Date Rape, Rufies and How I Became a Sacred Sexual Healer

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scarlet_amorTRIGGER ALERT: In light of the media hype around the Brock Turner Stanford rape case and the powerfully brave letter his female victim read to her attacker in court, I feel called to share my personal story of rape and recovery.
If you are a victim of rape, sexual abuse or sex crimes, please call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800.656.HOPE for guidance and support.

It was 1993: I was 17 years old, a junior in high school, and going through a drunk party slut phase.

Me and my bestie did what we always do on a Saturday night. Lie to our parents about sleeping over at each other’s homes, dress up in high waisted sexy bootie shorts and push up bras, hit up the liquor store with my fake ID, and then head up the 405 freeway to Balboa Island to party with all the college students.

I liked older men. I liked drinking. I liked breaking the rules. And I liked casual sex. I was an easy lay for the right guy.  At the time, it felt empowering to me.


flappers-2We found parking on a side street and hit the main strip of small beach shacks full of raging college-aged house parties. Our game was to crash the parties, pretend we were 21+, grad some free beer and flirt with guys… and if we found the right catch, we’d “hook up” and feel all grown up that we shagged a twenty-something year old stud.

We had met two hotties that night that were best friends/roommates and the sparks were flying. To top the hotness off, they were Newport Beach FIREMEN! Buff, charming, and men of civil service. On that note, we felt it was safe to go back to their place down the street for a private cocktail.

We paired off with our prospective studs as my guy mixed us drinks at the makeshift bar set up in a corner of the living room. A velvet poster of Jimi Hendrix hanging on the wall was glowing in the blacklight. I already had a buzz, but was notorious for being able to hold my liquor down. I will never forget the look in my date’s eyes when his roommate asked him, “Make sure you mix these ladies a stiff one!” There was this odd spark of power, mischief and some unspoken secret between the two that scared me.

Within a few sips I was a puddle on the dirty beer stained futon on the floor (their version of a couch). My date kept making sure I drank the whole cup, calling me sweetie pie and other pet names as he stuck his tongue down my throat. I felt sick, woozy, my head spinning and muscles no longer working. I knew there was something wrong, because I still had a few more rounds to go before I reached that level of drunkenness.

The motherfuckers rufied our drinks. {What is a date rape drug?}

1926704_538783459574298_691967549_nLast thing I remember was him throwing me over his shoulder (he’s a fireman, remember?) and carrying me into his room as I called out to my girlfriend in a slur, “I think we should go home now…” But she didn’t hear me because she and her date were having a grand old time making out on the living room floor and her shirt was already off.

I slipped in and out of consciousness. Every time I woke up I discovered more layers of my clothes were ripped off as he had his way with me. With the miniscule amount of consciousness I had left, I’d try to push him away and scream, “NO STOP I WANT TO GO HOME!!!” But he had drugged me. And he was very strong.

Once I was able to scratch him in the eye with a loose hand in defense, he started beating me. Hard. Fists. Blood. Pain. Scratches. And his stinging words, “Shut up you fucking slutty bitch!” as he slapped me down again. My vagina was on fire as he pounded away at me with a pillow stuffed over my face so I couldn’t breathe or scream. With every ounce of effort I tried to fight him off and speak those two simple and powerful words… NO. STOP.

I lost all will to live when I woke up to find him raping me in the ass from behind. He had a big dick. I’ve never had it in the ass before. The only lube he used was my own blood from my bleeding rectum. I stopped fighting because I was afraid he was going to murder me anyways. He was very strong and all worked up in a frenzie. I purposely lost consciousness for good at that point.

1495455_538278479624796_1414301531_nHis snoring woke me up. In a haze, I see the glow of the digital clock by the side of the bed click over to 4:13am. I couldn’t breathe because the weight of his muscular half dressed body was slumped on top of me. My muscles barely worked, weak and wobbly, but strong enough to push him off of me as quietly as possible. My biggest fear was that he would wake up and kill me.

He raped me, and he knew it.

I had to muffle my cries of pain as I fumbled around the half lit room for my clothes. I used my underwear to stop the bleeding down in my crotch. Bra was ripped in half so I left it there. Found my jacket and put that on. Slipping on my tight jean shorts was misery. Only one shoe, so I decided to go barefoot.

