The Other McCain

"One should either write ruthlessly what one believes to be the truth, or else shut up." — Arthur Koestler

‘I Feel Like I Just Found Out I’ve Been Living on the Moon’

Posted on | December 28, 2010 | 8 Comments

So says a progressive feminist, in agreeing with Ace of Spades’ take on the Julian Assange rape accusations, as described in an Australian newspaper account:

She says they had consensual sex but she woke up the next morning to find him having intercourse with her to which she had not consented.
When she asked him if he was wearing anything, he had allegedly said: “I am wearing you.”

Ace’s conclusion about this:

Maybe some date-rape charges are a bit grey-area, but this charge doesn’t seem gray-area, if true. It sounds like rape.

Yes, if true. But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? It’s her word against his, and convicting Assange of rape would require — at least in the Anglo-American system — that a jury find her testimony convincing beyond a reasonable doubt.

Given the circumstances of the case (e.g., the woman in question, Sofia Wilen, avidly pursued her tryst with Assange), I’m having a hard time imagining a conviction unless Assange confesses. But what do I know? I was surprised that O.J. Simpson beat the rap for killing his ex-wife.

It still seems to me that the best way to avoid getting date-raped is not to hook up with scuzzballs you barely know. And, similarly, guys who don’t want to risk being targeted by such accusations would be wise not to hook up with skanks they barely know. When skanks hook up with a scuzzball — and that seems to be the deal with Julian’s Excellent Swedish Adventure — excuse me if I fail to feel much sympathy for any of them. However valid or bogus the accusations against Assange, he should have checked the traveler’s advisories before trying to score some quick action in what he calls “the Saudi Arabia of feminism.”

Anyway: Ace is not guilty of “rape apologism.” And he’s always hated those filthy Scandi snow-wops, just like his pappy taught him.


Given that the accusers’ names have been public knowledge for many weeks — and have been published by major news organizations with readership vastly larger than my own — what would be accomplished by not using their names? A symbolic gesture of solidarity?

As for calling the accusers “skanks,” well, what kind of woman hooks up with a scuzzball like Julian Assange? Without regard for the wrongness or even criminality of Assange’s actions — and I agree with Ace, if what the women say is true, it’s beyond the gray area — the published accounts do not reflect well on Assange’s accusers, either.

For instance, I was perplexed by the Guardian‘s version of the story, in which Assange and Ardin went out to dinner and came back to her apartment. Then “he began stroking her leg as they drank tea” and — suddenly, the very next thing — “he pulled off her clothes.”

Am I alone in suspecting that maybe something else happened between the leg-stroking and the clothes-pulled-off? Never mind. Because then “it was going too quickly,” but “it was too late to stop Assange as she had gone along with it so far.”

If it happened just like that, OK. But did it happen just like that? If Assange disputes Ardin’s version of the story, how are we to determine which of them is telling the truth? And maybe there are women reading this who, like me, were caught short by those seven ominous words, “stroking her leg as they drank tea.”

Am I alone in thinking that when a single woman and a single man go to dinner, then return to her apartment alone together and he starts stroking her leg . . . Well, shouldn’t the woman suspect that the guy has further intentions? If she doesn’t share those intentions, isn’t this leg-stroking moment a clue that it’s time for her to clarify her own intentions?

“Hey, creep, get your cotton-pickin’ hands off my leg! And if you think I’m gonna fool around with an overgrown Doogie Howser lookalike, you’d better think again!”

OK, you say: Maybe she thought he wanted nothing more than a little bit of friendly snuggling. How was she to know that Doogie Howser was, in reality, the remorseless Humper From Down Under?

Which is exactly my point: How was she to know? She didn’t know him at all, yet invited him to stay in her apartment and, when he started getting frisky, didn’t object until he had already undressed her.

I’ve known guys who tumbled into a hook-up and found themselves in one of those Fatal Attraction situations, with their own Glenn Close psycho-stalker trying to ruin their lives. The insane and arguably criminal acts of the psycho-stalker did not exempt the guys from regretting their own folly in making themselves vulnerable. (“Honest, she didn’t seem crazy when I met her.” They never do.)

Assange is responsible for his own actions. He will apparently be required to answer for his actions in a Swedish court. Which is fine with me, and if Sweden decides to reinstitute the death penalty and apply it ex post facto to Assange, I will not mourn the result.

If I get ripped off by a Nigerian e-mail scam, the scammer has committed a crime. But shouldn’t I warn people against getting scammed?

“Don’t be a chump” is good advice. “Don’t date scuzzballs” is also good advice, as is, “Don’t hook up with skanks.”

UPDATE II: Given that Julian Assange just signed a $1.3 million book deal, he can probably afford to hang out with a higher class of skanks now. He’s still a scuzzball, but $1.3 million has a way of making scuzzballs very popular with skanks.


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