In the beginning, like most gay men, I was a hopeless romantic. My desire for love was incurable, slightly insatiable, and a little bit terrible.
Rapists aren’t always monsters governed by uncontrollable urges and malicious intentions; they’re much more likely to be an individual that you know and probably care about.
You still cannot believe he talked to you and he knows your name. You get a million butterflies in your stomach. It feels amazing, you feel there is hope for you and him.
“I thought you were the best person I’d ever met, one of the only ones with a kind heart through and through…”
I’m staying at friends.
One evening, I received a message from him, which was definitely not meant for me. That broke me completely. When I confronted him, all he said was “which message are you talking about?” Needless to say, the picture was quite clear.
That you consider my virginity a deal breaker is reason enough for us to be over.
“He, he, he, amazing!” The laugh was almost like that of a cartoon. “Drop it.” My hand fell to my side. “I wonder if you can feel.” The voice said menacingly.
Know when to speak up. Your friends’ sexist joke isn’t funny and neither is his racist one, so call him out on both.
He had to let her go because he knew he couldn’t take care of her the way she wanted him to, by faking his way through it and making her cry eventually. He knows her worth too and knows that she deserves better.