More from police interview about Gore sex attack

Dean E. writes:

Here’s another chapter in our penny-press serial, “Attack of the Global Warming Sex Maniac” (I’m manually typing this, as I have not found a transcript that’s copy/paste-able):

I did not know what to do and I grasped for something else to say to distract him away from that incendiary point. I was still unable to get out the door as he was between it and me plus I still had my stuff yet to finish dealing with. He seemed, that was part where I just felt saying, like, if I just … you know how you keep trying to act normal cause you’re in shock? He seemed to calm down after I quickly changed the subject to some other chatty-like conversation about my iPod. Again he approached me and he grasped me and he gave me a big tongue kiss. At this point I was even more afraid of him physically, and I tried again, hard, to squirm away. He grabbed at my right camisole bra strap, under and through the armhole in my sleeveless sweater, and roughly tried to pull it down off me in an attempt to disrobe me, saying, “what’s this?”

I broke away from him and firmly, with even more distress, said loudly, “stop it!”. And, disturbingly, he giggled some more. He’s getting off on it. All I could think about was keeping him appeased in a conversational way and stall for time and try to get out of his room without eliciting further ire or giggling arousal in him. He insisted I look at his iPod and I was packing and telling me about his association with Apple [Note to Apple: End Association!] and told me to come into his bedroom where the iPod docking station was and listen to a song that he had mentioned by Pink about the current President, Bush, that would shock me. [If she wasn’t shocked enough already]

He was telling me about his tour, and the musician connections he had plus things about his iPod. I resisted, stalled, made excuses but he pleaded and cajoled and guilt-tripped me, and then forcefully, loudly insisted and demanded and commanded that I accompany him to the bedroom where the iPod docking station was. He repeatedly assured me it would be okay [this puffed-up bully, this lying POS, this bloated maggot, sneaky, cheating, Nobel prize-winning liberal, this … grrr!] in a reassuring and sort of apologetic tone, as though he was trying to have me give him the chance to make up for being inappropriate and distressing me. I felt he would not take no for an answer after he raised his voice forcefully at me again and I felt herded into the room and was trying to keep the peace so I could then leave soon with him having saved his own face, as he acted like he was trying to do, without me enduring further harm.

So he sat down on the far side of his bed, away from the door in his bedroom, near his pillows, and put the iPod on the bedside clock iPod dock that was located there and patted the bed for me to sit down. Do I need to—should I point to you how this looked?

Sgt. Friday: “No ma’am, I’ll get that later.”

Stay tuned for the next riveting chapter—The Scene in the Bedroom.

Dean E. continues:

“I Was Just Shocked at his Craziness!”

I stood away from him in the room a bit of distance from the end of the bed and gave him a disapproving look and said I was fine standing where I was. He said that I couldn’t hear from there and to just sit with him for a moment to hear this song [no, don’t go there!] and patted the bedside again, reassuring me he just really wanted me to hear this song that was part of his Global Warming Tour, somehow inferring that it was now safe to sit by him as though we were friends. I stalled and refused. He then angrily raised his voice and forcefully commanded me to come sit. I felt like Bambi in the headlights. I went into shock and I woodenly went and reluctantly sat gingerly an the edge of the bed. The song was, “Dear Mr. President”, by Pink. He said it had been written to protest the current administration and that it has been, or was going to be, chosen to accompany some presentation of his or film, as were some other songs chosen by Melissa Etheridge.

As soon as he had it playing he turned to me and he immediately flipped me flat on my back and threw his whole body face down over atop me, pinning me down and outweighing me by quite a bit. “Get off me you big lummox!”, I loudly yelled and struggled with my whole body to shove him as hard as I could to roll him off me and get out from underneath him, using my whole left leg, and that’s where I strained all the muscles, but didn’t realize it at the time. He just giggled and acted like I was only teasing him, and I had to physically struggle and wrench around to throw him off my body so I could stop being squashed and breathe again. I could not even breathe with him crushing me and my chest like that. I started to sit up and he tightly grasped my right wrist and hand and we lay on our sides a couple feet apart looking at each other as he played the song, him singing along with it as if he were revealing deep feelings like some bizarre karaoke, and me stuck there, staring at this unpredictable predator, wondering how to get loose and get away.”

