried to sneak peeks of the naked girls when they weren't even in the class. i felt safe with you. you were funny too. you offered to burn me a CD of music from a band whose song i'd played during a class you were monitoring for. i said ok, and you took me to your shitty university-provided apartment, to burn it for me.

you offered me a beer from your fridge. i was sitting on your couch in this tiny one room apartment. the couch also functioned as your bed. i see the CD on the table with your messy handwriting on it. i see your big white computer monitor across the room on a table.

then i black out.

then i woke up. you were on top of me, you were kissing me. then i realized your fingers were inside of me.

i was panicked. like WTF. i was never attracted to you. not even a little. i just wanted to get a ride home. you were nice and bought me beer. you had music i liked so that was cool. and wtf why am i asleep and why are you inside me.

those thoughts raced through, next second i am running with my cell phone out of your apartment down the block to the end of the complex. i hide behind a dumpster and dial all of my friends to come get me. nobody will answer. i am waiting out there for hours. finally an acquaintance whose number i had comes to get me. once he arrives i feel safe enough to run inside and grab my guitar - my most prized possession, and leave.

you called me several times after that. i was too mortified to speak. even when i finally answered, and you asked 'what did i do?'

i was too mortified to speak.

when i told ross zirkle, the head of drawing classes, that i could no longer model for any session you would be in, he understood. he said you would never again be in the same room as me while i was modeling nude.

i couldn't stand the thought of you
A) being in the same room as me and
B) having the privilege of seeing my naked body.

i didn't tell him what happened. i was too mortified to speak.

a year later ross got sick with cancer. he'd been teaching a woodblock printing class i was taking in the summer. i heard you were going to be the substitute for the rest of the year. the hell if i would be in your class. be in the same room as you. your disgusting demented drawings depicting yourself in portrait, the twisted garish features, with beautiful busty young women, had haunted me all summer already.

i went to ben withers, chair of the art department. i told him i could never be in the same room as you. i don't remember what i said, but i know i didn't make anything up to cover the truth. i didn't tell him what you did to me. i was too mortified to speak the truth.

it stayed under my conscious like a cancer for eight years. for a short time after it happened, it bobbed its nasty head when i would see you around the building. i was terrified of you. eventually i told a few friends what you did to me. i said you tried. to rape me. in my mind that was all it was. an attempted rape. if i hadn't woken up of course you'dve gotten your dick in me. i woke up just in the nick of time. what the hell were you doing trying to get with me while i was asleep anyhow... and why the hell was i asleep?

i didn't even think these questions until years later. years and years and years later they came to focus under a microscope that had been building in my brain through eight more summers, eight winters, eight springs and eight falls.

then jerielle sat at my kitchen table. lamenting that she saw you out at a gallery hop. 'he disgusts me,' she said.

and i remembered then. i remembered why you disgust me, too.

because you are disgusting. you are a fucking creep. you god damn fucking raped me. i'm old enough now to know better. rape is any kind of unwanted sexual contact. just because you didn't get your dick in me (i woke up too fucking soon) does not mean you're not a rapist.

you are a fucking rapist.
you are a fucking rapist.
you're a fucking rapist and i'm taking your ass down.

you better thank your stars i'm not a violent person. i'd have to slowly macerate you, chop you bit by bit and keep you alive as long as i could.
just to show you what you've done to me. just to demonstrate the monstrosity.

because you're walking around this earth like you're just fine. like it doesn't matter, like it was my fault, like i fucking WANTED IT YOU TOLD THE POLICE you fucking liar. you fucking liar.

i may have been blacked out. completely. but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that this beautiful young ambitious apparently-too-polite girl who should have never given you to the time of the god damn day, would never EVER get down with a boy like you. you were too ugly. i'm not sorry. that's the god damned truth. you were too ugly and too old for me, but mostly just too ugly.

and now you're a fucking rapist. too. god what a winner. your girlfriend, your former student? fuck i wish she could know. when i'm done with this, she will. everyone will know. you're a fucking rapist and you raped me. it was not my fault. what the fuck did you do to me anyway? you HAD to have used a drug in that drink. there was no knot on my head the next day, no signs of battery.

you MUST have put something in that drink.

sabato 20 aprile 2013

dead man walking.

mother fucker you better watch your back. mother fucker i am taking you down. i am taking you out. it's the end for you.

enjoy these last days of freedom. dead man fucking walking.

they will know the truth. you are a fucking rapist. you are a fucking sicko. you are a fucking creep and you are going down.