A GIRL PROMPTED me to pretend rape her on our first date, and I did so. Insomuch as that I was once asked to talk dirty to some other girl but could think of nothing non-sarcastic to say, this was a big step.
The date was going well even before it started going memorably, which was bizarre, as I gave off every warning signal as to my failures as a person, like having to share a coffee mug of vodka with the girl because I’d accidentally broken all the glasses in the apartment. At some point I actually made her look at this videogame I was playing, called Dwarf Fortress, in which I pretended that I was some large number of dwarves, all living together in a fortress. Eventually she relented and we had sex, which was probably for the best.
At one point I was fucking her from behind, as is my custom, and the girl asked, “Are you going to rape me?” I probably would have been shocked had the girl not previously made it clear that she was not so much sexually vanilla as she was double chocolate with kinky sprinkles; meanwhile, I’m so sexually clueless that I have to resort to ice cream-oriented metaphors.
Inexperienced as I am in such matters, I managed not to miss a beat. Who am I, after all, to refuse to pretend-rape a girl? I used to pretend to kill my friends all the time as a kid. I still pretend to kill things, or rather my dwarves do. With that in mind, or perhaps something else, I held down her arms and proceeded to “rape” her. This consisted of me engaging the girl in continued sexual intercourse, with her occasionally struggling to escape but not so diligently as to complicate our coupling—a good thing, as I’m a heavy smoker and don’t really exercise during winter. It would have been pretty impolite for her to overcome my wanted advances.
And politeness is important to me, which is why I’ve never been inclined to even fantasize about coercive behavior. Less unseemly than our rape game, meanwhile, was our second round of sex later that evening, which went from me spooning her to me fucking her while she did a not-particularlygood-job of pretending to be asleep. For instance, she would talk every now and again. This particular act should probably be coordinated in advance, rather than on the spur of the moment; in this case, it was pretty much just like having regular ol’ sex.
To my moderate surprise, I enjoyed the whole damned thing. As poor as our dual performance would have seemed to the critical eye of any drama coach who might have been watching through the window, both bouts of role playing ended up fun and interesting without causing anyone any distress, which is a fine thing for a sex act to be (though perhaps the reader is upset, in which case I will remind him or her that I did a terrible job of pretend-raping the girl in question). And despite this being my first experience in role-playing—and a relatively dramatic introduction at that—it was hardly a life-changing experience; I probably won’t be requesting a bunch of wacky atavistic scenarios from future sex partners. But should this girl ask again, or even if she doesn’t, I’d be inclined to rape her once more. I am, after all, a gentleman.
As a general rule, I don’t role-play on the first date. If you’ve got to bust out costumes and safe words before knowing each other’s stance on how a roll of toilet paper should be hung, you should seriously reevaluate your life.
But there was something appealingly wholesome about him, so all-American—he was cowboy boots, medium-rare bacon cheeseburgers and Monday Night Football—that I just couldn’t resist.
It wasn’t a premeditated decision to play rape, nor was it planned the second time when I feigned sleep as he took me from behind. We started out as most average folks would on a first date: sitting beside each other, sharing a mug of cheap vodka. Within minutes, we were kissing and his hand was tangled in the demilitarized zone between my breast and bra. I suggested that we move to the bedroom, not being particularly comfortable crumpled between the cracked vinyl couch and a medium-sized dog that was intent on joining.
In that tiny room, made even more claustrophobic by hand-drawn illustrations pasted over the windows, I let my date jam his condom-clad cock into me. He had me pressed against the bed with me on my stomach, and I, in a fit of inspiration, turned to him and asked in the most husky voice I could muster, “Are you going to rape me?” This is not a logical question to ask someone who is already fucking you with your consent, but it served to effectively establish the mood. His reaction was to fuck me harder, faster, as I bucked pseudo-helplessly beneath him, attempting to free myself, but ultimately allowing him deeper penetration.
I’d never played rape on a first date and this was thrilling. Gauging from his response, it appeared that he was enjoying it as well. He’d said prior to our meeting that he’d never role played before and I was delighted to be his first. Ladies like me, we like to leave a good first date impression, even if we have to take on the role of debased and abject.
Round two was a few hours later, after I had dozed off fully dressed. I woke up to find him sweetly spooning me and I reached behind to grab his cock. It was hard. I was wet. He leaped from the bed to retrieve another condom while I feigned sleep, curled on my side. Again, from behind, I felt him pressing into me, his hands roaming beneath my clothing before finding my nipples to pinch. Quietly I moaned, but kept my body still, allowing him access. “Should I take my dress off?” I whispered. “No, keep it on. It maintains the illusion,” he replied, thrusting into me. I closed my eyes again and pretended to sleep.
For a first date, I would consider this a rousing success. I’ve been on dinner dates where I wouldn’t even blow the guys who insisted on paying. All he’d done was pour me a drink and I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. I felt like a whore, and I liked it.