Only two out of 72. Only two out of 72 men refused to rape a drugged woman, asleep to the point of unconsciousness, when Dominique P. suggested that he abuse his wife to enjoy a sexual perversion. Only two.
Two.
One was a sex addict and swingers club goer who became disgusted when he considered that the battered woman would not be very happy with the recurring humiliation. Apparently, he thought about it for a while and finally decided that it was criminal. He folded the candles but never reported it. What I don’t sink hasn’t sunk, even though I know it.
In the chat where the grandiose, where the rapist ideologue invited strangers to humiliate and penetrate his wife, the proposal was titled Without your knowledge. There was nothing shameful about the victim being subjected to chemical submission, there was nothing to hide, there was nothing to cover up or explain later or to overshadow forever: the abuse was a complaint.
It’s fun: it’s flashy, it’s exotic. When will you have the opportunity to do something like this again?
Knowing that she would sleep, that she would remember nothing, that she was an object, a vulnerable, inert, practically dead creature, one more piece of furniture to perpetrate and outrage, was sexy to them. Erogenous. Stimulating. It made them horny.
No one was looking for an active entity. No one was seduced by moans or by a female looking them in the eye. What they wanted was for the garbage to explode. Like a sophisticated rubber doll: it breathes, it feels, but it doesn’t remember anything when it gets up.
This is the news!
This caught my attention: almost 100% of men browsing a sex dating site agreed to rape a disabled woman. I am a libertine: I believe that one can and should have extravagant sexual entertainment without committing a crime. It is legitimate to meet on the internet to share taboo ideas.
What fascinates me terribly is that in this context, men and, as the press now says, charming and supposedly normal, journalists, businessmen, delivery men, lovers of bicycle excursions, apparently exemplary fathers, liked the possibility of perpetrating a finished woman. That he neither consented, nor desired, nor knew. Which was not the case.
It makes me think of something apocalyptic: how many men, if they knew that women would never discover or remember anything, would be happy to rape us for life? What stops them is not the distant risk of legal punitivism. What stops them is not ethics or the violation of our human rights. What stops them is not modesty. What stops them is not that we are their daughters, or their sisters, or their friends, or their girlfriends, or their colleagues: what stops them is that we can remember and point a finger stuck in their eye.
There is a recurring drunkard fantasy: what would you do today if tomorrow no one remembered anything? We already know what many of them would do: rape us. Sink us. Beat us. Break down in front of our accomplice partners and even repeat it. That’s what they like!
My friends reminded me that this infamy has already been mentioned in Kill Bill or in talk to him: Popular films where the bodies of women in a coma were rented. In the first one, in fact, there is a user of this girl who complains to the nurse-owner that the tenant’s vagina is very dry. Regrettable service: missed the lubricant.
Needless to say something harsh and true: Clara Serra, an assertive feminist and not at all suspected of patriarchal veneer, has recognized that many women have rape fantasies. It is true and I fight not to make us blush. It is the fantasy of the fawn that yearns to let itself be eaten by the wolf. But it is nothing more than a hooligan fabrication. It is a fear that is morbid, but that no woman would support physically or mentally on a real level.
We have the right to act sick. We have the right to project dirty things.
But in the end, naked and vulnerable in bed, next to a man we momentarily adore, we cross our fingers that he will take us seriously, that he will feel equal to us, that he will not destroy our body or what is left of our body. morality or dignity. We cross our fingers that we will be able to say goodbye to him, after this encounter, soberly and amicably. We are not talking about love, even affection. We are talking about humanity. Remembering that the person you have just crossed has parents, traumas, dreams and memories and that once he cried with love and another time he failed an exam or did not feel like he was enough for his best friend.
In this paradigmatic case of French justice, there is a problem for everyone: what they treated like a doll has come to life. It now, finally, looks them in the eye.
