Why yes, you do hate women.
Ps: a little story,
(This story may trigger PTSD symptoms in some people)
Twenty-seven evenings ago a college junior was walking with her date to the local scene club. Her date was not a stranger to her. They had gone on a few dates previous. She really enjoyed his company, and certainly she was attracted to him, as evidenced by the enthusiastic head she had given him at the end of their last date. No doubt this junior and her soon-to-graduate date were well on their way to becoming serious.
They get to the club. Our junior is quite the dancer (having had dance lessons since preschool), and her date keeps up rather well. They see a few mutual friends and sit in the back to have a drink and some conversation. She sips on a margarita and throws her head back with laughter as her friend tells a joke. The senior rests his hand gently on her thigh and somewhat loudly whispers in her ear how beautiful she looks when she laughs. Our junior beams the biggest smile right back at him. They throw back one more drink each, just barely feeling buzzed before thy get up to dance again.
They dance for another hour before they head back to his apartment. The campus dorm she lives on is not quite walking distance and he has a car. They agree he will drive her home after they are certain the couple of drinks have worn off. At his apartment he plays a couple slower CD’s at a low volume as they sit and make out on his couch. Things are pretty intense as they pet and kiss and pant together. His cock is hard and her panties are beginning to moisten with anticipation when she tells him that she is not quite ready to fuck him yet. “We can do what we did last time if you want but I am still getting over a pretty intense relationship, and I am not quite ready for anything more.” Her date composes himself and tells her they can just talk if she wants. They sit back and chat, the music serving as both a conversation piece as well as ambiance.
Her date offers her a drink and she chooses some orange juice from his list. He puts a little white power in her drink as he pours it. She notices a slight salty taste, but he blames the taste on the fact the juice was an off brand. She tells him that she is thankful, that he is so respectful of her wishes. She has had experience in the past where guys put too much pressure. He tells he her would never be so cruel. She leans over to kiss him again, and he can tell by her exaggerated movements that the GHB he slipped into her drink is starting to take effect.
“I really like you,” he says, the words broken apart through their kisses. She thinks how much she likes him while she starts to be aware of a slight dizzy feeling. He hadn’t given her much of the power, still unsure if it would just make her pass out. In her case it was enough to be aware that something was happening without being able to define it exactly. She tells him that she doesn’t feel exactly right and wants to lay down. She goes to the bedroom where she blew him a week ago. She lays down and he sits on the bed and starts petting her hair as she starts to fall asleep. She is in and out of sleep as his hands start pulling of her clothes. She tells him no, and he whispers to her that he is just making her comfortable. She is now down to her bra and panties.
There are flashes of reality from time to time as she remembers the taste of his sweat dripping in her mouth from the hand silencing her screams. She can’t quite remember when he first started fucking her, that last certain memory had her panties still on but it was very real now. “Shit he is raping me,” she thinks. Why else would he be covering my mouth? She can’t actually remember the scream she gave that caused him to cover it in the first place. He mind rushes to all sorts of random memories trying to access what she is supposed to do in the case of rape. Does she fight? Does she not fight. Instead, she ends up lost in a debate whether rape sex is supposed to feel good like regular sex. This certainly didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to.
He finishes inside her before her mental debate is fully settled. He tells her that she started it, and she can’t necessarily remember enough to know if she did. He gives her the clothes he removed just an hour before. There are tears rolling out of her eyes as she asks if he can drive her home. He doesn’t look at the girl he just raped, but he says yes. The drugs are still in effect when she gets back to her dorm. She fumbles repeatedly with her key, and when the lock gives, she collapses in her bed. She wants to wash the smell of sex from her, but as the drugs wear off, she remembers that she probably shouldn’t. She allows herself to sleep. When she wakes there are some things she remembers. She remembers trying to push him off her and how her arms felt like they had no strength. She remembers choking on the snot draining into the back of her throat as she cried for him to stop. She remembers him saying “shhhh” over and over again.
She walks to campus police, hair tangled and in the club clothes from the night before. The campus officer at the desk stares blankly at her as she chokes, “I think I was raped last night.” “Oh god,” the officer replies, “let me let you talk with someone. I just do reception despite the uniform.” They get her a private place to talk and someone to talk to. The next officer listens to her broken story and all the pieces missing. He stares at her very short skirt and disheveled hair sceptically. When she finishes recounting her memories, he sighs and says, “There are a couple of ways to proceed.” First he tells her that it is best to be certain she was raped and that she wasn’t just blackout drunk the night before. Not only could this ruin someone’s reputation, he tells her, it is a long and complicated process. The then tells her the process. He tells her that he will have to take a report there to document the happenings. Then the actual police will have to take a report as campus police cannot make a full arrest. The police will want doctors at the hospital to run a full rape kit on her as well as examine for bruises and injuries. She listens as he repeats over and over again, “It’s best to be sure.”
She is less sure. She tells him that she will try to be more sure before she comes back. Weeks go by. She tries to access the memories. She sees her date and he tells her a story. A story she doesn’t believe, but she is even less sure.
She is late. Her test comes back positive. Fuck. She hasn’t spoken to him but once after. She can’t bring her self to do it again. The dreams at night where she wakes tasting his sweat soaked hand over her mouth prevent her. It is getting worse. She has broken down in class a few times and had to excuse herself. She is fighting hard to keep grades from slipping.
She figures up what the due date would be. About two months into the fall semester of her senior year. She calculates who she would have to tell. What all she would have to explain. She vomits. Who knows if it is the pregnancy or the fear forcing to heave her pathetic breakfast into the sink. She knows what she has to do and it is best to do it soon.
The closest planned parenthood clinic is only about 40 miles away, in Virginia Beach, Virginia. She has the money. She will do this. She makes it there in cold sweats. An escort walks her dutifully past the protestors trying to change her mind. Inside they tell her all her options. She explains that she is here for an abortion. Nothing will changer her mind. They tell her about the procedure, the costs, and finally, the legal requirements. That gives her pause. “An ultrasound? Can you even see it this early?” Technically, the nurse tells her they can but they have to use a special type of ultrasound, something called a transvaginal ultrasound. A probe is inserted in the vagina and it can show development extremely early.
“I don’t really want them to put something in me,” she says. “Is there another way?” The only other way it turns out is to wait until the development has progressed further. Weeks. She can’t wait that long. She reluctantly agrees to allow the cold probe to penetrate her. As it does, she wonders if this was how it happened that night, twenty-seven evenings ago, through reluctant agreement.