Tag Archives: rape fantasy

Girl Talk: When (Rape) Fantasy Becomes Reality

Two weeks ago, my gentle and loving boyfriend of three months held me down and forced me to have sex with him against my will, and then told me I had asked for it. And technically, he was right.

Jacob and I had only been dating about a month and a half when I intimated that I had a rape fantasy. Over the years, I’d had my share of experience with role-playing and rough sex. I vividly recall a male friend of mine in college telling me that I had a distinct air of “sexual prey” about me, and me thinking that this was a huge compliment. Being dominated and playing the innocent who secretly wasn’t had been my currency and had guided the sexual dynamic I forged with partners for the last 10 years. But only for the last few months had I allowed myself to entertain what I considered to be the final frontier — a simulated rape. Keep reading »

Is It Her Rape Fantasy Or His?

In an essay published on Nerve.com, Matt Morse writes about the time he roofied his wife to save their marriage. “Roofie” is the slang term for Rohypnol, commonly known as the date rape drug. Before getting married, Morse and his wife had an adventurous sex life filled with role-play, but after marriage, he writes, “our fantasies would have to be safe, like the rest of our over-insured suburban existence.” Before she requested that he participate in her date rape fantasy, Morse and his wife hadn’t had sex in three years. When she proposed the fantasy, Morse doesn’t even blink, his mind immediately wandering to cover the details.

“To drug and abduct my wife — but which drug? Television seems to have convinced her that date-rape concoctions are ubiquitous, as if I could just run to the nearest GNC or have a box overnighted from a website in Mexico. The latter might be true, but I’d prefer not to add my name to any FBI lists. So while she’s in the bedroom, I rifle through the medicine cabinet and find a stash of giant pink pills — some sort of narcotic from the dentist — and throw a small handful into the coffee grinder. Decisions, decisions. My costume, my fake name, my fake identity — there is so much that has to be just right. Konked-out victim? Her part is child’s play. I’ll be the one who has to drive the conversation and strike the proper balance between charming and sinister, all the while maintaining some sort of backchannel of actual attraction. I douse myself in aftershave and begin humming the jingle, or what I remember of it. “There’s something about an Aqua Velva man.” Oh yes, there is: He drugs strange woman and drags them back to his lair.

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