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Author Topic: Irony: It's easier to hook up with an underage girl than to date her.  (Read 1381 times)

« on: January 31, 2008, 05:17:08 AM »

This is a story within a story from my long softcore rape short-story, "Come and Take It!" I thought of the idea a few days ago and I knew I had to put it in there  Grin. The story as a whole won critical acclaim from gun owners and "nice-guy rapists." It even earned the "Best. Rape. of. an. Esteemed. Law. Enforcement. Officer. Ever. in Fictional Prose" (period abuse theirs) from the highly subscribed NRA (Negotiate Rights Away) magazine, "American Crappy Civilian Weapon Owner" (formerly known as "American Rifleman").

What are daughters of rape fetishists like? Would you let me date your fifteen year old daughter? Please hold that thought until after you read the passage. And just think: Your adult daughter would be in good hands knowing that she is being treated the same way you treat your wife or girlfriend (or maybe the other way around, etc.  Kiss).

The whole story: http://ravishu.com/forums/index.php?topic=6618.0
The passage:

I felt like I was the teenage daughter having a caustic exchange of words with a certain mother about who not to go out with.
   “Are you sure you aren’t having sex?”
   “YES, MOTHER. Of course I’m sure.”
   “Don’t give me that tone of voice!”
   “Look, we went to Antonucci’s, had a great meal and talked a lot, then we went back to his place to make out for a while.”
   Katie’s father chimed in. “Damn right it’s been a while. It’s eleven-thirty!”
   “You didn’t say anything about a curfew.”
   “If he was a good guy, he would have brought you back before ten. Guys like him are up to no good bringing girls after ten. You see, I knew it!”
   “And look, your clothes are a bit wrinkled!” Her mother worried.
   “That’s because we were making out. Kissing and heavy petting is making out!” Katie replied with increasing frustration. “And the clothes got a little ‘roughed up’ because we were making out on the bed.”
   “WH-, WH-, WHAT?!” Her mom questioned with panic.
   Katie felt her metaphorical back against the wall. “It’s comfortable!”
   “That’s it!” The father stepped in. “You’re not seeing that guy ever again. I’m calling the cops on him.”
   “No, Daddy! Please!”
   Katie’s mother tried to calm her precious child down.
   “Sweetie, you can tell me if that guy has touched you or made you have ‘relations’ with him. It’s okay. It’s over now. What that guy was doing to you, to all of us, was ‘grooming.’ I read about it on an anti-pedophile website. He was getting all of us to trust him so he could ensnare you in his trap and sexually abuse you while forcing you to keep it a secret.”
   “What? Grooming? You never trusted him to begin with! And he has a name. It’s J----. (That helps.) Dad did -at least enough not to call the cops on him right away. I know he was impressed and maybe intimidated by his rifle, but J---- always told you guys about his ‘traditional conservatism,’ his beliefs in personal responsibility, preparedness, true love, and how he hopes I’m ‘the one’ and how he wants to be a good husband someday. He doesn’t want to hurt me by taking my virginity and then breaking up with me later.”
   “That was his grooming. To trick us. He told what us parents wanted to hear in a man.”
   “Bullshit!” Her mom couldn’t believe her baby emitted a cuss word in anger toward the one who brought her into this world. “That is him! That’s the guy I love!” Katie continued, “We once sat on a bench at the beach and watched the sunset. I ended up laying my head on his shoulder and we just sat there, gazing at the sun. It was so beautiful. I wished I could be in that moment forever. Look at this, Mom.” Katie lifted her white full-length skirt, revealing a semiautomatic handgun strapped to her thigh. It’s the M&P I surprised her with on her fifteenth birthday. “If people try to kill me or hurt me or if they shoot up the school, I’ll be able to stop them -and live. He got me holsters for different positions so I can carry my weapons accessibly no matter what I wear, because it’s more difficult thanks to fashion and body shape for a woman to carry a weapon concealed than a man.”
   Katie’s mother held her quivering hand in front of her shivering mouth.
   “Oh, my God! Honey, come here!”
   The father dashed to the family room. A cynical me suggests, had I been there, that he sickly anticipated seeing his daughter’s bloody panties and the mother sobbing over a broken hymen and the murder of their daughter’s innocence.
   “Oh, my God!” Katie’s father obliviously repeated his wife’s expression. “What the hell? Are you trying to get arrested?”
   “No, I’m learning to take care of myself.” Katie lashed back.
   “What?” The father felt flabbergasted. He commanded to his little girl: “Give me that,” staring at the tool, “then go to your room. You’re grounded!”
   “No, no, no! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”
   Katie went to the second place she felt safe: my apartment. Unlike a pedophile, who isolates his/her victim and makes him/her feel like only the abuser cares about her, I told my young love that her parents were scared shitless and only cared about her safety and well-being. Being fascinated not just by rape fantasy, but rape and rape psychology (I love my Law & Order: Special Victims Unit and The Shield), I did plenty of internet research on the topics. I told my Katie that sadly, unlike generations ago, most older men who go out with teen and preteen girls, even the ones who go out with the eighteen to twenty-one-year-olds do so only for sexual gratification at the emotional expense of the girl, and not for old-fashioned romance with the hope of eventual marriage. Obviously, that was not our case. We did not “hook up,” but Katie’s parents starkly knew that all it takes is one time to change their child’s life and personality forever. No one can take back rape, sexual assault,  molestation, or in this case pseudo-consensual sex between someone with more life experience and someone with less -at least not completely. It takes a lot of self-love to overcome the temptation to act self-destructively. Katie’s parents were only looking out for their precious child.
   After consoling her and cuddling on the couch by the fireplace, we decided to end the turmoil and let the parents lay out every accusation to my face instead of to Katie, all alone. I finally was able get the parents directly off my back. To paraphrase Robert De Niro’s character in “Meet the Parents,” they were now just “watching me” (the hand signals, too). No more secrets. No more doing “serious” things behind their backs. And Katie gets to carry her gun. Nobody, especially the school staff, suspects a girl of carrying a penis. That’s what stupid victim disarmament supporters think we keep and bear arms for, to compensate for our small penis size. No, dipshits. It’s so we can be in control of our destinies and not let physically stronger and/or numerically superior foes of humanity take away everything that is precious to being a human being: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Tools make us equal. Tools make us polite.
   I’m glad we did not give up on each other.
« Last Edit: January 31, 2008, 05:30:26 AM by Centrist » Logged
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