Sisters: From a real rape victim to #MeToo moneymakers

“Rapey” is awkward. Rape is hell. But rapey gets you a lot more stuff.

Ann Sterzinger
6 min readDec 2, 2018

I would never wish actual rape on someone. Because you never recover. That moment will always be with you.

But I do wish some of you ladies could understand the difference between rape and “rape.”

“Rape” means having sex that maybe you didn’t want but you went along cause you were drunk and it leaves you feeling ooky afterward. Rape rape means that you were at least as worried about dying right then as you were worried about dying of AIDS later.* Every method of killing you that you imagined him choosing to hide the crime will always have sort of happened, somewhere in your mind.

Oddly, the worst thing about rape is that part: yeah, you’re being raped, which sucks, but how much worse is it going to get when he begins to choke you for real? Can you hear it when your trachea snaps? Or is it more of a crushing sound? Can you feel it? Will individual veins in your skull leak, or will they explode? How much will you hear? How much pain will there be before your system shuts you down? And those final moments, when you must go completely mad from pain and fear— how long will they seem?

Ah, my dear. That boy was so manipulative about getting you into bed! Buying you all those presents, strumming that guitar, and then he got you drunk… it’s high time you ruined his life. Sure, you never actually said no… but if he cared enough to read your mind, he would have realized he’s a gross dweeb.

Do they still teach kids the story about the boy who cried wolf?

Since #Metoo took the fashionable world by storm, the same thing is happening with girls and rape.

But it’s happening all twisted: the girls who lie about rape aren’t the ones who pay the piper (to mix my fairy tales). Seems it’s you trust-fund entertainment hopefuls, the YouTube flowers, the fresh-faced collegiate creeps who point the finger at innocent men; no matter how ridiculous your accusations, you’re rewarded. Then shmucks like me who live in shitty neighborhoods get brutally raped, and half the Internet yells that we have AIDS and we made the whole thing up.

But come on, Ann… even if in this particular case it wasn’t really rape, it’s the principle that matters: we have to raise consciousness about what women worldwide must endure when their friendzone inmates attempt to scale the walls. That was the worst thing that ever happened to me! Our voices must be heard!

Consciousness-raisers like you really make a difference in the world. Unfortunately, it’s never the kind of difference you want (or pretend to want) to make.

(But if you have a REAL conscience, you can help a starving rape victim instead of a pampered twat:) the real MeToo fund.

Actual rape and sex abuse will never be treated seriously again, thanks to fake accusations, #metoo, and #believeallwomen. Thanks, morons. At least you’ve provided an example of unintended consequences that literally needs to be in textbooks.

It breaks my heart that you had an awkward date, my sister. It’s nice that they discreetly blurred your face, though. Good for you—ya really stuck it to that rotten, awkward comedy nerd who couldn’t figure out whether you actually wanted his cock after he bought you all that stuff!
This is the allergic, full-body rash* (see edit) that I got after I fled Chicago (realizing the cops would do nothing for at least 8–12 months; in Chicago, the PD has so many dead people to clean up that other forms of violence are kind of pussy shit that they’ll get to when they get to it, so quit whining; your rapist has every right to go on peacefully living two doors down) and found the mouse and possum shit hadn’t been cleaned from the suburban LA guesthouse I was hurriedly moving into. My face will probably always be a scarred mess. My legs were once my nicest looking feature, and now I have puffy-ankled grandma edema that doesn’t seem to have any intention of ever going away. Aside from my ankles, the rest of me looks like a stick insect; likely because everything tastes like trying to eat glue. The antibiotics gave me a UTI that makes every piss feel like I’m giving birth to Satan through my urethra. And a shocking percentage of my “friends” have taken a dump on my head. *Edit: The second “doctor” I saw online says I actually have typhus from the possum fleas. Fortunately, I’m bizarrely difficult to kill, so the rash and the couple days’ fever and disorientation seem to have been the worst of it. “TYPHUS?!” you say? Yes, I am aware that it is the current year, and I am not at Dachau; try telling that to fleas, though. (It actually seems to be a fad in SoCal now—well, you knew I was always literally bleeding edge.) But jeez, at least no one bought me the wrong color of wine! EDIT #2: Ha ha, I actually wound up in a coma from the typhus! I honestly thought I was going to get off with a rash and a fever. Famous last words. GOOD TIMES, as Steve Walker used to say before he decided going SJW would be better for his acting career than being loyal to his old friends.

