I Married a Rapist

My name is Valarie, or Val, and I married a rapist. Did I know he was a rapist when I married him? No. How do I know he was a rapist? I was the one he raped. I know, it doesn't make sense yet. It will. This is my story that I hope will help some girl who might learn from my experience and prevent what happened to me.

I was a college freshman when it happened. Coming from a conservative rural background, I was shocked at big college social life. Discussions about sex where I was from were infrequent and whispered. Discussions about sex at college were constant and almost shouted out loud. I learned more about sex in my first week at school from the upper grade girls than I had from my mother in my 18 years. I swear that most of the girls seemed to be majoring in sex. They certainly spent more time having sex and talking about it than they ever did studying. Even with that said, nothing prepared me for my first and only fraternity party.

A nice-looking boy from one of my classes asked me to a fraternity party where he was hoping to pledge. The other girls in my dorm said I should go as that fraternity was highly regarded. I reluctantly agreed to go. I fell prey to 'everybody does it' reasoning. We got there after things were in full swing. Both of us were offered drinks when we first came into the door. I turned down the beer as I didn't like the taste. I got a Sprite from a disappointed-looking boy who was bartending.

My date and I were separated often as fraternity members were checking him out as a prospective member. Other fraternity members took his place in dancing with me and chatting me up. I was constantly being asked if I needed a refill on drinks. At one point, I finally gave up on refusing drinks with a little alcohol in them. I hadn't had hard liquor before, so I was not aware of the strength of what I had drunk until a little later. It snuck up on me. It was to be a night of "I had never befores."

I had never 'dirty danced' but that seemed to be what everyone else was doing. Having a guy's bulge grind against me was a new experience for me. The most I had done was accidently bump into one. Now, it seemed that the whole dance was bumping and grinding pelvises to a beat. With the help of a little more alcohol, I was getting less inhibited and a little turned on, however, I did not believe I was losing control. I began to be asked if I wanted to go upstairs. They never said for what. After seeing numerous couples openly making out and groping each other like they were alone in the back seat at a drive-in, I quickly figured out what going upstairs meant.

The next thing that happened to me turned out to be life changing, almost life destroying for me. A new boy asked to get me a drink and I agreed. He brought it back to me and urged me to drink up. I did take a larger than normal gulp to appease him. He hung around and we chatted. Gradually, I started to feel strange. I began to enjoy the close dancing and the touching the boy was doing with me. I was now extremely turned on. When he suggested going upstairs, my mind offered no obstacle. The rest is fuzzy. I know that the boy and several others had sex with me. Sex that they later said I was begging for. Hours later I was taken back to my dorm and put into bed.

I woke up with a huge headache and soreness in my vagina and anus. There were few clear memories, but I knew I had been raped. Luckily, I had been on the pill for regulation of my menstrual period. I was more embarrassed than I had ever been. I needed someone I was close with to talk to for advice and sympathy. None of the girls I had met so far were good friends yet. My roommate was my closest friend so far, but she had gone home for the weekend. I spent most of my time Saturday and Sunday crying and feeling guilty. Maybe somehow I had done something to encourage men to have sex with me: my clothes, my dancing, my flirting and so on.

I spent the whole weekend curled up in my own cocoon. I stayed in my room and only ate peanut butter and crackers and drank Diet Pepsi. There was no way I was going to the cafeteria to eat in front of all those people, some of whom might have known what I had done. I tried, but I couldn't make myself go to class on Monday or Tuesday. Finally, my roommate told our Corridor Advisor something was wrong with me. The CA picked up on my being emotionally troubled and took me to the Student Counseling Service. There I was hooked up with a rape counselor, Donna. I was taken to the medical center and had a rape kit performed. The rape kits at the time were unable to detect for drugs in my system that long after I had been drugged.