[You’re in good company, dear—half the country is wondering what we have to do to get loose and get away from this unpredictable predator, Al Gore, and his ilk.]

I was terrified to struggle further because I felt like he would then force himself on top of me again. I did not know what to do next. I was just shocked at his craziness. I forced a smile and I just, I just asked him, with a quiet, sympathetic tone in my voice, I just said, “just how long were you whacked out after the election”. [I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP]. To which he replied, “six and a half years so far” [IT’S IN THE TRANSCRIPT, GO READ IT YOURSELF YOU DON’T BELIEVE], just giggling his head off [cue Vincent Price insane laughter], and then he went on singing to me.

Next Installment: “He Seemed to have Nothing to Fear or Hold Him at Bay.”

Dean E. continues:

Next installment:

In this struggle my left leg and knee sustained injuries, for which I have obtained medical care for several months afterwards. I tried to remain in seemingly good outer humor throughout this while still trying to convey to him some firmness of not wanting to engage in sexual activity with him although the thought and total fear in my mind was that I was on the brink of being forcibly raped. I had to use comments like, “it’s too bad we didn’t meet in college when we were younger, that would’ve been more fun”, to keep him distracted and try to create a non-threatening reality check for him about the here and now avoid both his quick change of personality and his violent temper.”

[Remember, she’s talking about Al Gore, not Ted Bundy]

“What was really going through my mind at that point is that this guy’s big, strong, demanding, insistent, seemed used to getting his way about everything and everyone liking him. He doesn’t take “no” for an answer. He’s demonstrated a violent temper and then he could overpower me and rape me and he is so insistent on trying to force a sexual encounter with me. So I tried to talk him down. I kept trying to talk to him, defuse the situation and talk my way—literally—out the door unscathed.”

“It seemed to me that the way he came across to me was like a scary, without-a-conscience, spoiled, out-of-control fraternity boy at a kegger type of person with a perverse sense of entitlement, a rich kid who is used to getting whatever he wants, including from hookers, from women fawning over him, and that he was used to money or power bailing him out of trouble.” [The girl has got him spit-on-a-skewer, there] “He had nothing, it seemed, to fear, or hold him at bay. He simply would not take “no” for an answer on anything and I verbally told him “no way” more than once. My body language said “no” as well. I even said to him at one point, “Al, no means no!” To which he just laughed and groped me some more.”

“After a while he sat up on the bed, when I got my hand free from his, and I got off the bed first, and was going to the other room to finish packing up my stuff and go home. Before I could get away from his hand reach he prevailed upon me to listen to just this one other song, about women’s feelings and their inner self, and trust, that he said his wife introduced him to, which is about a woman choosing to let a man into her deeper self, or some such things. I was just (inaudible). He tried every angle here, just like it’s crap. [“It’s crap”—you couldn’t have said it better] I said I really had to go, but he loudly demanded that I sit on the bed again, that forceful thing. Grasped me by the arm.

Next shocking installment: “A nerve-wracking Balancing Act”

UPDATE

Dean continues with his manually typed version of the pdf transcript:

I did not struggle, fearful of eliciting more forcefuls from him, and I listened to the song as I’m sitting gingerly on the bed, my arm grabbed. And then, uh, listening, and more of his singing while he ran his hand on my leg once or twice towards, and in, my crotch, where I slapped and moved away from there. He giggled each time like he was Norman Bates [okay, I made that up, but it just popped out of my typing fingers] … he giggled each time like it was a game, getting more enthused while I was getting more scared. All the while he was singing this song to me while it played on the iPod. I kept saying, “I have to go, it’s late, my Momma raised me to be a good girl, I can’t do this,” and so on, trying to get him to relent without provoking a confrontation with him who was so much bigger and stronger than me. This was an apparent last ditch attempt to keep me in the bedroom so that he could try again.