With every single move I had a silent prayer that this fireman would not wake up. Please God, just let him keep sleeping! I crawled on my hands and knees to the door, fumbled with the lock, and found my way back to the living room.

The door was cracked to the other bedroom. I needed to grab my girlfriend and escape as soon as possible before my rapist woke up… and our parents realized we were not at home. I peak inside to find the two lovebirds wrapped in each others arms, snuggling peacefully. Gathering her clothes I nudge her, “J, wake up! We gotta go. Wake the fuck up!” She moans and snuggles in closer to her man.

Obviously he didn’t rape her.

My heart was racing from the adrenaline rush of escape. I knew I had to get away from my rapist as quick as possible, but I was not willing to leave my girlfriend here, 25 miles away from home, when her mom was due back from her night shift in a few hours. So I did the only thing I could do… which was to walk away in silence.

1920066_529006617218649_1523366926_nBarefoot and naked under my jacket, I hobbled outside into the brisk, foggy ocean air and head towards the one place that has always provided me peace and sanctuary… the ocean.

I sat on the beach, shivering and smoking the last of my broken cigarettes until the light of dawn broke. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t move. I kept touching my bruises to remind me of my humanity. I had to pee but didn’t dare to for my pussy was ripped open, swollen and raw. When the first sun rays peaked from the horizon behind me I snapped out of it and knew it was time to go.

It was only then that I began to question the situation. Should I go to the police and report it while I still had evidence on my body? That thought was quickly replaced by a greater fear… my parents finding out about my illegal adventure up north. And who would believe me anyways? I was drunk and was willingly going to fuck the guy. It was my fault. I called this onto myself. I am a drunk. I am a slut. It was all my fault.

Taking my soiled underwear from my pocket, I spit on them to wash the blood off my face, arms and legs, then buried the evidence in the sand before heading back to the beach house. My only motive was to save my girlfriend. I could not leave her there with the rapist, and my cover would be blown if she didn’t come home with me. It was time to face my fears and go inside and rescue her.

1240383_534046853381292_1782822679_nTrying not to breathe, I slip back into the house and find her still passed out in the arms of her sweet date. The only thing that got her up was me pointing to the clock to remind her that her mom would be home in an hour. The trauma made me cold sober, but she was still drugged up so I carried her out to the car parked a few blocks away.

“Shit, I left my bra at the house! Let’s go back,” she slurred.

“I left mine too. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” I drowned out her complaints about her new Victoria Secret purchase by blaring the Beastie Boys and puffing on a cigarette butt I found in the ashtray.

She went on and on about what a lovely night she had with her guy. About how sweet and romantic he was with her. About the date they planned for next weekend. About how hot the sex was. About how exciting it is to date a real fireman. About how they were falling in love with one another.

Passing the 55 Freeway as I sped home she finally asked how my night was, still not noticing the condition I was in. Apparently I am a master at covering up my pain.

“It was horrible. I never want to see that fucker again. I think they drugged us…” She tisks me, making a joke about how I am losing my party game and becoming a light weight. Then I had to pull over on the side of the freeway for her to puke out the window before I continued at lightning speed back to her house before her mom came home from her night shift at 8am.

Joan Crawford photographed by George Hurrell, 1932I couldn’t sleep, so I locked myself in the bathroom to take a long shower. I heard her mom arrive and peak into the bedroom while my girlfriend made some lame excuse for why I was up so early.

Analyzing myself in the mirror, the damage didn’t look so bad. The bruise on my face could be covered up with makeup. The scratches I can hide with long pants and a shirt (most were on my back and thighs). My pussy and ass were a fucking mess, but no one will know. I’ll blame my waddle and the bruises on my legs and arms on a cheerleading injury.

Borrowing some clean clothes from her closet, as best friends do, I shook her awake and told her we needed to talk. In a very straight to the matter voice, I explained to her the details of my evening and told her that I was date raped. I still was unable to cry, until I heard her reaction.

“That’s bullshit. You weren’t raped! Stop talking crap. You were drunk and you liked it.”

Furious, I pulled up my sweatshirt to show her the scratches on my back and pointed to the shine of a fresh black eye taking form on my face, but I had already covered it up with makeup and she didn’t believe me.

“You are lying, dude. How many times have we partied and came back with cuts and bruises? You were wasted and blacked out. My guy was so sweet to me!”

The rape never made it’s way up into my heart. But my best friend’s denial of the rape… that is what killed me.

