Mexicans love me. I don’t know whether it’s my iridescent skin tone or 5’7 frame that reminds them of their genetic inferiority but whatever it is I can’t tell you how many green card marriages I’ve had to deny.
It doesn’t help that since I was raised to be nice to everyone, my kindness is often mistaken as flirty. As my youth fades I realize just how seductive my feminine wiles are and how weak men are to the temptation that is Roberta.
Flirtation is my downfall, as was evident on NYE 2016 when Juanita and I innocently snuck into the kitchens at the restaurant where we were partying to request some specialty dishes (they ran out of sliders and we were very disappointed). We went into this elaborate story about how I had breast cancer and it was my last month to live so I really wanted to have a good New Years and thought nothing of their intrepid desire to make us chocolate cake.
Karma was catching up with us.
“Chocolate cake,” I said thinking about the one marvelous bite I’d allow myself to have and all the likes I’d get for instagraming a chef special. We resumed the festivities and waited for our suitors to notify us when their creation was complete. We were honestly a bit surprised when the bus-boy came back upstairs to tell us that the cake was ready. Wow. We just got a custom ordered chocolate cake. This was a new record for us.
Licking our lips, we went downstairs. Roberta/Juanita side-by-side. Juanita’s boyfriend of the month, Roberto, came along for protection (and truly it was protection that was needed, though Roberto wasn’t that helpful).
The moment we entered the kitchen we knew there was something wrong. “Where’s the chocolate cake,” I asked. To which the Mexican feigned surprised and began looking through cabinets and drawers. This was odd, but I was too inebriated to think clearly and began to help him search in our quest for Chocolate cake. Like any well mannered white-girl, I wanted to help. Why wasn’t Juanita being helpful? I wondered since she’s always first to crack a joke when something’s lost. But when I looked over Juanita seemed less than pleased. She looked almost frightened and motioned for me to walk towards the door.
But chocolate cake! I couldn’t leave without chocolate cake. And then he grabbed me. The bus-boy fucking grabbed me, only I must assume he was a bus-man because anything else would be statutory in almost fifty-states and possibly Puerto Rico (do they follow federal laws too?).
Honestly, everything from that point on was in slow-motion. All I knew was that some fucking random guy that I definitely did not want to be kissing was grabbing me and sticking his tongue down my throat. Juanita help. I tried to scream but my voice was gone. I wondered if getting raped in a kitchen on NYE was a bad omen for the year to come.
The lights went off and Juanita later told me that the chef had turned them off and was attempting to kick Roberto and her out of the kitchen. Roberto left because he’s a pussy but Juanita, in shock of what to do, got out her phone
fleshlight sorry flashlight and shined it on us.
Like a deer in the headlights I stared at her. I couldn’t move. He was touching me in places reserved for hot-men and myself. Juanita help. But she stared at me, confused, and just as shocked as I was. Juanita later told me that she had no idea what to do since she didn’t know if I wanted to kiss him (ew no) because I didn’t slap him or push him away. But truthfully, I couldn’t I was frozen in fear and used to men taking advantage of me.
Ultimately, after what felt like hours but in reality was less than a couple minutes, Juanita grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the mexican-bus-man-rapist. We went upstairs to debrief. Juanita was confused. She had no idea that he’d touched my lady parts and she was horrified. Worst of all, mexican-bus-man-rapist came upstairs and asked me to dance.
I hadn’t learned my lesson and was still unable to “just say no.” So instead Juanita feigned hysterical crying and screamed at the man to “go the fuck away” because she wanted “to be with her dying best friend” (me).
And that’s the story of Rape Cake (trade mark pending).