My rapist’s name is Andrew Paul Bean. He was born in Ohio and graduated from Perrysburg High School in 2009. He currently resides in Los Angeles, California, where he studies theatre and desires to be an actor.
My name is Tucker Reed. I was born in California, and graduated from Ashland High School in 2008. I currently reside in Los Angeles, California. I am a writer of young adult books. I was sexually assaulted by Andy in the early morning hours of December 4, 2010. I denied my victimization and remained in a relationship with him for 707 days.
How does someone from a normal, middle-class background — a Catholic, the son of two responsible, law-abiding citizens — grow up to rape his girlfriend of two weeks? I grappled with this question for nearly two years.
On October 27, 2012, I confronted Andy about his assault of me. I had confronted him twice before — the first time at 10:00 p.m. after the assault of the morning of December 4, 2010; the second time in December of 2011. The October exchange — the final confrontation — was recorded on my laptop using its Garage Band program. What follows is an abridged transcript of that conversation. Be advised, it contains strong, crude language.
BEAN: Am I really an all right person? Because I –– I … I don’t know. I’m just… . What’re you doing?
REED: I –– I need [the recording] for my own fucking psychological… . I need to listen to it later. I need to… .
BEAN: Tucker … I don’t want you … to go to the police about it, obviously. But at the same time, I know you have a complete right to do it. And … I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that to you. I’m sorry I didn’t know what I was doing. And I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you in ways that nobody ever should hurt another person. I can’t even look at you. I am sorry that … every time I hear your name from now on, I’ll think of the bad times more than good. But then I’ll think of the good times eventually. I’ll get better eventually. But … I’m –– I’m –– I’m really sorry. I never –– I never meant to hurt you. I really didn’t. (breath) And I keep on thinking –– I keep on, like, thinking, like maybe if I had done something different, you know? And it all just comes down to… I wanted sex, and … I was drunk. You know, I was selfish.
REED: I told you it would ruin everything.
BEAN: (laughs) I don’t remember that. I –– I couldn’t hear that. (pause) I don’t –– I don’t even remember that.
REED: Well, you remembered enough to tell me why you did it. … That’s the thing, Andy. You remembered enough to tell me why you did it, when I brought it up a year later.
BEAN: What, the roses, and all that stuff?
REED: This whole, like –– really, it was so disturbing.
BEAN: Tucker, that was me … that was me doing to you the same thing that you did to me two days ago. Or, on Thursday. With just saying everything to put me down. I was doing that because … I felt like shit. Because if I actually looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t stand what was there. And I can’t. (sigh) So if you’re –– if you’re talking about when I was drunk on the anniversary of it, it’s because I didn’t want to deal with it.
REED: It was so hurtful.
BEAN: I know. (breath) I’m sorry!
REED: And that’s what happened. That’s –– that’s really, like, the end, in my mind, like, everything that happened is just a blur of, like, unhappiness and us fighting all the time.
BEAN: We weren’t fighting all the time.
REED: That’s all I remember.
BEAN: (scoffing noise) Do ––
REED: I just –– I just remember me going, “How –– how can I be this, like, unhappy and still be here?” And feeling like ––
BEAN: We’re just very different people ––
REED: –– I just forgive, like, so much, you know? Like –– (sigh) any other girl ––
BEAN: Yeah. …
REED: I didn’t –– I did not –– I went –– I had you come in with me, and we were naked, and I was gonna give you a blow job and I thought you were going to eat me out. That’s what I thought was gonna happen. And then all of a sudden you were on top of me, and you had your dick in your hands, and you were putting it in me, and it hurt so much, and I was saying, “Don’t do it.” (several sobs) I was saying, “Don’t! No, no!” (sob, sniffles) And you were on me and I was pinned like this. (rustling, gasp) And then I heard (gasp) those two girls come back, and I –– I –– I was so drunk, and (gasp) I thought, “No, don’t, don’t scream, don’t kick him off you –– “
BEAN: We were –– we were both so drunk and ––
REED: ”It will make –– it will make noise and they’ll know that you’re a slut and they’ll think that you meant to have sex” and I didn’t, I didn’t! And I thought that it would just be better if it was just over, but you have so much fucking stamina, it went on forever. (three gasps)
BEAN: We –– we were both really drunk, okay? (she wails) We were both really drunk, and it was a stupid mistake. It was something that was really fucking dumb.
REED: You didn’t listen to me, you didn’t care enough to listen to me, I was just a hole.
BEAN: I was drunk! I didn’t mean to, you’re not a whore, okay?
REED: Hole for you to stick ––
BEAN: … oh.