I hope the book deals, TV appearances, not getting caught cheating, political bartering, followers, clicks, etc. were really fucking worth what you’ve done to people who have been violently humiliated, feared for their lives, had their immune systems destroyed by megadoses of antibiotics, bled cash and time, and then been called liars by liars. I really fucking hope you properly savored your 15 minutes.

Because now real rape accusations mean nothing. Especially if you don’t play for teams, or for the right team. If you’re poor, genuinely voiceless, and/or obscure. If you’re an outsider, things go a little different. First you get raped, then you get called a liar. Out here, outside of your bubble, people have gotten used to hearing “rape” and thinking “bullshit.”

But you? God, you probably got a fistful of the finest mood-mending pills each month from your sympathetic mental health practitioner. Or maybe even a shot at writing for the Nation, which you somehow blew; talent and lying don’t always go together. Oh, you probably got money, too, right? Fabulous, I hope you spent it in joy and pleasure.

(Note: obviously, this is only directed at those of you who are lying, or whose stories are more like “drunken regret.” The latter may be unpleasant, but it is NOT IN THE SAME UNIVERSE as rape, ma petite soeur.)

Real rape means you can’t have roommates to save money anymore. Because as long as you can hear someone walking around your living space (“QUIT FUCKING WALKING, ASSHOLE” is not something you can say to people and not sound completely insane), you’ll never feel safe. That innocuous noise could always be him again, that faceless coward, creeping barefoot up behind you in the dark like a worm as you work, about to clamp the foul stale hand of a worthless man over your mouth and nose, stopping your breath until, ashamed and panicking for lack of oxygen, you slowly quit struggling and begin instead to comply with your own total degradation.You’ll never go back to being someone who has never begged someone to please, please, just don’t rape me that hard. You’ll never forget the SMELL of the hand that was holding your head forward to try to stop you from getting a good look at his face. Pretty clever for a stupid animal. Except you got a glance when he was gloating, and the stupid animal also left his DNA in you. Which means he’ll go to jail, but you’ll have to take so many antibiotics you’ll be pissing fire for years. He will always be a pair of feet and a stench; he’s a taker of Italian showers, shit cologne slapped over weeks of unbathed schizophrenia. And he got to take you.

He called you baby.

To wish rape on anyone would make me subhuman—and being human is bad enough.

But for you, I would come damn. Fucking. Close.

Do you joke about your “attacker” being careful about picking up the soap in the prison shower? Does that amuse you?

Because I’m not your only victim. Imagine being the person who went to jail for a rape that didn’t happen. He will never recover either. Who needs flashbacks when every day is spent physically locked inside of someone else’s profitable falsehood? The irony will not elude him when he’s actually being raped thanks to your false accusation. I can’t even imagine the terror of prison rape, especially if the guards don’t like you. “Pick up the soap.” Yeah, ha ha ha, SISTERS. By the time he gets out, he will not be him.

That’s an entire life. You took it in your hands. You smashed it into nothing. Book deals are so hard to get, though! What else were you supposed to do—waste your life learning to write, like I did? Pffft. Anyone who’s not an old idiot knows that shortcuts are the only paths that still go anywhere.

It’s not a good thing if he serves his sentence and then gets out and actually rapes you. But I can’t guarantee it won’t give me a laugh.

May every scoop of caviar turn to ash on your lying, filth-layered tongue.

You can never scrub it clean. No more than I can. It will always be with you.

I guess we’re sisters.

*Legal note: Not that I’m a lawyer, but I think there needs to be a new legal designation that divides violent rapes from drunken grey-area cases. Sure, there are assholes who manipulate drunk women (and men). Maybe there should be some punishment for that, although it certainly puts a damper on what used to be the fun of drunken youthful romping. But should they be stamped with the same legal and social stigma as someone who chooses you at random, breaks into your home or steals you on the street, and threatens your life?



Ann Sterzinger

Author of NVSQVAM, DISASTER FITNESS, the upcoming ELEKTRA’S REVENGE sci-fi epic, & the action novella SEINE VENDETTA. Editor of YOU’RE ALL PUSSIES.