43 Male Rape Victims Share Their Shocking Stories And The Tragic Aftermath
"I was raped multiple times as a child and I've never had a real friend in my life."
1. This man beat me, raped me, and starved me for two years.
“When I was two my mom left my dad and started dating (unbeknownst to her) a sadistic pedophile. This man beat me, raped me, and starved me for two years. I still remember it all very vividly and he also did these things to my mom and is also the father of my (recently deceased) sister. The PTSD I endured (and still struggle with) were hell and I’m lucky to be a functioning adult. However, I still hear jokes every single day about how horrible men are and how men can’t be raped and these comments kill me every single time. People suck regardless of gender and anyone can be raped.”
—Deathrisk
2. I was raped multiple times as a child and I’ve never had a real friend in my life.
“Just how fully it fucks you up. I was raped multiple times as a child and I’ve never had a real friend in my life. I’m constantly aware of it in a college environment and usually go to bed highly suicidal.
I’m at an age where no one wants to deal with helping someone learn basic social skills, so I feel screwed despite innumerable efforts. I’ve been kicked/iced out of multiple university clubs. There was only one survivor group thing in my hometown and I wasn’t allowed in there either. Something about male presences triggering other victims, which really didn’t do me any good.
I also feel indescribably lonely. I’ve never so much as held hands with a girl and will probably die a virgin through no fault of my own. I envy that people don’t know about this.”
—GenericVodka13
3. I was tied down and treated in a way I would never want to relive again.
“I’m 20 now, but when I was 12 I was raped by my own cousin. I trusted him and loved him like a brother and in an instant I was tied down and treated in a way I would never want to relive again. After that I struggled to find my sexuality all through high school. I never told my mother to this day. Only my closest friends know. Now I know where I am and I have dealt with the experience in my own way. I’m happy and met an amazing woman that who helped me move through it.”
—austin072
4. I was kidnapped by my father, and tortured, molested, and sodomized for over a week.
“I was kidnapped by my father, and tortured, molested and sodomized for over a week while it took getting state police across multiple states to get me back. There isn’t a news report of this; I’ve already checked. The worst part, my mother never believed me, and I while I wasn’t ever too afraid to talk to people about it, I never can tell anyone how deep the pain runs.
Even when you think you are a success, no matter how many mountains you climb, or what you accomplish, it is still overshadowed by your past. When you talk to other people they have no idea how deeply the pain runs through you. What it does, the power that it carries. Even as someone who is viewed externally as being successful, I still feel like a failure at anything. I don’t want to give too much away, because I don’t want this traced back to me.
A simple, senseless act from another person turns you into a zombie. You fake emotion to others, you fake your attitude, but what really rattles around inside of your head is something that can’t be described. Such overwhelming, crushing force that is involved with everything.
Sexuality wise, I’ve still a virgin, and I’m in my late 20s. I don’t even know who to look at, what I’m attracted to, what gender, what sexual roles, etc. I don’t have a mental construct or feeling of what love is; that side of me is very dead. I fake it that I suck at relationships when talking to others, but the truth is, I feel pain for not being a success at them, but I’m largely emotionless at the actual connection of love. I haven’t ever had anyone in my life that really had that bond with me. I’ve had mentors, sure, close friends as well. But a romantic relationship, I have no idea of what that is like.”
—ThrowAwayMil1800des
5. I was molested by my parents. Often.
“I was molested by my parents. Often. I also had some touching with my brother. I never feel comfortable telling anyone. It came out because a friend saw it, and it hurt to lose him as a friend. He never felt comfortable around me again. I was asked the most uncomfortable awkward questions by the social workers. Little to no regard for my age or innocence. In the end, even though the facts were out, I was never removed from either parent’s care. They divorced and never talked about it again. Most the time I don’t think about it. I guess it’s not as haunting as it could be, but I really block out that portion of my life. I don’t really talk to my parents anymore. I just want to live and forget.”
—Rapedbyparents
6. He choked me out and tied my wrists to his couch.
“I like to think I had a healthy libido and sex life, but I got depressed after being dumped by the girl I swore was the love of my life. I sought comfort with a friend and close coworker of mine, and he decided to invite me over for a night. It turned sexual after a number of drinks, and he started moving in on me. When I started showing signs of apprehension, he choked me out and tied my wrists to his couch. When he was done, I was told to go wash the blood off and get cleaned up. I left shortly after and rarely said a word.
