Take all of us, would there be a parallel universe in which any person has raped?
I'm not sure what this means, are you asking whether all people are capable of rape? I think that, for a neurotypical person, there's a certain threshold for aggression at which some other drive would prevent them from committing rape, assuming no involvement on the part of extraneous variable like alcohol. We've had too many people telling us "Don't fuck the unwilling" all our lives for the prefrontal cortex to just let that shit happen without some really fucked up emotions manifesting themselves.
Take all of us, would there be a parallel universe in which any person has raped?
No.
New question: under what circumstances, if any, is rape permissible?
It's your three year anniversary with your wife. Like every day for the past five months, you nervously fidget with your napkin, certain that her disinterest will kill what's left of your happiness. You've wrestled with the idea that she might need something extra in the bedroom--perhaps this is the source of your tensions, and maybe you can deliver something that steals her heart like the night you met. You remember a night of revealing pillow talk during which she mentioned that she's harbored a single rape fantasy ever since her childhood home was burglarized at age thirteen as she slept. Back then you dismissed it: no healthy person would indulge a pipe dream of sexual coercion as a form of entertainment, but today you're desperate.
Today you left work early and beat her home. She thinks you're cooking her dinner, eggplant parmesan with steak-frites and cranberry sauce. Stripping naked, you conceal yourself among dresses, coats and blazers in the walk-in closet of your one bedroom apartment, peeking out the slits in the door with anticipation. You hear the front door slam shut, followed by tired heels clacking on linoleum in your direction.
"FON? Are you home?" She calls out. No answer. She groans, "God, where the fuck is he? This is going to suck worse than last year." The lights flicker on. You can make out the round form of your better half shuffling into the bedroom. She relieves herself noisily in the adjacent bathroom as you stroke your genitals in preparation. After three minutes of gentle stroking, you have a semi-hard erection. She returns to the bedroom without washing her hands and begins to apply makeup. You put on a ski mask, readying yourself for the pounce.
You burst from the closet bellowing, "AHHH, I AM GOING TO FUCK YOU IN THE VAGINAAAAA!!!!!!" As you pin her against the wall, a combination of screams and unintelligible sobbing froths from her mouth. Your hands grope up and down her body as she pleads with you, so you smack her and throw her on the bed. It's time... time for penetration.
Like a thumbtack in a tub of Country Crock, your penis slides in and out of her. It takes thirty seconds for you to notice that she's not crying any more.
"FON, I know it's you," she says, unimpressed. "You fucked up my makeup by making me cry." You nut without warning, and finally understand that this marriage isn't going to work out. It was never really worth it from the start.
"I think we should get a divorce," you begin, but she interrupts you.
"FON, I'm pregnant."