REED: –– your dick in. (gasps) I wasn’t a person, I wasn’t talking. Ugh.
BEAN: I’m sorry.
REED: That –– the memory of it –– the memory of it makes me want –– (wail)
BEAN: I don’t –– I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything about it.
REED: It doesn’t change the fact that it’s a crime. (sniffs) Really, like if you went in to court and you said that, they’d be like, “Doesn’t matter. It happened.”
BEAN: (sighs twice) I’m so sorry for hurting you.
REED: Okay. (sniffs)
BEAN: And I know … it’s just words. I just –– I fucking hate words. (sighs)
REED: I just wanted you to know ––
BEAN: I know I hurt you.
What I want to say right now is that I believe Andy Bean remembers raping me.
What makes me feel sick is that I was the one who gave him the excuse of being “blacked out.” On December 4, 2010, I stupidly started the conversation out by asking him if he remembered anything about the night before, inadvertently feeding him the perfect line to confuse me. The perfect lie.
But when I confronted him again in December of 2011 — he was blacked out that night, too — he related specifics of the event that a person with no memory of the event should not be able to recall.
And, once, during a casual conversation, he mentioned in passing that, when describing taking my virginity to his buddies, he’d been able to guarantee I was a “real virgin” because I “wasn’t good at it at all” my first time, and that he was so glad I was a “fast learner.”
A blacked out person wouldn’t remember that, either, would they?
I knew a girl my sophomore year of college. Really nice, kind, outgoing, funny, quirky girl. The oldest of three daughters. She told me both her sisters had been raped. And I thought, “How can that be possible? Two out of three?” It seemed to defy all odds. (Later I found out, one out of every six American women has been victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime.)
I knew a boy, growing up in my hometown, who got his first blow job in seventh grade. He said it was the most wonderful feeling of his life. But he considered the twelve-year-old girl who had given him that “feeling” to be a “slut.” She was a means to an end. Not a person with thoughts and feelings and wants and desires of her own.
What are we doing? As a society, I mean. We’ve veered off course. Something is terribly wrong here.
I’m not going to hide behind anonymity. I am a part of this society. Sex cannot be what we’ve let it turn into. A recreational activity. A social status signifier.
In December of 2011, my (blacked-out-drunk) rapist flatly told me he would never have stuck around until I was ready to have sex with him. ”When would have been the right time for you, Tucker? What length of time would you have found appropriate to leave me hanging?” he’d demanded angrily, rolling his eyes. ”Two months? Six months? A year?” He said he was good-enough looking to find sex elsewhere. That, if it had been the 1950s, he would have dated me, but fucked girls on the side. That that’s what men had done throughout history, and why should he be expected to behave differently? Because he — and “all men” — just needed sex.
You don’t need sex. That is selfish bullshit. We’ve all become so selfish. What you need to do is respect the person you are having sex with — or who (novel concept) you hope to one day have sex with. Otherwise, this “hook-up culture” we’ve let develop will continue to spiral out of control.
And I’m not trying to prosthelytize here. I’m not a social commentator or a social analyst. I concede that. But there’s obviously something very wrong — very, very wrong — and we need to fix it.
And maybe the first step is to teach boys that girls are people, too, and just because it might feel wonderful for some girl to suck on your penis doesn’t mean that this is all she exists to do. That maybe it would feel wonderful for you to pleasure her in some way. And maybe “pleasure” for her isn’t groping and touching. Maybe it’s something else.
This applies to both sexes. Because I know males who have been sexually assaulted by females. Women like sex, too. (So, Andy Bean, to hell with your claim that men have been able to get sex-on-the-side for all of recorded history because they need it.) What the issue comes down to is a cultural mindset that is predicated upon instant self-gratification. And the act of sex has been lumped in as just another thing to want and to have.
Maybe sex shouldn’t be about “I need it, I want it” but about “What do you want, what can I give you?” Except, you know what? To me, that sounds a lot like how you’d approach interacting with someone you love. Maybe sex should go back to being about making love.
Andy Bean told me he loved me. But if Andy Bean had loved me, he would have waited when I begged him to wait. He would not have raped me after dating me for two weeks.
But — you see, he needed the sex. ”[He] wanted sex, and [he] was drunk. You know, [he] was selfish.”
When did sex become something one needs to do, as necessary to existence as a daily bowel movement? When did sex become the blow job you get from some “slut” because you’re popular? When did sex become pinning your girlfriend down on her bed and telling her that fornicating at that moment “is right, feels right?” When did sex stop being anything about love?
All images courtesy of Facebook.
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