Rachel S. Heslin
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A couple of weeks back, Derek posted an entry on date rape. After some mental vascillation, I've decided to weigh in with my own $0.02.

When I was 18, I flirted with a bass guitarist. This wasn't unusual: I flirted with a lot of bassists. This bassist invited me to see his band play at the Troubadour. It was the end of summer, just before my sophomore year at UCLA, and I'd been staying with a friend in the dorms while I looked for a place to live. Since the gig would run late and they'd just put in all those security measures at the dorms, I was concerned that I wouldn't be able to get in. The bassist said I could crash at his place after the gig, and he'd give me a ride back in the morning.

I thought he was a gentleman. I thought he meant he had a couch I could use. What can I say? I was young and naive.

I told him I didn't want to have sex, but he kept pressuring me. I was scared. I didn't have a car, and I didn't know where I was to have someone pick me up. I felt like I was dependent on him.

He didn't physically threaten me, and he used a condom, so it couldn't be rape, right? When he was done, I cried myself to sleep.

Did I press charges? No. I figured it was my own stupidity that had gotten myself into the situation.

But it still felt like rape.

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