I RAPE.

By Anonymous

I’m searching for prey. I am a hunter by nature. And while consuming the young, the weak, the lost, is “wrong”, it’s a wrongness that fuels my desire. To know that if I were to be detected, I would be the one hunted, adds to my enjoyment. My true nature is known to no one but my fellow hunters. I make my victims thank me for feeding upon them. The ones that don’t, I twist them with fear. They will re-enter life different, shamed, deprived of the freedom to speak. They may never see me again, but I still control their every move and thought.

I am experienced. With each preparation, I breathlessly watch and wait. I observe a sea of potential victims every day. I have honed a sixth sense, a sexual radar. It wasn’t always this way, in the years and months I spent developing my craft. But today, I see beneath my victims’ exteriors. Inside crowded rooms, my prey is easy to identify. I watch from a distance and observe how they speak to others. I note every body movement, understanding its language with practiced fluency.

I prefer someone who appears sweet, clean, and virginal. I’m not usually interested in heavier or larger targets. I like small, short, or slim types, the ones who are looking for a little care. My favorite sort is the inexperienced bookworm. With the right preparation, my choice prey will smile into my face, and be consumed.

I can see what other people cannot. Every time, I notice something in the eyes. It triggers a sensation inside me within a micro-second. I feel a flutter deep inside of me when I glimpse their spirit. A gentle soul will make my pulse throb. I can sense a true child spirit, one which obeys mother, fears father. Better yet, one who grew up fatherless, like me. My mouth waters as I sense a pliant will, like a draft in the room. Might this one become frightened or fight back? That excites me more. Does this one obey authority? When I sense a resolve that is weaker than mine, I’m attracted. I feel my fingers ache and tingle.

Sometimes I’m in the school lunch room, library, or walking the halls. Occasionally, I sit with a couple friends, and we furtively scan the room while talking about benign matters. When my friends and I prowl together, we know the secret rules to setting the trap – how to humiliate, to isolate, to become the only remaining lifeline to the rest of the pack. We work as a team. Each of us knows what to say and do around our collective target. Our teamwork is stealthy and intuitive. Tactics unfurl unspoken, but flawless, like a pack of lions. We are soundless mongrels, chasing down an invisible trail. We excel at our craft.

But mostly I hunt on my own. When I find my target, I wait. At the right moment I flash a smile. My social skills are unsurpassed. No one detects my hunger. I don’t frighten my target or anyone else around. I remain pleasant and aloof. My attitude is one of benevolence. But I know how to send forth a laser beam of animal energy, straight into their loins.

I am a master of this game. No one has any idea that I’m a panther in heat. My prey doesn’t even know that I am psychically caressing their flanks. Should they blush or appear vulnerable, my interest peaks and my heart races. That’s when I feel the dark craving swell and deepen within my gut. It’s a starvation, a growling for fresh meat, a bloodlust. Even among my friends, no one knows the extent of this hunger. I disguise it with a mask of friendship and, most of all, charm. This is the kind of challenge that I relish. Every vulnerable movement my prey makes, every weakness betrayed, I am further empowered. When they appear like a wounded fawn in a trap, I move in. I always know the next step to take.

This one I’ve been watching. I smile. Nervous eyes catch mine. I wait, and finally, when no one else is around, I move closer and speak. “Hi.”

“Hello,” he replies.

I let his uncertain movements and feelings fuel my appetite. I know he can feel my soul pressing up against his own, but he doesn’t know what to make of it. My nerves quiver. “You know, you’re one of the very best students in my class.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I like history,” Eduardo says, as his shoulders curl forward.

I like his boyish ways. They’re romantic. I am a 33 years old, more than 15 years older than him. “You’re smart. Do you have a girlfriend?”

His eyes dart away, but I detect a furtive smile. I adore him, as I smile down and again meet his gaze. His chin drops to his chest, and his face flushes. “Not really.”

My chest thrums. His shame is exposed. I feel sorrow and strength. His vulnerability and cautious trust tells me to take my time. He’s inexperienced, but I’m sure he likes the attention. I hold my gaze at his crotch. Warmth spreads through my body. I look into his eyes and smile. “That’s okay. You want one, don’t you?”

I hold my breath. He’s cute, and I feel myself liking him more and more each moment.

“Well, I think about that a lot.” He smiles.

I exhale. “Ha ha ha. That’s good, don’t you think?” I wink at him. He melts. I thrive at this response. I own the power.

