Steven Weissman

I honestly don't know who I'm more pissed at, you or your friend.

When you met me, I had just come out of a shitty, borderline abusive relationship, and I thought you were a godsend. You gave me self-esteem for the first time in five years, and I am grateful for that, really. You even gave me the confidence to come to your "get-togethers." And that's when I met your friend.

The first time she flirted with me, I was kind of flattered. I told her straight off the bat that I wasn't interested—I wasn't really feeling up to dating anyone and I was straight anyway. She winked and said she could change that, which really should have been my first hint. Then you two teamed up against me, because "hooking up would do you good." My wishes, my opinions, my mental well-being, my sexual orientation—who cares about those?

I thought you were still my friend, if slightly misguided, until last week. If my ex, or any other man, had enlisted a friend to get me drunk so I'd be willing to sleep with him, you'd have been the first to punch him in the face. But because it was a woman, you were not only okay with it, you were that friend tripling my drinks. It's okay, though, because "lesbian sex will open my eyes to the fact that real sex doesn't need a penis." Apparently "real rape" does.


This article has been updated since its original publication.