Nov. 18th, 2006 08:11 am The Seventh Rapist Not my poem. But it's beautiful. Put under a cut for those who don't want to read a poem about rape (it gets a bit graphic, yes) in prison.







The Seventh Rapist





You're different

From the others, i can tell right away.

How strange:

Soft delicate kiss on the back of my neck

As upon me your conquering body you lay,

Meeting my terror and fear

With a tentatie tongue on the lobe of my ear.

What kind of a rapist is this,

Who commences his rape with a kiss?





You're different:

You don't start with the pain of a savage attack

But with feelings of warmth from your chest on my back.

From the heat of your thighs on my sensitive ass;

And your cock not inside but on top of my crack

As you wait for my desolate sobbing to pass.





You're different.

Now soothing you whisper, with head next to mine:

"I'll take it real slow, we got plenty o' time.

It may hurt you at first, no denying the facts,

But things will go better if you can relax."

As you nibble my ear, sending chills down my spine,

How I wonder that rapist so gently attacks!





Are you different?

You wait til i'm quiet,

Then enter real slow,

Holding me down with your arms as you go;

OH!!!

A sharp stab of pain as i struggle in vain to escape from your battering-ram.

Then you soothe me once more

As i'm pierced to the core

And impaled on the flesh of a man.





You're different;

You cover me,

Motionless bodies we lay,

Until i relax

As the pain ebbs away;

Whispering comforting words in my ear,

Telling me how i have nothing to fear;

Waiting for this one to slowly adjust

To being a slave for your masculine lust.

When i am calm

It's your warmth that I feel

As you cover my body from shoulder to heel,

Protectively keeping the next one at bay.

I compare your concern

With their merciless thrust

And i suddenly want you to stay!





You're different --

So you're filling me now with your masculine power,

The seventh to rape me in less than an hour.

The difference is this:

You don't treat me like dirt;

Your body makes love where the others make hurt.

So i don't mind your vigorous fucking so much,

But mentally dwell

On the feel of your touch,

On your maleness inside me,

On being possessed,

On the feelings that girls have, and all of the rest.

--When finally your passion ascends to the height

And you lunge and you kiss me and squeeze me real tight

And you shudder and groan and you fill me with cream,

I know i've been caught

In your sexual dream.





You are different!

You whisper: "I want you to be

My own punk!

I'll keep those jocks off you,

Don't worry no more;

You'll be in my cell, babe,

And sleep in my bunk,

And if anyone hurts you, I'll even the score."

Relaxing beneath you,

Flesh still in my hole,

I consider your offer,

Ponder my role.

It's clear now: the difference is really your goal:

The six took my body,

You're taking my soul.



--Stephen Donaldson, in prison, July 12, 1981



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