Now, I rarely make moves on girls because I keep feeling like I’m doing to them what Cody did to me. I know it’s completely different, we’re both consenting, but the minute anything starts to happen, I go soft and back away, which gets interpreted as weakness and the girl turning me off.
My libido has not changed, but my confidence is greatly diminished and I keep asking if it’s what the girl wants, which upsets them and still pushes me away.”
—The_WacoKid
7. Woke up, face up, on bed, naked. Dude trying to stuff his dick up my ass. Resisted. Other dude—there were two of them—tried stuffing his dick down my throat.
“House party on a lake.
100+ guests.
Two gin and tonics.
Was talking to friends. Had to take a piss. Left drink on kitchen counter. Friends went off to mingle.
Came back, got drink.
Later:
Woke up, face up, on bed, naked. Dude trying to stuff his dick up my ass. Resisted. Other dude—there were two of them—tried stuffing his dick down my throat. Tried to fight them off. Puked on the guy in my face.
Woke up in another room of the house, in a bed, at dawn. Found most of my clothes and got the hell outta there.
Two days later, what had happened hit me like a bus. Got a counselor and got a rape kit through the YWCA. Was bruised all over.
Decided to call the cops. Bad decision. VERY bad decision. Made me sit in the back of the cop car, behind the cage, to tell him what happened. No fucks given on his part. Gave me a legal pad to write everything down. Again.
Weeks pass. No word. Report gets passed around through 3 detectives. Last on says he found no witnesses. Nothing to take to prosecutor. Suspects questioned. Claimed it was consensual sex. One revealed his status as HIV-positive. Detective drops investigation, destroys file. Suspects walk.
Months pass. I remain uninfected. Friends who hosted party spread word that I’m an alcoholic slut.
I grow to hate cops.
I haven’t dated since. Have been in therapy.
I was 43 at the time.”
—WhitePineBurning
8. He told me ‘if I talked to anyone he would have to come back in the middle of the night while I was sleeping and kill my parents.’
“I was raped when I was five years old. I was in the hospital having my tonsils out. The night before the surgery a man came into my room and raped me orally and anally. He told me ‘if I talked to anyone he would have to come back in the middle of the night while I was sleeping and kill my parents.’ My 5-year-old mind read this as don’t talk to anyone anymore or my parents will be killed. I had the surgery the next morning and of course I couldn’t talk. So I just stopped talking to people and would only speak to my parents by whispering in their ear. I’m guessing my parents thought this change in behavior was because of the surgery. Throughout my life, I never told anyone what happened. One day I was driving along in the car and it suddenly dawned on me that I was 50 years old and I had never told anyone about that night. I turned to my wife and started telling her what happened, with tears streaming down my cheeks.
I realized I been following my rapist’s instructions for 45 fucking years!!! Well, now I do talk about it but only on rare and in appropriate situations. It’s a weird thing. I really don’t have any emotions about it, I don’t have any hatred, I don’t feel afraid but when I tell the story tears always come to my eyes because it makes me sad to think of it happening to me as a child. Sort of like seeing a family pet hit by a car, it’s just something you carry with you forever.
The experience of rape imprints a pain/sadness we wear for life. In my case I can’t say how it changed me because I’ve never known anything else. I only wish I was my attackers sole victim but I realize that’s not likely.”
—LinearLamb
9. I was assaulted by a grown man in a public pool shower when I was 12. He compelled his son, who was younger than me, to watch.
“I was assaulted by a grown man in a public pool shower when I was 12. He compelled his son, who was younger than me, to watch.
I mention these details because every single aspect of healthy male sexuality is scrambled for me, even now at 30. Things are better now, but if I’m too passive, or too horny, or too surprised by any sexual situation, my mind will flash back to that afternoon and I’ll either relive it through my own eyes or be terrified of resembling the predator did.
While I have benefited from sympathetic therapists, I can count the number of people I’ve told on one hand (and told nobody, to my unfortunate shame, until I was almost 20). The stigma of being a child rape victim as a man is a scourge—being seen as a potential sexual predator simply because I was targeted by one myself.”