I was pressured into preferring charges against the fraternity. The District Attorney's office investigated but declined to prosecute on the grounds of insufficient evidence. The University's Dean of Students handled the incident by issuing a warning to the fraternity about the allegation of rape. They would be monitored by the Dean's office for the rest of the school year. The fraternity contended that I had willingly participated in sex. In fact, I had specifically requested to pull the train. The news of my complaint resulted in a bunch of calls from unidentified men who warned me to keep my mouth shut if I knew what was good for me. I was being punished for being raped, the boys weren't.

I began to get calls from other guys who wanted dates since they knew from the fraternity that I was now classified as being easy to get in bed. Ironically, we started studying "The Scarlet Letter" in English class. Boy, could I identify with the main character. Instead of a Scarlet A, I may as well have had a Scarlet S for slut on my forehead. I couldn't take it anymore. I dropped out of school and went home.

My father was furious, mostly against the boys but also me for my stupidity for putting myself in the situation in the first place. My mother was horribly disappointed, but they both agreed to me spending the rest of the school year getting professional help to get my life back on track. I continued seeing my counselor, Donna, because I trusted her. It was worth the extra travel because I liked her, and she was very helpful.

I was having nightmares of being raped. Her advice was to think of each nightmare as my being one nightmare closer to the last nightmare I would ever have. The number of nightmares was finite. I just didn't know the number. I was happy to notice a decrease in the frequency of nightmares once I thought of them that way. By the end of what should have been my freshman year, I was ready to go back to college, sort of.

I went to the local college and lived at home. So far, no one I hung with knew of my rape, or said nothing about it if they did. As time went on, I eased back the tension back towards normal. I was aware that I could never be totally back to normal - ever. I changed my major to Social Work with the idea of becoming a Rape Counselor. I didn't feel comfortable dating again until my senior year. Even then, I was fearful of any physical expressions of affection with my dates. I seldom had more than two dates with a man. I didn't give a kiss other than on the cheek.

Then Stanley Beckman came into my life. My friend Beth introduced me to him. She did not know him too well but agreed to introduce me him partially because he begged her to. She was anxious to see me get out more, so she consented to help him out. There was no 'Love at First Sight' or 'heart throbs' or excitement at our first meeting. He was extremely polite and very pleasant and easy to talk with. There seemed to be no expectation of physical affection at the end of any of our dates, yet he kept asking me out. I kept saying yes because he let me control the progress of our relationship. My warmth of feelings towards him grew slowly but steadily. I felt safe with him.

I finally got up the nerve somewhere around the tenth date. "Stan, is there a reason why you have not tried to kiss me?" I was terrified he would say that he hadn't wanted to.

"Out of respect for you, I was waiting for you to make the first move. Valerie, would you like me to kiss you?"

"I would like for us to kiss each other."

We kissed, closed mouth, and held it for many seconds. It was gentle with a hint of passion. He pulled back a little and said, "That was nice. Would you like to do that some more?"

I answered by kissing him back. The next date we tried open mouth and battling tongues kissing. I felt more passion from him, and I matched it. We increased our kissing, and, slowly, over time on future dates, I encouraged him to touch my breasts. It hurt a little for him to massage my breasts through my blouse and wire bra. I took a chance and opened my blouse and took off my bra. I was scared to death. Revealing my breasts and asking him to take them into his mouth was a major step for me, major. He indicated he was enjoying my body but never, ever advanced to new territory without asking me first. I was in charge of designating the erotic areas where touching or kissing was allowed.

After considerable self-counseling, I decided one night to go what would have been beyond my comfort zone months ago. I asked Stan if I could touch his penis. He consented of course. I started with rubbing it with my hands outside of his pants. As I increased the speed and depth of rubbing, he asked me to stop. He informed me that he was about to ejaculate. Stan said I would have to stop since he didn't want to shoot off into his underwear. He seemed shocked when I asked, "Couldn't you just take it out?"

Soon I had my hands on his bare penis. It was leaking considerably. He handed me his handkerchief to cover the head. I stroked his dick until he shot off into the handkerchief. I imagine he felt better than I did, but I felt really good about what I was able to do for him. I thought he deserved it for patiently waiting for me.

