The victim in this 3,000-word article is called Grace — not her real name — and her experience with Mr. Ansari began at a 2017 Emmys after-party. As recounted by the woman to the reporter Katie Way, she approached him, and they bonded over their admiration of the same vintage camera.
The woman was at the party with someone else, but she and Mr. Ansari exchanged numbers and soon arranged a date in Manhattan.
After arriving at his TriBeCa apartment on the appointed evening — she was “excited,” having carefully chosen her outfit after consulting with friends — they exchanged small talk and drank wine. “It was white,” she said. “I didn’t get to choose and I prefer red, but it was white wine.” Yes, we are apparently meant to read the nonconsensual wine choice as foreboding.
They went out to dinner nearby and then returned to Mr. Ansari’s apartment. As she tells it, Mr. Ansari was far too eager to get back to his place after he paid for dinner: “Like, he got the check and then it was bada-boom, bada-bing, we’re out of there.” Another sign of his apparent boorishness.
She complimented Mr. Ansari’s kitchen countertops. He then made a move, asking her to sit on top of them. They started kissing. He undressed her and then himself.
In the 30 or so minutes that followed — recounted beat by cringe-inducing beat — they hooked up. Mr. Ansari persistently tried to have penetrative sex with her, and the woman says she was deeply uncomfortable throughout. At various points, she told the reporter, she attempted to voice her hesitation, but Mr. Ansari ignored her signals.
At last, she uttered the word “no” for the first time during their encounter, to Mr. Ansari’s suggestion that they have sex in front of a mirror. He responded, “‘How about we just chill, but this time with our clothes on?’”
They dressed, sat on the couch and watched “Seinfeld.” She told him, “You guys are all the same.” He called her an Uber. She cried on the way home. Fin.