—spareusername86
10. I come to at some point and realize I am bent over something and there is a sharp pain in my ass.
“When I was 10 or 11, my mom, her best friend, my brother and sister and I were at the beach not too far from where we lived. We were the little shopping area by this particular beach, it was about two blocks square of the typical kitschy beach side shops with apartments on the second story you’d find in the early 80’s. While looking at shoes through a window, this Hispanic guy walks up to me.
‘Hey, you look like a strong guy, I need help moving something out of the door by my apartment around the corner, can you give me a hand real quick?’
Being the helpful kid I was, I told him yes. We go around the corner and he goes through this door and it’s the place where they keep the dumpsters. He points to the door that leads into the building.
‘You first, you can squeeze by the rug and push it out.’
As I move by him, I feel him touch my head and everything goes dark as he slammed my head up against the dumpster. I come to at some point and realize I am bent over something and there is a sharp pain in my ass. I manage to turn my head to look back as I see a fist coming and everything goes dark again.
I wake up and look around. My shorts are around my ankles, it’s dark and stinks in the room, the taste of blood in my mouth and he’s nowhere to be seen. I pull up my pants and walk outside to see my mom and siblings just down the street. They’d been looking for me for about 10 min. I tell mom what happened while her friend kept my bro and sis away, she grabs a towel, wipes away the blood and tears on my face, and she puts us all in the car to drive home.
I am immediately put into the shower and told to scrub everything. My mom sits on the toilet and tells me never to tell anyone what happened ever. She tells me what happened was bad and to forget it ever happened. If anyone asked about the bruises on my face and neck, I slipped going into the pool. It was the summer and I was usually covered in bruises from doing typical 11yo boy stuff anyway. After probably 20 min in the shower, scrubbing myself multiple times I get handed a towel and clean clothes.
That was the last time my mother spoke or acknowledged what happened. My mom or her friend didn’t go to the police, hospital, or anything. There was no consulting or support. Hell, I don’t think my father got told what happened. He probably saw the bruises and figured I did something stupid, which I was known for in the best of circumstances.
After that, my personality changed. Neighbors commented how much I’d withdrawn and wasn’t my usual helpful self. I overheard my mom and our elderly neighbor talking about my personality change not too long after the incident. She told my mom it was normal for boys to do that as they approach puberty and that I’d be fine. So as far as anyone knew my personality change was just puberty.
Time went on and I’d like to say it didn’t affect me at all. I don’t have nightmares about it or anything. I can’t stand the smell of dumpsters or landfills without getting panicky. I don’t go out of my way to help people anymore, especially people I don’t know. In a way, it’s made it hard for me to make friends, especially guy friends. The number of people who I’ve told I think I can count on one hand, maybe one finger on the second. I carry my wounds deep and try not to make it a big issue. I don’t act the victim. Not because mom told me to, but because I am stronger than that and living in fear only lets that guy win.
My mother went to her death bed never talking to me about that day that happened 30 years earlier; same with my mom’s friend. As far as they were concerned, it never happened. I’ve have thought it was my imagination because of how people handled it. But that little divot under my eye from where he punched me and chipped part of the bone is a daily reminder when I look in the mirror.
Male sexual assault is a thing. But it’s treated as something lesser because it is a guy. Rape is rape regardless of the gender of the rapist and victim.”
—TAWForToday
11. You can’t drink it away, you can’t scrub it away, you can’t pretend it away.
“You can’t drink it away, you can’t scrub it away, you can’t pretend it away; therapy and medication can only do so much. The stain is always there. Even if you somehow manage to drug yourself enough and so many times that the original memories of it are gone, the hole is there, and you know the shape of it and the feel of it as well as you used to know the smell of their breath and the feel of their hands. It’s kind of like having the bed to yourself right after the end of a long-term relationship, in that the person is gone, but their absence might as well be them due to all the emotions it triggers.
