MR. ROTHCHILD: The Scenario of a Rape 


There are 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 am treated with great respect at the law firm.

Mr. Rothchild asked me to host a show at Barnsdale Park Exhibition Center on February 22nd. He said that his partner Mr. Levin would be overseeing the evening and if I had any questions he’d be available to assist me.

I agreed to stand at the entrance, greet, and welcome the guests who arrived by invitation only.

I had mixed feelings about Mr. Levin. Sure, he acted all superior strolling in his two thousand dollar suits, and he could have been the picture of elegance if not for his arrogance. It was his certainty that he could seduce me that I found insulting. Mr. Levin thought he could order me to do a task for him and he never once said a word of thanks.  His secretary tells me he’s a difficult man to please. It is obvious he thinks I’m beneath him, therefore I should behave accordingly and crave to do his bidding.

Mr. Rothchild said Levin would drive me to the art exhibition.  Levin picked me up at my apartment on Palm Drive. I met him downstairs at the curb at 7PM.

I was enjoying the event, but it had turned difficult because Mr. Levin was drinking too much champagne and he was getting too flirty with me.  I thought that odd since we don’t exactly get along. I stayed well away from him, letting him Schmooze with the higher echelon. Standing on my feet in high heels for hours trying to be attentive to the guests who were also gulping down champagne proved a challenge as well since I was constantly bothered by Levin.

When the evening was over he seemed to be walking okay, but I asked anyway, “Are you okay to drive?”

He took great offense at the idea that he might be drunk which awakened his sinister ego, and 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 to him, and I may just risk being left there to find my own way home which in retrospect would have been a better choice.

When he pulled up in front of my apartment he insisted on taking on the gentlemanly task of walking me up. I live in a Deco architectural building with all the apartments enclosed in an upstairs hallway.

We climbed the stairs and I unlocked my door and stepped in. Unfortunately, he tried to do the same. I sighed, realizing immediately I should not have allowed him up there. I insisted I was very tired and thanked him for walking me up.

But instead,  he took a step forward, his body inside my doorway, “You don’t really want me to leave, do you?”

I said, “Yes, go, please”.

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.

I was weary, asking myself How in the world did I get into this situation? That’s when he swung in and tried to force me to kiss him.  I turned my head away. He took my jaw in his hand and held it hard.

“You know you want me, stop playing coy.”

I shouted, “Get the fuck out! Please, I only want to get some sleep.”

I don’t know why I thought using the word please would mean anything, or that I could talk sense into a drunk. But it surprised me when he took hold of my wrists and forced me down on my sofa, unzipped his fly and pressed 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.

He finished fast and passed out with his full weight on me. I just lay there waiting, trying to breathe. I tried pressing on his heavy shoulders, but couldn’t budge him.  I realized I should have screamed, but it happened so fast I was paralyzed. I tried scratching him with my nails, and finally, he moaned, came to and moved off me, stood, zipped his trousers, went out the door.

I didn’t sleep. All I could think of was I have 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 and blithering, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you…you’ve got to forgive me!”

I have to forget this? 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 where a large box with a white bow sat. 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. Rothchild without putting my job at risk.