Dear little rapist.


Dear Little Rapist,

Don’t worry Brock, you’re safe now, hidden behind the high gates of your father’s money, a member of an insular community that praises your transgressions with a wink and a pat on the back.  In private, Daddy and the guys call your victim a, “slut” and a”whore” or whatever unclever epithets they can hobble together.  Certainly, they blame her for your recent distress.

That same father, Dan Turner, whose livelihood revolves around creating weapons of mass destruction (military contractor) and palling around with Senators, writes to the judge, that you Brock, are “totally committed to educating other college age students about the dangers of alcohol consumption and sexual promiscuity.”

To me, it seems like cheap, off-the-mark pandering.  It’s not the judge he’s appealing to but the public, for whom the letter automatically becomes a civil record.  Daddy Dan doesn’t need to kiss Judge Aaron Persky’s ass, as he’s one of you, a former lacrosse player for, and alumni of, Stanford.  Your father would like that we see alcohol as the catalyst causing your behavior and that you were somehow under the voodoo powers of, “promiscuity”.  The purpose of the selected vocabulary is to implant the subliminal idea that this devil word could act as an autonomous force, thrusting itself upon the unsuspecting, making good boys like you mad with unquenchable lust.  Promiscuity is a mean-spirited and inherently judgmental word that serves the secondary purpose of calling into question your rape victim’s character.


I don’t write this as an outsider, wanting to punish you for the luck of your birth and the opportunities it has afforded you.  I too, am the product of a private secondary school and a four year stint at a prestigious university.  During my time there, I to went to parties where goers found themselves similarly, crawling-on-all-fours drunk.  However, never once did I decide, “This evening would be an appropriate time for rape.”  I’m certainly not patting myself on the back by stating that I’ve never raped someone.  Not doing so should be a part of your default programming, the same kind that tells a person to breath or eat and should still function when you’re hammered.

You, little rapist, are just as capable of blacking-out drunk. What if on January 17th, 2015, Brock were the one who lost consciousness, only to wake up pinned face down behind a dumpster, with a man inside of you and there was nothing you could do to stop it, except pray for him to be a two-pump-chump and not a marathoner?  Later, a nurse would administer a rape kit. They’ll collect the cum that’s bloodily oozing from your anus and say that they’ll have it analyzed but never do because of, “budget cuts”.  Would six months in county lock up seem sufficient for your rapist, especially if you knew he would spend three years of probation coddled by a doting mother and permissive father, surrounded by comfortable opulence and affluence?  No, you’d want to see his ass rot in prison for the maximum, life if you could.  Perhaps you’d find some schadenfreude in the idea that while there, he too, would experience rape.  Why then shouldn’t your victim feel these same emotions or expect a different outcome?  What’s that?, “”It’s worse because that’s, “gay stuff”.””  But you see, rape isn’t about sex, it’s about power gained through violence and getting what you want no matter the pleas to stop.  Dear ole’ Dad made it clear in his letter that, “He (Brock) has no prior criminal history and has never been violent to anyone including his actions on the night of January 17th, 2015.”  Despite the weakness of your father’s prose and exposition, he certainly knows violence, as it’s what he creates for a living.  I doubt this is wobbly-minded cognitive dissonance.  Instead, to him the metrics of what constitutes violence are clearly skewed by the victim’s finances, social affiliations and gender, rather than universal objectivity.

The thing is Brock, if the time ever comes where you’re the victim, you don’t get to select a rapist, he chooses you.

In Sincere disgust,

Robert Creekmore




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