What should probably be said from the outset is that we didn’t have sex. We had had sex a few times before, around a half- and a full dozen times, I’d say. She was in love with me, I think. I was not in love with her, I just enjoyed fucking her well enough. As with most things, in hindsight, that seemed like a mistake.

The year after I graduated from high school, I did quite a bit of traveling (which may also have been a mistake), but popped into my mom’s house every now and again as a waystation between trips. It was during one of those layovers that I gave her a call—let’s call her “Maxi”—and invited her over. She came and we hung out in my room for a little while. Maxi was a year younger than me, so still in high school, and I remember that she was hung up on some little piece of gossip. For the life of me, what it was exactly I cannot recall. Whatever it was, I’m sure it couldn’t matter less now.

But like all gossip, at the time it seemed really, really important. And whatever it was, I knew whether it was true or not, and I let Maxi know that I knew the truth. She perked up at that, and eagerly inquired. I remember telling her that I’d clue her in once we hooked up. It had been a few months since we’d last been naked around one another, but I remembered it fondly. Her pussy and her ass both tasted good, and she was a natural blonde with matching nipples. After some training, she had finally figured out how to give a worthy blowjob, and I loved the way her freckles and my cum commingled with every facial.

Maxi seemed both miffed and intrigued that I was more or less proposing to exchange information for coitus. Her devilish smirk still lingers in my mind. She made some kind of silly counter-proposal, like that we’d hook up after I told her, but I shot it down. There were a few minutes of back and forth, all of it teasing, but pointed. In the end, nothing happened. We didn’t so much as kiss, and I never told her whatever trivial secret it was that I knew. The détente had clearly left a bad taste in her mouth though, because she left once it was clear I wasn’t going to spill the beans.

That was that. Until a few months later when I found out she was telling people that I had raped her that night. A lot of people did not believe her, and not a few did believe her. Some people I knew casually stopped talking to me entirely. One even let me know what an evil and monstrous person I was. It’s all rather strange. Since I am a sucker and a beta, all of this confuses me more than anything. Why the fuck did she lie about it? What did I do to get her to that point? Was she really that heartbroken that accusing me of rape seemed like the appropriate retribution? I wonder what it’s like to be that crazy, to reach that conclusion and take that action after thinking about it for a while. I mean, holy shit, right?

I should probably be madder about this. In fact, I should probably demand an apology or find some way of exacting vengeance upon her. Some might even suggest that I sue her for libel. The trouble is, I don’t really have the sharp edge needed for that sort of thing. Even if just, that kind of action requires some level of maliciousness, which is not something I have. I’m just a goofy pervert looking for good times. I wish people could just let it be and let me carry on.


“Accused of Rape” is an excerpt from Richard Power’s new memoir, Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.