The following piece may be triggering to sexual violence victims and survivors.
I met you at a party. Your frat’s party. It was the weekend following the first week of classes –my first college party. We didn’t know each other but you seemed nice. I wasn’t blackout drunk; maybe drunk but not blackout. I wasn’t lightheaded, and I wasn’t stumbling around. I could carry a conversation.
You told me you were a senior. I felt lucky you were talking to me — a freshman. I was nervous but you made me feel pretty. You told me I was pretty; the prettiest girl at the party. My naive-self believed you were a nice guy.
I willingly went up to your room when you invited me to check out your photography prints. You asked me a lot of questions and I eagerly answered. “Would you want to model for me?” I was excited at the prospect of being pretty enough to model for you.
You quickly fixed me a drink once we got in your room. “We keep the good stuff in our rooms.”
You locked the door and said it was so no wandering freshmen could get in.
Your prints were laid out on your coffee table. They were all black and white; all sexual in nature. You laughed when I choked in shock. I remember sitting down and you sitting next to me. Our legs were touching but I was not uncomfortable.
I started getting nervous as your questions became more personal; more sexual. You asked me what’s my favorite position. You called me pure when I told you I was a virgin. You were suddenly touching my shoulder and trailing your fingers down my arm. I nervously drank more of the drink you fixed me. I started asking you about your photography. I didn’t want to do most of the talking anymore.
At some point my mouth felt dry so I reached for my cup. I took the last gulp but it still felt dry. I asked for some water. You got up to get me a bottle and a small blanket. The last thing I remember before passing out was feeling hot all over, and lightheaded.
Later I woke up with you on top. I felt sick. My shirt was bunched up my chest, and I wasn’t wearing anything else. You were forcefully thrusting inside of me. I asked you to, “Please, stop. You’re hurting me.” You heard me because you paused for a few seconds. Then you resumed forcing yourself on me. I tried to push you off. I kept asking you to stop but you said, “I’ll make you feel good.” It felt like hours but it wasn’t. I passed out once again and when I woke up you were still on top of me. I didn’t try to push you off again.
When I woke up again, it was the morning. I was still on the couch with the blanket covering me. My head felt heavy, and it hurt every time I moved. I was sore all over. I checked and my underwear was back on. There was a couple of blood smears on my thighs. You weren’t in the room but you left me two water bottles and an Advil bottle. I felt like crying and throwing up all at once.
You came into the room holding a mocha Frappuccino. You smiled at me and asked me how I was feeling. I didn’t answer you — I just started crying. You sat next to me and tried rubbing my shoulder. I felt cold all over and I froze. “Don’t fucking touch me!” You moved away from me.
“I brought you a mocha Frappuccino, you said that was your favorite.”
I felt like screaming, and I wanted to hit you. Was a mocha Frappuccino supposed to make all of this feel better? I grabbed my phone and keys. I wanted to run out but walking was hard enough. I felt the pain all over my body.
For a long time I blamed myself for trusting you. I questioned myself if it was rape, or if I was just exaggerating. I didn’t stop your flirting. Maybe that was your invitation. You didn’t force me into your room; I willingly went up there. Maybe it’s because I’m inexperienced and that’s how sex is. Maybe if I had tried harder to push you off. Maybe if I had asked my friends to come up with us. Maybe if I hadn’t worn that black jean-skirt… I focused the blame on myself.
I kept on having flashbacks and nightmares for months. I started remembering more and more of that night. The memories were in no particular order. The flashbacks happened randomly. Sometimes at night, and sometimes when I was eating or studying. My anxiety was worse than it had ever been — Especially when I saw you while walking to my classes. You seemed fine. You’d smile at me, and you’d wave to me. There was nothing wrong with you. It didn’t impact you at all. You’re still Mr. Nice Guy to everyone else. I didn’t want to feel like a victim. I kept telling myself that it was just bad sex.
At the time, I didn’t tell anyone about it. I didn’t know what to tell my friends. I waited an entire year before I told my roommate. She told me I was a survivor but, 7 years later, I still feel like a victim.
Edited by WildLittleWing.
Images by Marcus Dall Col and Deb Kennedy from Unsplash.
