I Didn’t Gang-Rape That Girl—She Gang-Raped Me

Li Tianyiby Li Tianyi

Li Tianyi is the son of PLA singer Li Shuangjiang and currently on trial for gang rape. He served a year in juvenile detention for attacking a couple after a traffic accident.

My name is Li Tianyi.

Most of you probably think I’m some young fuerdai punk with a pretty face and a smooth contralto. And many of you probably hope that I’ll be found guilty and spend a good chunk of my life in jail.

But I have something to confess. Something I’m not proud of—something so awful and shocking that it defies human understanding: I did not gang-rape that girl. In fact, she gang-raped me.

It was a cold February night and I was in the public library studying for my French vocabulary quiz when a young woman walked up to me.

“Hey,” she whispered. “I need your help.”

She was dressed provocatively and heavily made-up and I wondered to myself what someone like her was doing in a library.

“What do you need help with?” I asked. It would have been impolite to refuse a young lady aid.

“I need a ride home, and you seem like a man who knows his way around.”

She was attractive, in a femme fatale kind of way, but I really needed to ace this French test or else my dad would be cross.

“I’m sorry,” I said, pointing to the French textbook in front of me. “But these verb conjugations are really complicated.”

“Come on,” she pouted, puckering her lips in an exaggerated manner. “You wouldn’t let a defenseless young thing like me walk home, would you?”

I glanced at the time. It was nearly midnight. I had been in the library for five hours and not realized it.

“You’re right,” I sighed. “Let’s get you home.”

We got into my BMW—I opened the door for her, of course—and I paid the parking attendant, giving him a 50 kuai tip because I know it’s hard working the night shift.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Close,” she said. “But I need to pick up something first.”

The young woman directed me and after a while we arrived outside what looked to be a drinking establishment.

“Let’s go,” she said, getting out of the car.

I shook my head. “My daddy says bars are bad places where bad people go.”

“What are you, a pussy?”

Before I could admonish her for using foul language, she ran inside and I had no choice but to follow. I would have felt responsible had anything untoward happened to her.

I walked into the bar and instantly felt queasy. The music was much too loud and the poisonous smell of cigarette smoke filled the air like a heavy mist.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. ‘This is a wicked place.”

But she grabbed my hand and led me to a booth seat with four other guys.

“There she is!” the guys cheered when she sat down. Then they looked at me.

“Who’s this loser?”

“Oh stop it,” she said. “He’s a friend.”

“Hi,” I said meekly. All I wanted to do was safely escort this young lady back to her place of residence but it seemed like she had used me to meet up with her friends.

“Here, don’t look so glum,” she said, handing me a drink.

“I really shouldn’t…”

“Come on,” one the of guys goaded. “It’s not like we’re gonna rape you.”

I chuckled nervously and took a sip of the drink. The strange taste of alcohol stung my tongue. The girl tilted up the end of my glass and forced me to drink half the cocktail in one go. I felt nauseous. And then I blacked out.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that. Just brief glimpses. Bodies thrusting behind me. Mad cackling. Clown costumes.

I woke up sore and without a shred of clothing. I looked at the clock. It was the afternoon of the next day. The first thing I thought of was my French quiz and how upset my father was going to be.

I tried to sit upright but it hurt to do so. For some reason my buttocks were extremely sore.

I crawled around the room, assembling my clothes. As I surveyed the detritus of the hotel room—ball gags, an extra-long strap-on and several tablets of Rohypnol—it slowly dawned on me that I had been violently gang-raped. The young lady had betrayed my trust and exploited my kindness to commit a blasphemous crime—namely, to run the train on me with her male companions.

I felt sick to my stomach. I ran to the toilet—which was filled with used condoms—and puked over and over. Then, holding my knees in the fetal position, I cried.

When a semblance of calm returned to me, I called the police, only to find that the young woman who had violated my sacred temple had accused me and the other men of raping her.

So here I am, defending my freedom against a sadistic succubus and unrepentant perjurer.

It was not easy to admit this horrible truth. Being gang-raped has ruined my life and my family will never be the same. I will carry the mental and psychological pain for the rest of my life. But I came forward because the world deserves to know the truth.

True, speaking out will not bring back my rear chastity, or make the intermittent bleeding stop, but it will show that this society is based on fairness.

That people of any social class—even the perversely rich—deserve justice.


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