The revenge fantasy, the erotic fantasy, and the power of the shadow
I remember the first time someone stuck his hand down my pants when I didn't want him to.
My roommate and I were mugged on the corner of Page and Ashbury while walking home from a movie at the Red Vic. I must have been twenty.
My assailant was a full head shorter than me. He looked to be about fourteen, and he had the tip of his knife pushed against my breastbone. I was scared stiff, unable to move, pleading in a whisper.
Our two mugger children were so inexperienced that one of them handed my roommate's keyring back to her so he could use both hands to unfasten her pants. What an idiot. She blew the silver whistle that hung off her keys. As if she had fired a warning shot— the armed and dangerous brats ran like rabbits.
It was over. I felt like shit, and I continued to feel like shit for months. I moved out of the neighborhood at the end of the summer.
I remember, in a different context, the first time I had a forced-sex fantasy. Quite the different affair.
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