He kept trying to have sex with me and I used humor and a sense of verbal playfulness to slowly withdraw from the situation and keep him from becoming forceful, which I greatly feared. I also did not want him to realize how frightened I was, as AI thought that if he perceived my fear, and hence my vulnerability, he might use total force and overcome me quickly. I wanted him to perceive me as having some wherewithal and savvy, and find in me a force to be reckoned with, while at the same time not appear confrontational so as not to raise his ire again, which also might make him move more forcefully on me, since I was certain I would not be the victor in such a struggle. It was a nerve-wracking balancing act.

I told him that I was sorry to disappoint him but that he would just have to take matters into his own hands that night [there’s a profane expression for this that’s apt], that it was just too late at night, tired, etc., and maybe next time he’s in town perhaps things will work out to be earlier in the evening. [Imagine the fake soothing tone and worried beads of sweat on her brow] He’d taken a business card of mine in regard to next time. I told him anything I could think of to get me out of there without being forced into further sexual activity.

Next, the final installment: “You Know You Want To Do It”

Dean continues:

The denouement:

He pleaded, grabbed me, engulfed me in embrace, tongue-kissed me, massaged me, groped my breasts, and painfully squeezed my nipples through my clothing, pressed his pelvis against mine, rubbed my buttocks with his hands and fingers and rubbed himself against my crotch, saying, “you know you want to do it.” As I kept pulling and struggling and pulling away from him and trying to leave I finally got out the door after being pulled back into the room in the doorway by him a couple times and trying to leave to be groped and fondled and have tongue-kisses forced on me. This is what he’s doing and that’s when he’s saying, “you know you want to do it,” and I was just thinking, “oh my god!.”

When I finally got away I hurried down the hall to the elevator and went downstairs via the elevator where I felt really shaky and faint and I arrived quite shaken at the main lobby where I could hardly think right, yet I needed to scribble out a receipt for the hotel to get cash before I left. They had wanted a receipt. They usually didn’t, and I just, you know, it was after eleven, or it was after 1:30am. There is a payment discrepancy issue. I had to be paid in full for my time. To add salt to the wound, I was too shaken to do the correct billing at the time. I told the staff I’d email a better copy in the morning. It was all I could do to keep from running out the lobby in terror.

[ … ]

I did not immediately call the police as I deeply feared being made into a public spectacle and my work reputation being destroyed. I was not sure what to tell them and was concerned my story would not be believed since there was no DNA evidence from a completed act of rape. I did not even know what to call what had happened to me. I did not know if the police would even want to take a report on this. I was afraid of [not?] being believed. I was terribly confused and felt sickened and shocked. I was in very deep shock and felt frozen and shaken. I was on the internet, I think it was the next day, or something, where I could read and say, oh, it’s called “sexual assault.” This is what happened to me. Whoa, this is a crime! I had to look on the frickin’internet. But that’s part of the shock, cause if I had a client come in I would have been like, driving them to the police. It’s just this craziness. Is this normal?

- end of initial entry -

Dean E. writes:

My girlfriend is having none of it. “She goes to a guy’s place late at night to give him a massage and she’s not ready for the possibility she could be assaulted? Gimmee a break! She should have gone flying out the door. And I don’t even like Al Gore!” I say she has a good point, but read the whole transcript, it’s clear she’s a bit naive and inexperienced in these things and easily frightened so she was confused and not able to calmly consider every possible reaction. As it was she did well enough, getting out without being raped or worse. Besides, the main point for public consideration must go to Al Gore’s character as revealed in this event, and only secondarily to what proper response the situation merited.

Posted by Lawrence Auster at June 25, 2010 08:03 PM | Send