MR. ROTHSCHILD: The Scenario of a Rape
Forty attorneys and I know each one by name and extension number. I have so far achieved an excellent reputation which is understood because I’m treated with great respect at the law firm.
Mr. Rothschild asked me to host his art exhibit at the Barnsdale Park Exhibition Center on the twenty-second of February.
“Mr. Levin would be overseeing the evening. If you have any questions I’ll be available to assist you.”
I agreed to stand at the entrance, greet, and welcome the guests who arrived by invitation only.
But I had mixed feelings about Mr. Levin. Sure, he acted all superior strolling through my office in his two thousand dollar suits. He could have been the picture of elegance if not for his arrogance. It was his certainty that he thought he could seduce me that I found insulting. He thought he could order me to do a task for him and never once say a word of thanks. It is obvious he thinks I’m beneath him, therefore I should behave accordingly and crave to do his bidding.
“Levin will drive you to the art exhibition,” Mr. Rothschild said. I was waiting downstairs when Levin picked me up at my apartment on Palm Drive at seven PM.
In the beginning, I was enjoying the event, but it had turned difficult around eight PM because Mr. Levin was drinking the champagne and behaving way too flirty with me. I thought it odd since we don’t exactly get along, and so I stayed well away from him, watching him Schmooze with the higher echelon.
Standing on my feet in high heels for hours trying to be attentive to the guests proved challenging so I was relieved when the evening concluded. He seemed to be walking okay, but I asked anyway, “Are you okay to drive?”
I’d obviously awakened his sinister ego. He growled, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He wasn’t acting any more of an ass than usual, so I let it go. Arguing the question would be way too offensive, and I might risk being left there to find my own way home which in retrospect would have been a better choice.
He pulled up in front of my apartment and shut off the engine.
He slurred, “I’ll walk you up.”
I opened the passenger door, “No thanks, I’m fine.”
But he insisted on taking on the gentlemanly task. I live in a Deco architectural building where all the apartments are enclosed in upstair hallways. I always try to enter silently, so I don’t disturb my neighbors.
We climbed the stairs, I unlocked my door, “Thank you, goodnight,” and stepped in removing my shoes from my sore feet. Unfortunately, he leaned on the door and placed his foot over the threshold. I sighed, realizing immediately how stupid I was to allow him up there.
He was holding the door open when I tried to push it closed, “I said goodnight, I’m very tired, goodbye.”
He wouldn’t let me shut the door like some six-foot-two door-to-door salesman his fingers holding onto the top of the molding with his foot in the door. I wondered exactly how much champagne he’d had to drink because this angered him. That’s when he swung in and tried to force a kiss. I turned my head away, but he took my jaw in his hand and held it hard.
“You know you want me. Stop playing coy!”
“Please, get the fuck out!”
I don’t know why I thought using the word please would mean anything, or that I could talk sense into a drunk. He surprised me when he took hold of my wrists and forced me down on my sofa. He unzipped his fly and pushed my skirt up around my waist. He tore my underwear and slammed into me hard while I tried to free myself, but I was pinned down and helpless.
Levin finished fast and passed out with his full weight on me. I lay there waiting, trying to breathe. I pressed on his heavy shoulders but couldn’t budge him, then realized I should have screamed. It happened so fast that I was paralyzed. I tried scratching him with my nails, and finally, he moaned, came to and moved off me. He stood, zipped his trousers, walked out the door.
I was wide awake. All I could think of was that I had to go to the office in the morning. I tried to forget, pretending it didn’t happen, but I started worrying. How could I show up at the firm after what he’d done? How could he?
I was still in shock when my phone woke me at 2 AM.
I picked it up.
Levin’s voice was on the line, mumbling softly like a child blithering, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you…you’ve got to forgive me!”
I have to forget that? Forgive and forget? Was he nuts? Then it hit me, the son of a bitch realizes I’m in a position to scream rape. It was rape! Oh my god, I thought, I have his cum in me!
He was a guilty man terrified that I’d called the police. I guess I should have. If even one of my neighbors heard us standing in the doorway, me telling him to get out, and his masculine voice refusing–he was toast! It came to me that he was more worried than I was; that I did have the upper hand.
But I was nervous, not at all confident when I arrived at my desk the following morning to find a large box with a white bow. From Levin of course. I dumped it in the trash.
Later that afternoon a bouquet of pink roses with no card appeared. It also went in the trash. The worst that could happen was if I actually reported him. A woman who cries rape is considered a suspicious person. I couldn’t tell anyone, and that meant he could continue to taunt me. But I was now very sure he was more worried than I was, especially since his wife is one of the attorneys at the firm.
He stayed clear of me for a while after that. But that changed. He’s been threatening me with his stares. He should feel safe enough since I haven’t pointed my finger. I think he’s angry though and I can’t say exactly why. Now, he terrorizes me and I ask myself why I didn’t report this in the first place.
I’m dependent on this job and wish to continue hosting the art openings. I did nothing wrong and felt I couldn’t bring this up with Mr. Rothschild without putting my job at risk.