Rape Me: A True Friendship Story

Sometimes, you come across a situation where you just have to do something for a friend’s own good. They might protest, argue and curse you out, but deep down, they’ll respect you the more for it—especially once they sober up. Below is such a tale.

When Jack Saddle, my close personal friend, turned 21, I took it on myself to make sure that a truly epic night of debauchery was realized. The way I saw it, four things were needed to ensure an evening equal to this epic event:

1. Copious amounts of alcohol
2. A designated driver
3. Easily available women
4. An adversary

Number one was readily available at any bar. Just to be sure, however, we visited five different establishments. I was happy to take over the role of item number two. Number three was available—but only on the condition that I was ready take on the duties of number four, as well.

Allow me to explain. Jack dated a girl his senior year of high school who I periodically kept in touch with. After a falling-out that included Jack calling all of her college friends “dumb, white, rich brats,” the two had parted ways. Through my contact with the Ex, whom we’ll call Leanne, I knew that she was ready, willing, and drooling for the opportunity to jump Jack once more. Jack, on the other hand, was more or less completely repulsed by her personality. However, I was counting on two things:

1. Leanne’s truly spectacular breasts
2. Jack’s repeated inability to refuse spectacular breasts when drunk.

However, Jack could never know precisely what I was plotting in advance. The second he thought I was trying to get him to sleep with his ex, I knew he’d put up his guard and protest. So instead, I got Leanne to bring friends with her and we met up with them under the pretense that we were trying to set him up with one of the friends.

Around 1 AM, I surveyed my progress: Jack, after a truly heroic number of vodka-cranberries and Hennessey was chatting with the girls, while staring down Leanne’s blouse with an intensity that was bordering on creepy. Said curvy female was sending “fuck me” vibes across the table so loudly, I became seriously concerned that she was going to dive over the table and rape him. It was time to move to Phase 2.

Herding everyone into my car, I began to drive back to the friends’ house. Leanne asked if I’d drop her off first.

“Wait,” said Jack as we pulled to a stop. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He got out of the car. I began to think that my plot would go off without a hitch.

“Ehren,” he said, coming up to the driver’s side window as Leanne beckoned him from her front porch. “Don’t leave me here.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m serious, Ehren. Don’t fucking leave me here. I don’t want to fuck her. Swear that you won’t leave me.”

“I swear.”

“You PROMISE?”

“I promise.”

“Ehren, I’ll seriously be pissed if you leave.”

“I won’t leave.”

I waited about 15 seconds after the door closed and pealed out like a stunt driver in The Fast and the Furious. I must have left two inches of rubber outside her driveway.

Three hours later I returned, threw rocks at their window, and started walking back to the car to wait for Jack to reappear.

"Three hours ought to be enough." I thought to myself. Obviously, I underestimated my friend's endurance.

Because at that moment, Leanne was bent over the couch in her front room, with Jack balls-deep inside her. Meaning both of them had a full view of me throwing rocks and my subsequent walk towards my car. Leanne probably assumed that I'd head home and meet up with them in the morning. However, she failed to take Jack's fear of abondonment and loathing of her personality into account. In his drunk, post-rape trauma paranoia (fueled by the fact I’d ditched once already this evening), Jack saw his one chance at escape and pounced on it. Leaving Leanne mid-thrust, still bent over the couch, he went tearing out of the house, pants around his ankles, screaming hysterically, “DON’T LEAVE ME, YOU BASTARD!!! DAMN YOU EHREN!!!NOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Hastily arranging her skirt Leanne came pounding out of the house three steps behind, yelling after him, “Jack, it’s fine if you want to stay the night. Why don’t you come back inside and get your shirt?”

It’s hard to prepare for a Dukes of Hazard type get-away, while incapacitated by laughter. I did my best.

Jack hastily yelled, “No thank you” over his shoulder as he threw himself headlong into the backseat. For the second time that night, I pealed out of Leanne’s driveway, leaving her alone in the middle of her front lawn, with a very bewildered look on her face—not surprising considering a scant 20 seconds before she had been mid-coitus.

He climbed into the passenger seat and we drove in silence for about two minutes. I stole a glance over at him. The bleary, drained, relaxed and confused expression on his face spoke volumes. It looked as if he’d been molested by some 100-women harem, certain they'd never see another man again.

“Thanks” he finally said.

Hey, what are friends for?

***After speaking with Jack, I realized that the first version of this post, in which he came running out while peeing, was incorrect. Above is the true chronicle of the night.