Calling It Rape

He inhaled. "You know, I'm 48 now," he said, and I tried to imagine his beard with gray. The fear was back in his voice, and I realized he was afraid I'd do something to hurt his business. He didn't know what I was capable of. He didn't know me at all. The stress of the conversation had taken its toll, and I could sense that I had total control. Even after I hung up, he'd worry that I might come and get him.

"I hope the next time you walk down the street and you see a 16-year-old girl, you think about what you did to me," I said.

"You know, I've got an 18-year-old son," Blaine said, his voice was tired, but proud.

I could picture a little Blaine drinking milk straight out of the carton.
"I hope you've taught your son something about kindness," I said. "I hope you've taught him something about compassion for women."

"I think I have."
It was the only time Blaine bristled. I'd found the soft, deep place where we both lived: I could feel the muscle of something, as if I'd plunged a spear into flesh. I really did hope his son was a good person; it seemed to me that the best possible outcome was a young man who was gentle and loving and filled with affection. I'd done and said all I could. I was floating. I walked in my mind to a tent where everything was silky and safe; inside it, I was 16, feeling the soft pulse of moonlight and a man's body, and I could leave whenever I wanted. He had no hold over me.

There was really nothing more to say.

The names of the locations mentioned in this article, as well as its subjects, including that of the author, have been changed.