Okay. This rant’s not going to be about the fact that I can’t have anything even remotely nice or sweet in my profile, or else I get scads and scads of IMs from 13-year-old girls (yes, I’m well aware that most of them are not actually 13-year-old girls). It’s not going to be about the fact that netgirls tend to value their own entertainment over everyone else’s boredom. It’s not going to be about the girl who babbles constantly about her Vietnamese boyfriend and the fact that she once gave him an hourlong blowjob. (Carrie, dear, that doesn’t mean you’re good at it. Quite the opposite.)
No, this one’s just out of sheer frustration. A netgirl whose name rhymes with “Nathy” IMd me recently when I had an away message up and said “Something terrible happened on Saturday.” Unfortunately, she left while I was still away, and I didn’t see her for a few more days.
Long story short, the girl was date-raped. By a guy who’s doing the exact same set-up to another one of her friends. He’s been going around her high school talking about how all the other girls he dated were immature, but he really sees potential in whoever it is he’s currently dating. Then, a week later, he’s seeing potential in someone else because his last girlfriend turned immature.
And Kathy decided that good ol Ace309, who lives nowhere near her, would be the person to confide in. Yes, I would gladly go and rip that motherfucking spunk cunt’s testicles off his body if she told me who he was, but dear, I don’t live anywhere near you. I’d LOVE to tear his dick off, throw it in a pot of boiling water and then force-feed the cocksoup to him before I dropped him on his head and pummelled him into oblivion. A weekend excursion to wherever it is that you live so that I could forcibly shove 45-pound barbell plates into his ass would be something I’d love to plan.
BUT I CAN’T DO A DAMN THING ABOUT IT. And by telling me instead of someone who can, you’re making me feel extremely frustrated and upset that I can’t.
You waited a week to tell anyone because you weren’t sure you were raped. You don’t think you fought enough, despite the fact that you were sitting in the back seat crying, covering your face, sobbing “no,” and that he had to forcibly remove your clothes. You think you gave him the idea that it would be okay. Understandable.
But Kathy, babe, hon, dear… please don’t run it past me. Run it past someone you trust who can actually do something. I don’t even know where you live, so I can’t call the police. And even if I could, what would I tell them? “I know a girl who lives in your district. Here’s her screenname, her first name is Kathy, and I think I have an idea of her last name. No, I don’t know what high school she goes to or where she lives, and I don’t have any idea of who this guy is, but I think his name is Eddie. So go round up all the Eddies you can find.”
I don’t have the heart to tell you that you probably can’t get him prosecuted because you waited too long… and that because you waited four days after you told me to tell your counselor, it’s probably out of reach entirely and that he might even have raped another girl.
But spread the word around. Don’t let this rapist - and that’s what he is - do it to anyone else.