I assumed he would want to do the equivalent to me, but he didn't ask. I was so aroused I had no trouble asking him to finger me. Stan seemed so grateful. It was like I had just donated a huge amount to the charity named Stan Beckman. I opened my legs and pulled my panties to one side. My pussy was on display for him. He proceeded slowly like he was enjoying the view. His strokes were slow and gentle. After he increased his speed, I was well on my way to orgasm. When he added another finger, that was enough to trigger my first orgasm ever from Stan. It was only the first of many climaxes that would come in the following months.

Our next milestone was oral sex. Again, I was the one who initiated it. I took his handkerchief and instead of putting it on his head and stroking him, I held it at the base and took his penis in my mouth. It was my first blowjob, not counting what I probably did during my rape, and if you don't count my practices on bananas and cucumbers. I guess I did okay because he came very quickly. Although he warned me and was willing to pull out, I made the last-second decision to try and swallow his cum. It was messy as his first shots were so strong, I choked a bit and coughed up much of his cum. His handkerchief caught most of the spillage. Stan apologized profusely. I just laughed and said, "I guess I need more practice at that." He smiled. I did get to practice more, and I did get better.

Stan insisted on going down on me that night although I told him it wasn't necessary. Stan convinced me he wanted to. He would be the first to do that to me that I could remember. I have heard that there is no such thing as a bad blowjob. I think that might apply to carpet munching also. Stan was slow and deliberate at first letting my second orgasm to build. His speed in his tongue movements increased as he reached my clitoris. I surprised myself by squirting. I had never done that before. Now I was the one apologizing. He asked me not to worry. Luckily, he had a towel in his trunk, and he wiped up my excretions. We would be better prepared next time.

I sensed it was time for the big double discussion: vaginal sex and the possibility of marriage. They didn't have to be linked, but it would make sense to talk about both at the same time. By now, I was sure Stan was the man I wanted to marry. I had never had any indication that he was interested in any other woman. I hesitated talking with him about those subjects because I hadn't made my mind up about the gorilla in the room: my rape. I challenged myself. Do I have to tell him? If so, do I tell him before we talk about marriage? I was conflicted to say the least.

When you move as slowly as we had in developing our relationship, the need to be totally honest developed as well. That was the main reason I decided I had to tell him.

"Stan, I think we both see where our relationship is going. There is something I have to tell you before we go any further. Please bear with me, it's very hard for me to talk about."

"Take your time. You know I love you."

"And I love you too." I took a deep sigh to get up my courage. "Here goes. During my freshman year at State, I went to a fraternity party. I was slipped a date rape drug. I had sex of all kinds with I don't know how many men. I waited too late to report the rape to be able to get any legal justice. You're the first man I've been able to be intimate with ever since. I will understand if you want to quit dating me." I was crying by the time I was finished.

I looked up at Stan. He was crying too. He was crying a lot. All he said was, "I'm so sorry that happened to you. So very sorry. I will do my best to help you forget." I was touched by his reaction. He really seemed sad, almost as devastated as I was. We hugged and cried together for a long time. I had the man I was meant to be with as far as I was concerned.

*****

MARRIAGE

Our married life was good: comfortable rather than spectacular, but good. We both had nice entry level jobs and neither of us had any bad habits to throw away money on. Stan was the most attentive husband that ever lived, at least that's what my colleagues said when I told him what all he did for us at home. The standard division of duties was that I cooked, but being always on call, sometimes I had to leave before cooking supper. Sometimes I left in the middle of a meal. Stan was always ready to cook for himself, leaving me leftovers. No matter who cooked, Stan washed, dried and put away the dishes. All the cleaning downstairs was Stan's chore. It always looked immaculate. All the outside chores and car maintenance were his. The upstairs cleaning and laundry were mine unless . . . Stan would do my chores any time my schedule caused me to miss doing them at the usual time. Never once did he complain. I can't even remember us saying a gruff word to each other, much less arguing.

