欧宝娱乐

“Truth: Rape does indeed happen between girlfriend and boyfriend, husband and wife. Men who force their girlfriends or wives into having sex are committing rape, period. The laws are blurry, and in some countries marital rape is legal. But it still is rape.”
― Patti Feuereisen, Invisible Girls: The Truth About Sexual Abuse--A Book for Teen Girls, Young Women, and Everyone Who Cares About Them

“#1 Dating Tip: Make Sure Your Date has a Conscience!”
― P.A. Speers

“There are some wounds unreachable by words, some sins immune to apology.”
― Amy Hatvany, It Happens All the Time

“For what it's worth, any man who 'tries to score' with a girl he's not dating isn't much of a man in my eyes.”
― Patty Blount, Some Boys

“The girl I鈥檇 been just an hour ago was gone; she鈥檇 been obliterated. I had no idea who I was, now.”
― Amy Hatvany, It Happens All the Time

“Chief Johnson has full faith on us. Which means if I can complete this task and hunt down the murderer, not only does the chief won't feel any uncertainty on Anthony and I, but the spirits of the victims can move on. It sounds silly to believe that the undead is still around, but it is the truth. And since I have a good heart, I must use it.”
― Simi Sunny, The White Sirens

“No, I thought. No way. I love her too much. I would never do that. And then again, those two words, her voice, exploding inside my head: 鈥淭yler, wait!”
― Amy Hatvany, It Happens All the Time

“The date rape drug he鈥檇 intended to give me has knocked him out so hard he鈥檚 barely even flinched, despite being dragged to the top of a twelve-storey building, stripped naked and bound to a post.

His head lolls towards his chest. I stand back to admire him, taking in his slumped frame as he wilts against the pressure of his rope bindings. He looks Christ-like, vulnerable. His skin is grey in the murky moonlight. His body is incredible. Hardly surprising, since he seems to spend half his life at the gym. His stomach is taut, rippled with abs. His pecs are straight from a swimwear ad, his broad shoulders and ripped arms are built like a boxer鈥檚. His biceps are strong, lined with veins that will soon cease to pump blood. He has the kind of arms that could pin you down so tightly you wouldn鈥檛 be able to move a muscle. His hands are large 鈥� the least attractive part of him: dry, thick, stubby. They鈥檙e the type of hands that could grip your wrists and stifle screams. Hands that could have killed me tonight. Hands that would have hurt me. Hands that would have held me in place while he raped me.

I let my eyes wander down to his cock, which would probably have been pounding away inside me around now if things had gone his way. I could tell pretty early into our date that he was a predator. Perhaps it takes one to know one, but I could see it in his dark eyes and sly glances, the hungry way he took in my body, the type of questions he asked, his eagerness to buy me drinks. He probably didn鈥檛 think I had it in me to notice. Of course he didn鈥檛. He just saw my shiny, sweeping hair, my lashes, my clothes, my smile. He saw what everybody else sees: my mask.”
― Zoe Rosi, Pretty Evil

“I pull the fire escape door open, scoop my eyeshadow palette off the ground and slip back inside. For a moment, I pause in the corridor and catch my breath. Adrenaline is surging through me. Rage. A normal woman would call the police at this point. But a normal woman would never have been paranoid enough in the first place to pretend to go to the toilet, only to sneak out of the fire escape and spy through a window to watch what her date does when he has five minutes alone with her drink. Nope. A normal woman would have gone to the loo, done a pee and topped up her lipstick. Or she鈥檇 have texted a friend about her hot date, feeling giddy with hope and excitement.
Now, let鈥檚 think about what would have happened to a normal woman.
A normal woman would have headed back to her date, smiling prettily, before sitting down and drinking her drugged drink. Then, a short while later, that normal woman would have started feeling far more drunk than she normally does after just a couple of drinks, but she鈥檇 probably blame herself. She鈥檇 wonder if maybe she鈥檇 drunk too much. Or maybe she鈥檇 blame herself for having not eaten earlier in the day because she didn鈥檛 want to look fat in her dress. Or maybe she鈥檇 blame herself because that鈥檚 just what she does; she blames herself. And then, just as she started to feel woozy and a bit confused, her date would take her outside for some fresh air and she鈥檇 be grateful to him. She鈥檇 think he was caring and responsible, when really, he was just whisking her out of sight, before she started to look less like she was drunk and more like she鈥檇 been drugged. And then the next thing she鈥檇 know, she鈥檇 be staggering into the back of a cab and her date would be asking her to tell the driver where she lived. And when she鈥檇 barely be able to get the words out and her date made a joke to the driver about how drunk she was, she鈥檇 feel small and embarrassed. And then she鈥檇 find herself slumping into her date鈥檚 open arms, flopping against his big manly body, and she鈥檇 feel grateful once more that this man was taking care of her and getting her home safe.
And then, once the taxi slowed down and she blinked her eyes open and found they鈥檇 pulled up outside her flat, she鈥檇 notice in a fleeting moment of clarity that when the driver asked for the fare, her date thrust two crisp ten-pound notes towards him in a weirdly premeditated move, as though he鈥檇 known this moment was going to happen all along. As though he鈥檇 had the cash lined up, the plan set, and she鈥檇 feel something. Something. But then she鈥檇 be staggering out of the taxi, even sloppier than when she got in, and her legs would be buckling, and she鈥檇 cling to her date for support, her make-up now smudged, her eyes half-closed, her hair messy.
She鈥檇 look a state and he鈥檇 ask her which flat was hers, and she鈥檇 walk with him to her front door, to the flat where she lives alone. To the place that鈥檚 full of books and cute knick-knacks from charity shops and colourful but inexpensive clothes. She鈥檇 unlock her front door, her hand sliding drunkenly over the lock, and she鈥檇 lead him into the place she鈥檚 been using as a base to try to get ahead in life, and then he鈥檇 look around, keen-eyed, until he spotted her bedroom and he鈥檇 draw her in.
And then all of a sudden he鈥檇 be in her bedroom and she wouldn鈥檛 be able to remember if she鈥檇 asked him back or not or quite how this happened, and it would all be moving so fast and her thoughts would be unable to keep up 鈥� they鈥檇 keep sliding away 鈥� and he鈥檇 be kissing her and she鈥檇 be unsure what was happening as he pulled off her dress and she鈥檇 wonder, did she ask for this? Does she want this? Has she been a 鈥榮lut鈥� again? But the thoughts would be weak, they鈥檇 keep falling away and he鈥檇 be confident and he鈥檇 be certain and he鈥檇 be good-looking and he鈥檇 be pulling off her bra and taking off her knickers. He鈥檇 be pushing himself inside her.
The next day, he鈥檇 be gone by the time she woke up. She鈥檇 be blocked, unmatched...”
― Zoe Rosi

“. . . Hoffman-La Roche [the manufacturer of Rohypnol] declared that alcohol was the number one date-rape drug. . . . they put the onus on women to protect their own drinks and avoid assault. There was an air of 'Well, if you left your drink unattended. . .' or 'Well, if you didn't go out drinking. . .' as if sexual assault was not an intentional crime but rather some kind of arbitrary force of nature, like a heavy rain, that could be avoided with good planning. Spiking someone's drink sounds innocuous, but it is nothing short of evil.”
― Mallory O'Meara, Girly Drinks: A World History of Women and Alcohol

“I told him I never had whiskey. He said it was a magic cure for heartache. I believed him.”
― Diana Kouprina, Borderline: A Poetic Memoir