Playground Foul: You're WHAT-ing Me?!

There was one swing that was significantly better than all the others on the Temple Israel playground in Tallahassee, Florida. Twas my fourth grade year and "free time" was the best part of our day at Sunday School. A line always formed itself to the side of our favorite swing and we all took our respective turns, kicking and tucking with the playtime fury perhaps only a child could truly appreciate.

After an eternity of waiting I made it to the front of the line. When my friend Beth kicked off, it was go time. I spent the next few minutes swinging myself to freedom. I had no idea what was about to happen when Aaron Q. [name changed to protect the guilty Jewboy] approached me as the swing slowed to a stop.

He said nothing until he climbed on top of me and forced his knee between my legs.

"I'm raping you," he said, casually, as if he were simply handing me a glass of water.

Then he jumped off of me and started to run. I sat there for a moment, stunned. No one was around to see this go down and my ten year old mind was trying to process what had just taken place. I had heard the word "rape" maybe once before and had no sense of what it actually entailed, but I knew it couldn't be a good thing. And whatever the hell it was, I was pissed that Aaron Q. had done it to me.

I jumped off the swing and began to chase after my assailant. Unfortunately, my zero athletic ability forced me to use the only real weapon I've ever possessed: The English Language.

"YOU BUTTHOLE!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Classy, I know. Stupid too, since Mrs. Weinstein [name changed to protect the neglectful teacher] was standing right there.

"Samantha, we do NOT name call. Apologize to Aaron."

And so, instead of informing Mrs. Weinstein that a sexual assault had just taken place on our sacred playground, I apologized to the nine year old rapist for calling him a butthole. Because I was a pussy back then.

About eight years later, Aaron Q. and his family had long since moved away. I didn't think anyone even remembered the little felon. A few of us Temple Israel seniors were hanging out when his name came up in conversation. One of my fellow female classmates took a moment to reminisce: "Dude, he raped me on the playground once. What the hell?"

What the hell indeed, girlfriend. Aaron, the serial rapist, had gotten to just about every one us with that knee of his. And he got away scot-free.

It's unlikely that Aaron Q. is still out there kneeing chicks in the crotch. I hope against hope that his disturbing behavior never escalated in the post-pubescent years, but you really never know. I did a search for him and he's definitely got an abandoned blog out there. Guy actually LOOKS like a rapist, if you can believe it. But maybe that's just because I remember him as one.

Aaron, if you're out there somewhere reading this, I know what you did was wrong - and you are still a butthole. A hairy, gaping, dingleberry-clad butthole.