I am not a rapist.
There. I said it. It really is the truth.
I can tell that you don’t believe me.
You eye me suspiciously as I walk toward you on my way to the Secret Rapist Hideout: the outdoor café next door. Do you suspect that on the coffee shop's patio, under green canvas umbrellas is where we, The Brotherhood of Old Lady Assaulters, plot numerous ways to violate you and your silver-haired sorority?
I can see your fear as you hastily draw your tracksuit jacket closed at my approach. You surmise that I have deviant and violent intentions. Perhaps it is my attire? Is it my pastel tattersall button-down shirt with jauntily rolled-up sleeves that screams “Violent Senior Citizen Offender”? Is it because of my cuffed jeans and brown suede loafers that I project “Retiree Ravager”? Do you take notice of my white canvas belt and wonder how many Granny Notches adorn it?
No? Is it my posture then? My attitude? The casual yet suspicious way I walk with my hands stuffed in my pockets, whistling “Call Me Al”? Or the friendly yet devious way I say hello to my neighbors and chat with the Postlady? It must be that, then.
You must've read an article in Reader’s Digest entitled “The Jovial and Neighborly Rapists Living Among Us”. Yes? You read a warning on the AARP web site about “Neatly Dressed Miscreants” grabbing defenseless Grandmas from their retirement communities?
No? None of those? Then why does your skeptical gaze stay fixed upon me until I am safely out of sight?
Madame, I mean you no harm. I assure you that while you certainly look "snazzy" especially after a day at the “Beauty Parlor”, you do not arouse any of my animal instincts. In fact, when I first noticed you, I didn’t conjure a single image of “sex” or “violence”. I only invoked images of “cookies”, “afghan blankets” and “tea”. That’s all. I swear.
The closest I have ever been to a rape was when the media forced me to rent Sideways. And in that case, I was the victim.
In closing, I bid you a safe and lovely day of playing bridge, sipping Old Fashioneds and watching your stories.
Not at all Rape-fully Yours,
PS-- If you want to give me your granddaughter’s email, that’s cool.