His job was 8 to 5, no overtime or weekends. Business trips were rare. Mine was the one with possible odd hours as I was called by hospital emergency room staff to counsel possible rape victims which usually occurred late in the night or early in the morning. The hardest part of my job was to try to comfort victims who wound up not seeking legal remedies. Next to that in disappointment were the women who refused to press charges. It was a hard job. An emotionally exhausting job. I could not have made it if I hadn't had the experience I did. I can honestly say I did some good for a lot of women. I can also honestly say there were more I wished I could have helped.

Our love life was erratic. After counseling sessions when I returned home, Stan was always there to be what I needed. Sometimes I needed a shoulder to cry on or a tension-relieving back rub. Sometimes I only needed to say, "I don't want to talk about it tonight." Sometimes I wanted to make slow, caring love. Sometimes I wanted to fuck like I was on fire. Stan was always ready to give me what I needed. Although I was gone at odd hours, I never had a hint that he might have a lover while I was gone. In return, I never saw an indication that he was worried about me being unfaithful. We trusted each other completely.

In our years of marriage, I only had one concern about Stan. I was afraid that the husbands of my female colleagues would beat him up because of how many times Stan was held up as an example of what a real husband should be. I had no idea I was about to be blindsided.

*****

THE SECRET IS DISCOVERED

As a rape counselor, I was required to acquire a certain number of continuing education credits every year. That meant I periodically went to trainings where other rape counselors were also there. In one training, I met Donna, the rape counselor who I had talked to after I was raped. She remembered me and we spent a lot of our free time after the classes together. When she asked about nightmares and how well I had moved on. I told her that I was able to move on when I forgave my rapists, one of the hardest things I ever had to do. It was necessary, however, for me to finish healing. Soon after, my nightmares stopped. She said that was what he had been hoping for me. She said I was brave, which I had never thought I was.

I brought her up-to-date with my work and terrific marriage to Stanley Beckman. I described how Stan and I worked together for the strengthening of our marriage. I believed we became more in love every day. I excitedly told her that we would be starting a family soon, hoping for at least two children. She got a concerned look on her face but didn't say why. I didn't worry about it.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from her. She sounded upset. She said there was something to tell me she wished she didn't have to. "Val, when you told me who you married, I thought I recognized the name, but I didn't want to make a mistake about what I suspected. I did some research and found out, unfortunately, it was what I feared."

"You're scaring me, Donna. What did you find out?"

"Stanley Beckman was probably one of the men who raped you at the fraternity party."

The elevator in my brain dropped a hundred stories in five seconds. I dropped to my knees. What she said was not possible, could not be possible. Not my Stan. No fucking way.

"Donna, how could you say something like that? Stan is my husband and he loves me. I love him. I know he couldn't have done anything like that. It must be someone with the same name. Don't you think I know my own husband? How could you be so cruel?" I started crying.

"You think I would make a charge like that without being absolutely sure? His name was one of the names the witnesses mentioned when the police interviewed them. If he wasn't one of the rapists, he was definitely involved. He was seen in the room where you were raped. Check with his parents about where he went to school, what fraternity he belonged to. Better yet, ask him point blank. I'm sorry to bring back the bad memories, but I couldn't let you go another day without you knowing the truth about your husband. I hope he wasn't one of the rapists, but he's not telling you something. What you do with the information you find is up to you. I wish you well."

I had not cried as much as I did that day since my rape. I could not believe it, but I could not avoid finding out the truth either. I had met his mother several times before and she seemed to like me. When I thought about it, I did remember that Stan never left me alone with her, and he seemed nervous whenever I was around her. I called her when Stan was not there.

"Valerie, how nice of you to call. How are you? Better yet, how are you coming along on getting me some grandchildren?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Look, I'm trying to get ahold of some college friends of Stan's. What do you remember from Stan's college days that might help me track them down?"

"Well, he graduated from Boston College, but he started at State. Something happened at State and he transferred. I'm not sure who his friends were there. I can send you the names of several of his closest friends from Boston College though."