I packed up my shit and went home, more pissed at her than at the douchebag that drugged, beaten and raped me in the ass. Our friendship went south after that. I refused to be her sidekick at any more college parties, so she found another chick to replace me. The next year passed and we graduated high school and we never talked again.

10149836_539303616188949_1658182360_nI stopped sleeping around after the rape incident, but began to drink even more heavily… sometimes with a bottle of pills.

After one half ass suicide attempt I went to my stepmom for help, puking up the bottle of vodka and pills I pounded the night before. She was a sharp woman and knew all along I was a trouble maker and would not take the bait. Instead she called me a slut, asked if I was pregnant, and forced me to go to school that morning. Later I got caught at a school function for public drunkenness and the rest of my senior year was spent in the principles office.

Towards the end of my senior year I met a local guy at the beach I frequented every day after school, a hot 24 year old surfer who rented a room in his moms apartment and had a job at an auto shop. We went steady, my first real serious boyfriend, and I started having sex again… this time with someone I loved. I felt safe with him, even though I blanked out during intercourse and would not let him go near my ass.

Because I got good grades, I escaped to an out of state college on scholarship at the end of our romantic summer together. We tried to keep dating, but by the end of my first semester in college I discovered he was fucking a girlfriend of mine back at home and it was over.

HIpNakedHippiesLuckily I landed in the arms of a new community at my college: The Dead Heads. The hippie movement guided me on a path of healing, love and freedom.

I met my first Neo-Tantra teacher at a Rainbow Gathering when I was 19 who helped me radically transform my sexual wounds and proposed that I drop out of college to travel the world and teach with him.

He said it was my destiny to help men heal from sexual addiction and empower women who have been victimized by men. The rest is Dakini history…

I quit drinking, became a health nut and was sober for a decade. I created a career as a natural health coach for women with reproductive issues and helped them heal from sexual abuse. I offered rites of passage rituals to young pre-teen girls and coached them on sexual empowerment.

I made sexual healing my life’s work and service to the world.

{Learn more about my Love Coaching Program HERE}

I tried to contact my high school girlfriend a decade later, but she ignored all my emails and phone messages. I found out at my 20th high school reunion that she had changed her name, became super religious, married a nice man and had a beautiful daughter.

I still cringe when I hear a fire truck blaring down the highway: a sound that should install safety, protection, and heroics. I chose to remain silent about my rape so I would not get in trouble with my parents – and because the only other witness, my best girlfriend, refused to testify. I am at peace now with my decision to keep it secret. My only regret is that my douchebag rapist is still walking free, drugging drunk high school party sluts in between putting out fires and rescuing kittens.

1511648_537208373065140_974194802_nI made some poor decisions in my youth. I take full responsibility for putting myself in that situation that night, but there was absolutely NO excuse for that guy to drug me, beat me, and rape me. Especially since he would have enthusiastically gotten laid that night anyways.

And yet I survived, healed, thrived and eventually became a sacred sexual healer who has guided thousands of men and women towards the path of empowered sexual love.

In a sick and twisted round about way, I may have never helped so many people over the years if it hadn’t been for that night of my rape and my choice to consciously heal my sexual wounds.


 

Women are powerful and strong creatures.

We can survive this kind of bullshit and transform ourselves into Priestesses.

Focusing on persecution of rapists after the deed is done is not the only solution.

What is needed is mentoring and guidance for the sexually active youth of today, especially the horny guys and young girls who are trying to grow up too quickly.

www.scarletamor.com


Need Help? Call 800.656.HOPE (4673) to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

Calling the National Sexual Assault Hotline gives you access to a range of free services including:

  • Confidential support from a trained staff member
  • Support finding a local health facility that is trained to care for survivors of sexual assault and offers services like sexual assault forensic exams
  • Someone to help you talk through what happened
  • Local resources that can assist with your next steps toward healing and recovery
  • Referrals for long term support in your area
  • Information about the laws in your community
  • Basic information about medical concerns

For more resources and support visit www.rainn.org


 

  • Renee Savant

    Thanks for sharing your story and bringing awareness to others.

  • JayaLove

    This is so so horrendus. I’m so glad you have been able to heal and turn it into a gift that your dharma is to help other women heal. It’s hard fucking work to heal from that shit and courageous to help others when it just reminds you of your own attack. <3