Trigger warning: sexual assault
I lost my virginity to a guy who forced his dick into me.
I was seventeen.
It was in the afternoon. We skipped classes.
“I feel ill,” he said.
“I can’t go home by myself,” he said.
“I feel like I’m gonna pass out,” he said.
“Can you come get me?” he said.
“There’s someone at home,” he said.
So I did.
We went to his place, only to find out there wasn’t anyone in there—not a soul.
We went straight to his room, and suddenly he was better, smiling—teasing, joking around, telling stories about his day as if he didn’t feel like dying not too long ago.
And then we kissed, and then his hands wandered as if searching for something—perhaps a paradise, a hidden treasure, or a prize.
And then I was getting undressed, and the more I tried to resist, the better chances my dress was going to get ripped.
And then I lost my virginity when he forced himself into me, telling me how much he loved me just after he was done forcing himself into me.
I lost my virginity, and the only memory I can recall when it happened was me telling him over and over not to enter me.
He said he couldn’t hurt me, which confused me because everything hurt after he forced everything to me.
I lost my virginity to someone I trusted, to someone I shared quite a long time with, to someone I exchanged countless sweet nothings with, to someone I planned life with. I lost my virginity to someone I introduced to every possible person in my life with a big smile on my face, as if I never cried on the floor, begging him to stop because it was hurting me.
I lost my virginity to a predator wearing a mask of someone who could never hurt a fly.
But the way I see it now, I lost just one thing. He only took my virginity.
He failed to take my success, my talents, my dignity, my principles, my voice, my fights, my conscience.
And I took all those from him when he forced his dick into me.