Chapter 41 My Brush with Date Rape

I moved back from Houston and decided to live in Tulsa.  I got a place at One Eton Square.

It was the first and only apartment that I ever lived in where the billing of “singles” living actually lived up to the hype.  There was a fun but odd group of people in my building.  I had gotten a ground floor one bedroom off the second pool back from the main pool.  There were a couple of guys across the breezeway, a divorcee, a few younger women in assorted jobs like sales and marketing.  We kind of hung out together for a short time before people moved or drifted away.

 I met a nice guy there that I still stay in touch with, he moved up to Minnesota and works for Johnson Controls.  I didn't meet him till I was dating my Future Ex #2 pretty steady.

The apartment managers were real friendly and we had parties one a month at the main pool.  I would use my dive equipment to check out things in the pool for them every once in a while and in exchange they left me alone.

I remember one gal who worked for the Green Sheet in advertisement sales who I knew casually, called me up and asked me to come over to...uh, service her.  It was pretty cut and dried.  Actually it was pretty nice.  No games everything right up front.

At a party I met a surgeon.  She was a short haired looking athletic sort.  She was working down in Marfa doing a stint of government service to pay off med school.  She had been a flight surgeon and had to work off some of the med school costs the feds had picked up.  Her specialty was male urology.  She installed implants for erectile dysfunction.    I had no idea there were so many types.  Of course, Viagra may have put a dent in her future business. 

But this was in the days before the blue pill.  She described the pump, a kind of the Michael Jordan Air pump, only the little pump pad isn't in the tongue of the shoe but in the guys scrotum.  I wonder how many pumps it would take to get the thing erect.    It would inflate a bladder inserted surgically in the penis.  She said the pumping could be worked into foreplay.

The second and most ridiculous was the tent pole extension.  Two telescoping metal or plastic tubes were inserted surgically.  They nested into one another.  To use the thing the guy, or girl if he had a helpful partner would pull the ends of the two tubes and then twist them to lock them in place, just like two tent poles, or walking sticks. 

One had a cam that would bind up to hold the two tubes in place when they were twisted.  Neat, but oh so not cool.  According to her this type was prone to rupture through the side of the penis.  Imagine having the equivalent to the tube that holds a role of toilet paper in your penis and hitting something not too yielding inside your partner and having that thing ram against your pelvis or worse something too yielding.  You could ram the thing out the back of your scrotum, which I guess happened once or twice.

In the event we went sailing together after I met her at a pool party.  Turns out she was divorced.  Her ex had been a body building narcissist and she had come home to find him in bed with, dare I say, one of his body building buddies.  Not of the feminine persuasion either. 

 I guess in the twisted world of self love; he loved looking at himself so much that he fell in love with someone that looked like him.  Nah!  He had just married her to have a beard.  He was gay and just could not face up to it.  Now you know how AIDS crossed the heterosexual boundary.  Sharing needles?  Some, but by far it was infecting of unsuspecting females by gay men or bisexual men.  To this day the gay community still won't own up to it.  They want to continue the fallacy of casting themselves as victims.

Anyway, that kind of startled me and we talked and she point blank said the first thing she did was go out and get tested, then filed for divorce.  But it was a big ego hit for her.  How do you compete with someone from the opposite sex?  I found myself on the end of that dilemma about 10 years later with Future Ex #3 the bi-polar, sexually confused wunderkind.

There was one very bizarre thing that came out of my acquaintances at One Eton.  One of the guys liked to regale us with stories of his encounters and one in particular piqued my interest.  He spoke of a young woman who liked to be tied up, you know into BDSM or a bondage queen.  At the time, this predated the Internet, I was pretty ignorant of the underground community to which these people gravitated.  Well being the resourceful guy I am, I found out her name and where she worked and called her up for a date.

Talk about cold calling. 

Anyway, I proposed she bring a friend for safety, I described myself and said what I would be wearing.  Since I didn't have a clue what she looked like other than a cursory description, hair, eyes etc, and that she was attractive.  I wouldn't be in a position to recognize her.  She could come to the designated restaurant of her choice, check me out and if she wasn't interested just leave and I'd never be the wiser.  If she wanted to meet me she could introduce her self.  Well it worked out great.  We met and decided to date.   I went an picked her up at her apartment late one evening in pretty foul weather if I recall correctly.  We went to Incahoot's or whatever it was being called then. 

I knew I might have a head case on my hands when she wanted champagne. I obliged her and she immediately got wasted.  So much so she couldn't find her way back to the table after visiting the women's room.

In hind sight I would have to say she might have been Bipolar.  She drank like she was on a mission from god to get wasted.