I’m not doing a great job of explaining this. You are forever marked. You either have the memories, or the hole where the memories used to be, or you have them repressed (but never well enough to get away from triggers, because they’re everywhere, only this way you don’t understand why you feel panic and shame and hate and all of that when certain things happen, only that you do, so you get another healthy helping of helplessness…). There will always be triggers, and the only thing that will change is the intensity of the response, and this isn’t always predictable. Sometimes a trigger that you think you’ve overcome (or as close as you can get to that) hits you like it’s the first week after. Out of fucking nowhere. And you might never figure out why. The next day, the same trigger might do next to nothing. It’s infuriating.
Then we have sex. Male victim of a male monster, here. Too passive and I feel like a victim again, too aggressive and I feel like a rapist, even if the person states in no uncertain terms they prefer it a certain way and I’m into it at the time. Sometimes it just hits me after, and that’s always fun. Explain why I’m suddenly upset and ruin the mood? Hide it and have to wear a mask in front of one of the few people I’ve allowed to get this close? Neither are appealing choices. Have a person who already understands and loves me and is fine with it? Yeah, okay, assuming I believe them, which is hard enough, I now have someone who is dealing with something they shouldn’t have to because I had to deal with something I shouldn’t have had to, and even if they say they don’t mind and they love me and all the other ‘right responses,’ the guilt is still there. Why choose me, when there are other partners without these hangups? Maybe I avoid these situations entirely? Well, now I’m unfufilled sexually. He’s still in control, because his crime is still influencing what I do, and don’t do, and seek out, and avoid. No appealing choices. Even not playing isn’t the winning move, because every move of every piece is on a board that will FOREVER have his fucking mark on it, because of what happened.
Or maybe you go the casual-sex, fuck-everyone, rape-isn’t-as-big-a-deal-if-sex-isn’t route. You can’t fuck it away. That feeling of empowerment some people get from this? That’s still in relation to the original act that made you, rather us, choose this. No choice in a vacuum, no future decision unmarked by what came before, as far as sex goes.
Then there’s the whole thing where many predators were victims themselves. Yes, most victims don’t go on to become monsters, but knowing this stuff is like knowing you have a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism: yeah, forewarned is forearmed, and it won’t happen to you, but maybe one month you drink a bit too much, or you find yourself looking at stuff that, while totally legal, is still perhaps leaning a bit too uncomfortably in the direction of that potential you. For clarification, no, not child porn or drawn images of children or anything like that, just BDSM and fresh-18 stuff. There are lines I don’t cross. But then I wonder, did he have lines he didn’t cross, and he just kept leaning and leaning and leaning until he fell face-fucking-first into that abyss? So you stop and go vanilla, or cold turkey. Again, the control is still there. You still feel the hand, the weight, as it influences your decisions. There is no getting away from it.
Oh, and the response to unexpected physical contact. No, I don’t dislike you (probably, I mean, fuck some people), I might even love you, but that brief moment where you startled me and I looked like I wanted to hurt you? I didn’t, I wanted to hurt him, but for that moment you were him, even though you weren’t. Over two decades of therapy and I’ve mostly been able to work through this with relationships, but sleeping over is still something that needs work at first. I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending to be asleep, partly from watching other people sleep (creepy, I know), because if I wake up and I see someone within arm’s reach of me, near me in that vulnerable state, and I don’t immediately know who they are and that they’re ‘safe’ and all that shit? My brain sees Him. So the first handful of nights I spend ‘sleeping’ next to someone, I’m lying. I’m lying to them, right after they let me get that close to them, and I’m spending hours and hours trying to train myself to instantly react ‘Person X good, person X not going to hurt you’ just so I can fall asleep holding them or in their arms.”
—TransientTypist
12. I was sexually abused by a gay man for about four years.
“I was sexually abused by a gay man for about four years. he would bribe me/force me to watch him have sex with other men. It took me ages to not gag at the sight of two men together. I’m basically over it now (thanks therapy), but a few months ago I saw two men kissing in a parking lot and almost vomited. it just takes time.”
—rrrrrig
13. I felt someone get real close to my face and whisper, ‘you just lay there and take it or I am gonna tell everyone that you raped me.’
“It happened multiple times to me. The first time I was 18 and in the USN in San Diego. My friend was dating a Navy girl around our age and wanted a ride to see her. I obliged and took him over to her barracks. She had a roommate who was about a 2/10 and I soon figured it out that I had been lured into a double-date situation.
