You. You’re my only blocked person on Facebook. You’re a boy (though not the only one) who has sent me pictures of your unmentionables. I didn’t send a smiley face back because why would I and also, were you trying to remind me?
Because wait, are you ready for this jelly? You raped me.
It’s April and I’m thinking that now is a good time to tell my story because if I do then maybe someone else will too. Even though I’m still not brave enough to put my name on this piece.
I’ve spent a lot of time hearing other people’s stories and more time still feeling that mine wasn’t really rape and hating myself for feeling that way too. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I could’ve done differently and what I should’ve done differently. I still tell myself that I could’ve not gone up to your apartment and that I should’ve hit you, hard. But also maybe, just maybe, you should’ve listened to my pleas for you to stop.
You were my friend’s friend from some history class. She had a crush on you, and would bring me along on some of your excursions. You liked me though, and I enjoyed the attention, so when you asked for my number I agreed to meet you at Starbucks.
I think (I know) it was 5pm and we decided to go for a walk. You got cold and asked if we could stop at your place for a sweatshirt. You asked me if I wanted to go upstairs with you or wait in the lobby of your dorm. I didn’t want to go upstairs, but I thought it’d be awkward to wait by myself.
Your apartment was dark and you introduced me to your roommate, who promptly left to “go play basketball.” There were beer cans everywhere. I remember because I made a disparaging remark about how you clearly needed to recycle.
All of a sudden we were kissing. I guess I had theoretically wanted you to kiss me, but once you did I wanted you to stop. Out of the blue you said,
“Are you on the Pill?”
“No,” I lie.
“Let me see if I have a condom.” I panic. I don’t believe in unprotected sex. You don’t have a condom.
“C’mon,” You whisper. “I won’t come inside you.” (Um, you attended an Ivy League university; you should know how STIs work.)
I say nothing. You unbutton my pants and pull yours down. You’re hard, and fairly big, though maybe my fear exaggerates (but later you send me the aforementioned unsolicited photographic proof).
You push me towards the couch and start pushing inside me and the force of it painfully stretches the delicate skin of my labia. I spread my hands desperately on your chest, to get you off of me and to slow the force of you entering me. It’s dark, almost pitch-black, and I’m cold now, even with my coat on.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I try to reason with you. “Let’s wait until you have a condom.”
I keep pushing you away, and you keep thrusting. I’m trying not to offend you by standing up for what my body and I want. Because what could be more embarrassing than that?
“Stop,” I say. “Stop,” I whimper.
You pause to look down at me and I find the strength (more inner than outer) to shove you. I’m still blaming my hesitation/lack of interest on the condomlessness of the situation, and not on the fact that I never, ever wanted to have sex with you.
“You could just finish me with your mouth.” You’re very accommodating.
“Um.”
I tell you I need to go study. I don’t tell you that I hate you, because I don’t. I hate myself for letting you violate me. I tell you I think I should be going and you look expectantly at me.
Out on the street winter has returned. I walk, shakily, towards my dorm. I call my mom, just to check in. I don’t tell her what has happened because I’m the one who just “allowed” you to rape me. She asks me about my classes and my day. I’m hanging on her every quotidian question.
One day, you text me and ask why we haven’t spoken since we “hooked up.” I think I text back, “Because you raped me.” But now, five years later, I’m not sure whether or not I actually wrote that. So, in case I wasn’t clear before:
You raped me.
You weren’t a stranger and I didn’t fight back. But I said no every way I knew how, and I definitely never said yes. 