The BDSM thing is now a give-away.  In my personal experience, people into that in a big way, have psychological problems.  Wife #3 wanted to delve into it in a big way, and I gather now, that there are several elements at work.  One is self-loathing.  They engage in it to punish themselves.  Second is a touch of infantilism, by that I mean they emotionally never grew up, and they put themselves in the role of the child, the Dom is the parent.  They want to be taken care of, and in exchange, they allow themselves to be punished.  Third is objectification.  They see themselves as an object for sex, they cannot differentiate between sex and love.  They are one in the same to them.  Anyone who used them for sex, loves them, so to be loved they let themselves be used.

It sounds fucked up and it is.

 There could be a touch of masochism and desire to be degraded too, that plays into the self-loathing.  Even sex can become an act of contrition, or punishment.

It’s kind of like they carry this load of emotional baggage with them and they are constantly wanting to make amends for something they were not responsible for.   Ever hear of autism, where the sufferer is kind of cut off from the world and resorts to head banging to feel something?   There could be an element of sexual dysfunction that laps into that too.  My ex needed intense pain not being whipped but still intense stimulation I would call pain in order to climax.

I am not a psychologist although I had Psych 101 and 102  in college and had 7 years of on the job training.  My interaction with real shrinks makes me thing my diagnoses here have just as much validity as their half- baked arm waving does.

Okay, now that I established that there seems to be, in my opinion, a link between mental illness and BDSM, it tosses the whole premise of 50 Shades of Gray on its head.  Believe me, BDSM in not romantic.

Pause.  Stop. 

I need to write a whole entry on this.

Now that I have touched on it, let me continue.

The gal gets tanked, just like I later saw my wife #3 do all the time.  No reason, just a mission to get blotto.

I end the date early since she is nearly incoherent.   I think she might have popped something along with the Champagne.

I take her home.  I say by good byes but no, she wasn’t having it.  She barred the door, wanting me to stay.  I really did not want another Marilyn on my hands.

She then pulls off her top to show me her newly enhanced breasts, wanting my opinion.

Okay, so that did stop me from leaving.  I tell myself I put her in bed because I was afraid she would have followed me out and down the stairwell half naked.   She probably would have.

So I tuck her in bed.  She pulls me down on her and we start kissing and one thing led to the next and we had sex.

Okay, so I gave in.  I stayed until she was asleep and then I let myself out.

Again, I don’t call the next day.  How do you tell an attractive gal that you had a good time, but you really don’t want to go out with a hot mess drunk?  To this day, after wife #3 I cannot stand to even talk to a drunk when I am sober.  Drunks just make me want to throw up.

Well I finally get a call from her, and I guess as a face saving measure, insinuates I took advantage of her, when I am here to tell you, I did not.

I have been in the company of many drunk or passed out women and I never, not once did anything that was not by mutual consent by action if not word.

This was in the days when you did not have to get a signed consent form from the Dean of Student affairs or the District Attorney before two adults exchanged bodily fluid by sexual penetration.

Today it’s different.

At the time we exchanged words, I told her I think she was miffed because I hadn’t called her.  That pretty much tore it.

That is until I moved apartments.

I found this nice place called Green Briar on 61^st  near Lewis.  Quite, nice, a second floor apartment overlooking the pool.

As I am unloading my trailer with a buddy, and my future wife #2 imagine who I run into on the landing, of the same floor.

You guessed it.  All of a sudden the place is starting to look way familiar.  I had been there only at night.  I suddenly recall the little half moon turn out for the car around a tree at the base of the stairs.

As you can expect, the gal got her nose in a joint, thinking I was moving in because of her.  Our apartments back up against each other.  I was on the south side, she was on the north side, we shared a common wall.

As it turned out, I didn’t see her at all and she moved out not long after that. 

Small world.

Bill Cosby has now admitted to purchasing Quaaludes with the intent of using them on women to have sex with them.  If that is true, I guess they have to prove he did in fact use them.  If a woman takes drugs on her own, then drinks rendering herself incapacitated, I would not have sex with her.  It not only opens the guy to allegations after the fact, but what fun is it?  Pretty much like fucking a corpse only its warm.  In this case, the girl was quite active, but it was my bad for not taking my leave when I should have.  It was decidedly not date rape, far from it.  If I had recorded the session, it would have been quite clear she was an active participant, even if she could not recall it the next day, or chose not to.

In Cosby's defense some of the alleged instances took place at the Playboy Mansion, where I dare say that all the girls were there for the use of the many VIP guests that happened through.  If you care to read, "A Bunny's Tale" by Gloria Steinem (available on the web for free) written when she did an expose of the NYC Playboy club working as a Bunny for two weeks,.  You will learn that it was common for all the female employees to put out for VIPs both at the clubs and it follows, at the Mansions too.  Although it was "against the rules" to date customers, the girls were in fact pressured to do so by the managers.

2018 Update.  Considering the events of the last year and the formation of the Me Too! movement by militant feminists, I really do feel fortunate that my run in with "morning after regret" happened when it did. Men today have a mine field to walk when asking a woman out on a date. I truly feel sorry for them.