We sat in their barracks room having some beers and they decided we should go out to the base enlisted club. I politely declined and said I was tired and asked if I could crash in their room until they got back. They were pretty buzzed and didn’t care except for her homely roommate who looked pissed.
I sat around and drank some more beers, watched TV, played Tetris on my new Gameboy and eventually went to sleep around 1am.
I don’t know what time they got in. All I know is that my friend and his GF started having sex in the adjacent bed and her moaning woke me up from drunken stupor. I kind of looked around in the dark and couldn’t see anything. I realized that someone was sucking my dick. I was like, ‘whoa what are doing?’ I felt someone get real close to my face and whisper, ‘you just lay there and take it or I am gonna tell everyone that you raped me.’
This was a huge deal in the Navy at that moment due to several on-base rapes. I was sort of frozen with silence and fear to be honest. She grabbed my junk and stuck it right in her vag and I was sort of paralyzed. It was really dark so no one could see anything and it was creepy.
She then tells me to suck on her tits. I guess I wasn’t doing it right because she starts strangling me. I was afraid to cry out because of her threats of rape accusations. I went into this zone where I was not really there, just going through the motions.
She had a few orgasms and I couldn’t cum no matter what happened. Finally I faked orgasm just to make her stop. She hopped off and began to suck me off. I just withered and said I had to take a piss.
Afterwards she wouldn’t leave me alone. She would visit me at my barracks and blackmail me for more sex for about six months. I was scared shitless to be accused of rape so she had me. I was also afraid to tell anyone for fear of being ostracized by my peers.”
—stlubc
14. I remember the stars that night and the shadow of her head moving while she mounted me.
“I was drugged and raped by a friend in the woods during a camping trip at Olympic National Forest in the winter of 2004. I felt really weird after drinking too much so I went to lay down. All I could do was move my head as I drifted in and out of consciousness. I remember the stars that night and the shadow of her head moving while she mounted me. I couldn’t feel my body, and I couldn’t find words. It was like hearing white noise, and I couldn’t hear anything over that sound. In the morning, she was cuddling me. She clearly didn’t think she just raped me. I remember thinking it was a dream until I got home and went to pee. There was blood on my pelvis. She recently tried to add me on Facebook.
When I came forward to my best friend at the time, she screamed at me because it would ruin her friend’s life. I couldn’t have been raped by her because I was bigger, stronger, you don’t get hard if you’re a drunk man, and the worst one was clearly I enjoyed it/lied since I hadn’t pressed any charges. 10 years I held that feeling inside before I told anyone else.”
—throwaway10101009787
15. I was raped by a pedophile ring repeatedly from the age of 7 until about 10.
“I was raped by a pedophile ring repeatedly from the age of 7 until about 10, the number of times would have been in the 80s. I have suffered depression since then. I overeat to ensure my physical feeling matches my emotional disgust for myself. My ex-partner accused me of getting an erection at the sight of my one-year-old son, which absolutely defeated me.
I am now single again, dealing with constant flashbacks and severe depression and the loss of any contact with my son because the courts do not understand simple math. Most people who are abused DO NOT abuse. People who abuse, however, most likely were abused.
FML”
—lecheers
16. I was ‘gang’ raped when I was seven years old multiple times.
“I was ‘gang’ raped when I was seven years old multiple times. The most fucked up part about this is, this is my earlier memory. I was in a car with multiple males, including three of my cousins. They all wanted to see how big my penis was so they pulled my pants down and got me erect. All of them then started to touch me and then they pulled out their penises.
I was then forced to go down on each of them until they ejaculated in my mouth. I didn’t know what I was doing or what it meant at the time, I just know it felt wrong. I completely forgot all of this even happened until my early 20’s when I tried to kill myself because of severe depression over the course of my life. Apart from that shitty experience, I had a pretty horrible childhood, being emotionally abused by my family and friends.
I remember when I saw a psychologist for the first time, I was scared because the only thought going through my mind is ‘she is going to have me locked up for being crazy.’ Well, she was very kind and gentl, but was continuously asking me questions about why I was depressed. I gave her the emotional abuse, but she didn’t think that was the only reason.
