My Rapist Wanted To Cuddle

Amy Clarke
Amy Clarke

It was fall semester of my freshman year of college. We were friends. He was always flirty, and mutual friends kept asking me when we were going to hook up. He asked if I swallow. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, and all my other college freshman friends that the most I’d ever done was make out with a guy.

I made out with him. My rapist. On Halloween. It was the drunkest I’ve ever been. He wanted to go further and kept asking if I wanted to have sex. I said no. I pushed him aside, stumbled through the party, and vomited into the sink (multiple times).

I woke up not remembering a lot of what happened the previous night. I was scared I had agreed to sleep with him. But all was in the clear, I was still a prissy little virgin.

I joked with my rapist. Teasing each other about our silly little make out sesh. He asked if I was ok with it. He asked because I “was so drunk, it felt like rape” to him. I reassured my rapist. “No,” I laughed, “don’t be silly, it wasn’t rape. I’m fine.” I comforted my rapist.

The weekend before Thanksgiving we were having a dorm party for a mutual friends birthday. The festivities took place in my neighbor’s suite. It was fun, jolly even. I had a few drinks and was lounging on my friend’s bed. People started to leave and I started to sober up. My neighbor and my rapist kept taking shots. The two of them were going hard. It got to be just the three of us. They got way drunk, and I got sober, and it was four in the morning.

I decided it was time to turn in, so I grabbed the empty bottle and headed out. My rapist followed me.

I headed to the trash chute to dispose of the bottle, and all the evidence that could get us in major trouble. My rapist followed me. I thought he was headed to the elevators. He wasn’t. I turned to leave from the trash room and he was blocking my way. I couldn’t leave unless I kissed him. He was drunk, flirty. I thought I was crazy about him. So I did.

My rapist grabbed my hand and led me back to my room. He climbed up on my bed. I followed him. I didn’t know what else to do. I was ready to go to sleep, I thought I’d let him stay the night — not make him walk across campus roaring drunk.

But he wanted to make out. And he took his shirt off, and then he took my shirt off. I was overwhelmed and uncomfortable as more and more clothes came off and fell to the floor. I grew uneasy. This was more than I bargained for.

He kept asking if I wanted to have sex. I said no, and he got rough. I said I didn’t know.

He grabbed the condom my RA passed out to every resident that week. I said I didn’t know.

But his naked body was on top of my naked body and he threw names at me: “prude,” “virgin,” “priss.” Then he was inside of me, and I laid on my back looking up at the fluorescent light that lit my dorm room. Waiting for it all to be over.

It was six a.m., and my rapist wanted to cuddle. I told him I had to get up in a couple of hours, and he should probably leave. I got dressed in my pajamas, and my rapist kissed my forehead and told me how cute I was. “You’re not a virgin anymore, I was inside of you,” he reminded me as he left.

I showered to clean myself of him. I washed my sheets in an attempt to rid him of them and gain back my safe place.

I no longer run on campus, because I’m scared I’ll see him as I run past his dorm building. I turned down a nice guy who was crazy about me, because I was scared he would rape me too. I’ve kept this all a secret from my childhood best friend.

During the weeks after, my rapist couldn’t look at me. He barely talked to me anymore. No more flirting. No more smiles and special glances. In a desperate, twisted way, I wanted him to like me more than ever. So that I could somehow wrap my mind around what he did to me. His sudden and cold indifference towards me left me feeling like a used up, discarded, piece of trash.

He told two of our friends we had sex. Sex. Consent implied. Eventually, the rest of our friend group found out. I have not corrected their idea of what happened, in fear they’ll reject me, accuse me, isolate me even more. They joke and laugh about how we had “drunk sex.” How I lost my virginity in a “drunk roll in the sheets.” I can’t tell them I was sober and it was rape.

Five months later and I have told my story for the first time, to my counselor. I have decided to write about it. To share my story because I refuse to let my rapist take anything more from me.

My rapist and I are no longer friends. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

More From Thought Catalog