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Women who are sexually assaulted by other women have a wide range of emotional and psychological responses to the assault. Some women, like Spellman, may suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. They can feel fear, have trouble sleeping and experience nightmares or anxiety. Most rape victims have residual sexual problems. White explained that women who experience female/female sexual assault are less likely to seek help than women who are raped by men and have other fears associated with dealing with police and the court system as well as their own LGBT communities….SFRCC notes that, “Many people do not want to believe or are unaware that same-sex rape happens. If it is acknowledged, often it is thought to be ‘not as bad’ as male-female rape.” Much like Whoopi Goldberg’s declaration that Roman Polanski’s rape of a 13-year-old was not “rape-rape.” —“Lesbian-on-Lesbian Rape,” Victoria A. Brownworth, Curve

On the best game shows, the contestants go on a journey, climbing toward an almost mystical apex. The Price Is Right ends with the Showcase, the final showdown between the two players who have traveled from the audience to Contestant’s Row, up onstage, through a pricing game, and past the Big Wheel. Two collections of prizes are presented to them, and the contestants each bid on one — the closest without going over wins. And if one of them comes within $250, that contestant wins both. Now, against all odds, Terry suddenly found himself standing beside an excitable woman named Sharon. It was down to them. The first Showcase opened with a karaoke machine. Next came a pool table. Then a seventeen-foot camper. Sharon passed on that Showcase, which meant that it was Terry’s to win or lose. He looked into the audience for a moment, leaned into his microphone, and said his bid as though he were reading it from a slip of paper: $23,743.”Wow,” Drew Carey said. “That’s a very exact bid.”…”We’ll be right back, folks,” Carey said. “Don’t go away.” And then the show just stopped. —“TV’s Crowning Moment of Awesome,” Chris Jones, Esquire

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you. Fucking American army piece of shit,” Sa’ad al-Azawi chanted behind the wheel of his BMW. He couldn’t recognize his own city, he couldn’t navigate it. He just wanted to hop across the July 14 Bridge to the manicured center of the city’s power, Baghdad’s palm-lined answer to the Washington Mall, soon to be home to the occupation headquarters. A tank blocked an on-ramp. We had to circle west along the Tigris River and then back east again to get to the Rashid Hotel.
Baghdad’s map had become malleable, old routes across town melting away like mercury and reforming in odd places. Americans had closed some roads and bridges with checkpoints. They had cut others with bombs. Buildings were missing in action. Pits of rubble had replaced homes, like an entire block that included a Saddam safe house behind a Mansour restaurant. A bunker buster had buried a three-story house in a pit 20 feet deep. —“The Decisive Ones,” Thanassis Cambanis, At Length