can a guy get raped?

that pocket ninja guy ...

It is an intellectual poverty to assume that a man cannot be raped by a woman. Social stereotypes trap us into a narrow, rigid way of thinking, a perspective that does not permit our collective imagination to run beyond the tired, worn scenario of the hapless drunkard, lured home by a seductress, half passed out on the couch while she leans over and licks his neck, unbuckles his belt and pulls his manhood, soft like taffy, from his trousers. "No," he murmurs. "I can't. I respect you too much." But she leans over his lap and attacks him with a carnal hunger, drooling and slobbering while her nails rake red lines across his heaving chest. "No," he murmurs again, but he is powerless. His alcohol-induced weakness has sapped him of the strength required to dismount this temptress from his violated sex. And he can feel himself stiffening, can feel himself, against every fiber of his being, becoming aroused, and then she looses from their lacy confines the pendulous mounds of her breasts, and..

Sorry, sorry. Got distracted. Maybe that's not a good example. A plumber. He's a plumber, and he's come over to fix her pipes, and when she answers the door in a sheer teddy through which he can see the dark, puffy circles of her areolae he stammers and steps back before recovering his professional stance. "Uh, you called about your sink?" he asks, and she smiles slyly and invites him in, trailing one sinuous finger along the soft curve of her neck as she eases shut the door, and she leads him to the kitchen while he forcibly keeps his eyes on the ceiling, which has some water spots. And she points him toward the sink, and as he sets down his toolbox on the table she produces a pink silk scarf from a cabinet. "Do you mind?" she purrs, and he doesn't understand what she's asking him, doesn't even understand what's going on as she slips its cool folds over his wrist, tightens the knot, slips the other end around the towel holder hanging over the sink and tightens it. "What are you doing?" he whispers, but now there's another scarf, and she's wrapping it around his other wrist and tying that to the faucet. And he could break free, could snap those scarves like tissue paper, but he's trapped, frozen there as if bound by Medusa's gaze, and can only watch as she presses her lithe body against his, whimpering like a small bird, her hands roving over his powerful chest and strong legs and caressing his forbidden regions. And she pulls one of her teddy's straps off her shoulder, then the other, and squeezes her own breasts with her hands. "Please," she begs. "Please." And still he's frozen, watching in horror as she unzips his pants, lowers herself to her knees, and..

Ah, damnit. Did it again. Screw it. The guy got lucky.