“Yeah.”

“Anytime you need to talk, I’m here. We can talk about anything, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“Visit if you have something on your mind.”

I think my trap has sprung, and I feel him in my clutches.

“Okay, see you later,” he says, leaving the room with a little wave.

The next week, he hangs around in the hall after school. I see him and beckon him over. My classroom is empty, and he enters without hesitation. “Eduardo! How was your day?”

“Good.” I notice the leftover accent from a mother tongue learned from immigrant parents.

“Are you having problems?”

“Umm.” He cocks his head to one side. A boy like this slips beneath many people’s notice. His skin, the color of his hair, his clothes probably inherited from an older sibling or two, nothing escapes my notice. But no one else notices. No one is watching this boy.

“Why don’t you close the door and come here. Did you want to talk?”

My stomach whirrs. Without any words, he shuts the door and moves closer to me. I scoot aside in case someone else should walk in. He stands close as I sit and look at him eye to eye.

I lay my hand on his thigh – a comfort, a seduction. “What is it? Can I help you?”

He bites his lip. “Well, I’m afraid of women.”

A taboo! And so soon! I allow him to confide in me, to speak words unspoken to any other person. I learn the important details. His parents speak only Spanish, the old country language he is starting to forget. He can’t ask for help from them in the language of his few peers here at school. But here, his race, his poverty, his sexual ignorance, all serve to drive him farther from his peers. He can’t make a friend, let alone a girlfriend. I let myself fill a void. I let him need me.

After three such afternoon meetings, I am overwhelmed by his presence, his scent, which I would now know anywhere, so close.

“Maybe I can help teach you?”

Eduardo smiles. “But I’m 15.”

“Age is just a number.”

This maneuver takes planning and execution. But now that I am here, I am fully alive. I know other teachers do this, too. I know some of them by name. For every single male teacher loving a female student, there is another FIVE females making men of their pupils. Today, I move my head over the top of his in our first deep embrace and slowly inhale his fragrance. Up close, I feel his naïve manliness. I’m entranced by my man-boy.

Within another week, I take full advantage of him in my locked classroom after school. This first time, I take the lead. I’m careful, strong but encouraging. Soon his neck tendons stiffen, veins bulge, and eyes turn unfocused. This expression when he climaxes is everything. It is all I need. I will remember it forever. The sensation of having conquered washes over me. It’s like the moments when I achieved my life’s greatest victories. This is as good or better than when I graduated from college, the day I got married, and when I gave birth to my own son.

This first time with Eduardo is far better. The tickling of secret sex lingers. It is beyond simple ecstatic emotion. It’s better than any adrenaline rush. I have never felt this with anyone else, even my husband. Is this love? A new sort of fresh adoration is coursing through my veins. Yes, I must be in love. Hereafter, we have sex as often as possible. He always lets me be the aggressor. But I teach him everything I know. And he has fallen in love with me.

We keep our romance cloaked from the outside world as the months pass. I fall deeper in love. Eduardo and I talk marriage. I’m considering leaving my husband and marrying Eduardo. I plan for him to be my one and only true love. Of course, I’ve been here before. And I’ve discarded the remains in favor of a new hunt. But today, I let myself forget that I always toy with my prey before I finish it off. I forget that this love is a room I’ve locked myself in for only a short time. Soon I will walk out again. And I’ll walk out alone.

And so it goes. There is a pandemic of predatory female teachers raping underage boys in our middle and high schools. [i] There is also an epidemic of female guards sexually assaulting boys inside juvenile detention centers.[ii] [iii] Our society has no outrage for these atrocities, because they don’t fit our framework for what rape is. Adult females raping boys is looked at very differently than when adult males rape girls.

Most believe that boys are not harmed by female rape. This is just another lie. Rape of boys by female teachers makes us uncomfortable. Some would even grin and sweep this matter under the rug, congratulating a boy for a job well done. But this is a misunderstanding of the student-teacher relationship. As long as boys are left vulnerable to female education predation, these acts will go unreported and unpunished. And boy after boy will be scarred and stunted, victimized and alone just as he’s entering adulthood. This form of rape must be recognized and stifled, or it will only continue and grow.

[i] http://www.wnd.com/2014/08/39783/

[ii] http://www.businessinsider.com/women-abusing-males-in-juvenile-detention-2013-7

[iii] http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2015/03/idaho-juvenile-detention-sexual-abuse