“Scotty give me the phone. I want to talk to Kat.” I said last night after a few beers. I’d been listening to her drama story for a bit on speakerphone and wanted to weigh in on it. “Hi Kat.”
“Hi.”
“Look Frank hitting something in frustration is forgiveable. It’s not a person he hit. He’s a bit of a dog, you know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
I continued. Everything is crazy and chaotic for all signs right now, which I am blaming on Uranus being in close transit to the full moon, which falls in my personal house of siblings. I knew about the rape allegation from Samantha before. I also knew enough about the situation to take it with a grain of salt. Samantha’s mother, who is physically in very poor health but who has all of her mental faculties, was threatened by her daughter’s talk of moving out and being with her lover. Pressure was put on Sam in something where it was obvious to me that she had been the aggressor. Her mother had some type of guardianship of her 40 year old daughter and argued that she lacked the mental faculties to consent to sex, hence the rape accusation. Frank moved on quickly from the blow.
Scotty’s most recent foray into the Opportunity Village sponsored Las Vegas bowling league has yielded some interesting results. I’ve discovered that the developmentally disabled community is sometimes more mature about issues of romantic attraction than anybody else is. Perhaps I side with Frank because he is the first person outside of Thai immigration to address me as Amy verbally in 30 years. He had trouble with my first name and I told him that I went by my middle name sometimes and it stuck.
“Look, Kat. I guess what I’m asking you in real terms is, did you want to be with Frank at the time? I mean do you want to be with him now?”
“I mean yeah. I guess.” Kat answered.
Don’t shrug it off honey. Own it. “Look I had an incident with a guy a few years ago in Thailand. He sort of snuck into our house and pretended to be my husband.” Both Scotty and my mother were listening by this point. “Every time I thought about it. And everytime I was drunk, I’d say the same thing. I want that motherfucker dead.”
“Oh wow.” Kat commented.
“Look I’ve been with guys before my husband. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking at the time. Usually I was in love, but sometimes I might have been bored or curious. It didn’t work out. But that didn’t make it rape. I chose them at the time for whatever retarded reason in my soul’s journey. I can own up to it. ”
“Yeah. I understand.” Kat said.
“So I guess what I can say is, no buyer’s remorse here. Frank is trying the best he can. We all are.”
One of the interesting research studies that my mentor at the University, professor Elizabeth Allgeier, lectured about involved mock rape trials. This was back in the day when research into human sexuality was divided into two genders, which certainly made things easier. They presented evidence of a woman accusing a man of rape where the jury was either composed of all men or it was composed of all women. The mock rape trials involved what I call 50 Shades of Grey accusations where the guilt of the man is not clear cut. Maybe the woman accuser drank alcohol excessively and doesn’t seem to remember what happened, or perhaps she gave mixed signals, saying yes at first and no later. There was a statistically significant difference between the all male and the all female juries in who was more likely to convict the man of rape.
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