After a few months of seeing this same therapist, she finally had me go into this state of ‘lucid dreaming’ by lighting a candle, playing a certain type of music, and having me recall my childhood. I didn’t believe this would work and was kind of fighting it at first. Then it happened. All of these memories came flooding in and I could remember that night as clear as day. I was uncontrollably sobbing and couldn’t be consoled. She just sat there in her chair crying while I was reduced to nothing.
I then went into my worst depression yet and thought everything was my fault. A week later, I tried to kill myself again. That’s when we switched our sessions from twice a month to two days a week. Even though I couldn’t afford the sessions, she was forking over the copay for me. She finally broke this spell of depression by having me ‘talk’ to my childhood self. having me tell him what I would want someone to tell me. It was the most emotional day of my entire life. What I told myself was:
‘It wasn’t your fault. You were a child and nothing that happened was your fault. I know it hurts and I know it makes you depressed, but please, for future you, do not carry this burden for the rest of your life. I want you to grow up fearless, brave, and understand that they cannot hurt you anymore. You are the most special person on this planet and I need you to know that I will always love you regardless of what happened.’
After that session, I had this sense of relief. I still remember that night now, but it doesn’t hurt me like it used to. I never told anyone when it happened because I didn’t want my parents to not love me anymore and for them to blame me for what happened. Even now, I haven’t told anyone besides you guys, anonymously, my therapist, and my ex, but she used it against me when she broke up with me. I will never tell anyone in person again. I still see my therapist once a month and she is the greatest gift I have ever had. Writing this has made me start crying again….”
—taforobviousreason
17. My ex used the threat of her filing a false rape claim in order to get sex from me, and anyone I reveal this to simply laughs it off.
“No one believes it’s even possible, let alone that male survivors need support. My ex used the threat of her filing a false rape claim in order to get sex from me, and anyone I reveal this to simply laughs it off—because men want sex all the time and can’t be raped, right?”
—crabpipe
18. I was drugged and came to in a threesome with a lesbian couple.
“I was drugged and came to in a threesome with a lesbian couple. No, it was not awesome and no I don’t want to joke around about it.”
—ThreeHourRiverMan
19. I was molested for a few years by an older brother in a somewhat broken home.
“I was molested for a few years by an older brother in a somewhat broken home from age 10-13. Before I could even ejaculate I was being taken advantage of by him performing oral on me and vice versa. Something for a (young) male victim of molestation or rape that most people may not know is that it often erases memories. Memories, whether good or bad, are often erased from childhood as a means to protect the mind’s sanity. For me, I’m 21, and ever since I was 12, I have so few memories from before age 11 it’s outrageous. It even seems to block some of my memories from after the molestation. I have a great short-term memory, but long-term life memories are nonexistent, or close. Because of this, I have always said my children will never be alone with any man besides my own father who never laid a hand on me.”
—Timsta180
20. I woke up with this girl who was interested in me on top of me. She had apparently got me hard by blowing me and she was trying to put me inside of her without a condom.
“I got drunk a party at a friend’s house and passed out on the living room floor. I remember having this graphic dream. I woke up with this girl who was interested in me on top of me. She had apparently got me hard by blowing me and she was trying to put me inside of her without a condom. I was not interested in this girl, not that matters, and I threw her off of me. She got upset and told my friends the next day that I must be gay. I told some of my friends what happened and they didn’t understand why I didn’t have sex with her. It made me feel weird for a long time and she was like ‘I was drunk and horny, what is wrong with you?’ That is when I learned men can be raped and alcohol is never an excuse.”
—DigitalAssassin
21. I was a pre-teen boy and my rapists happened to all be women.
“I was sexually abused continuously by some of my mother’s friends over a four-year period, and when I did get around to telling people about it (the school principal, a teacher, and eventually a couple of my ‘friends’), the responses ranged from disbelief that such a thing actually happened to the inevitable ‘you got laid by an older woman, what are you complaining about?’
So the biggest source of ignorance I’ve encountered in my own experience as a male ex-victim of rape has been the idea that rape against males isn’t a serious thing: either that it doesn’t happen, or that even when it does it’s not really damaging. It doesn’t help that too many people still have the idea that if a male gets an erection that must mean he’s consenting to sex and/or that he’s actually enjoying the experience.
In my case, I was a pre-teen boy and my rapists happened to all be women, and of course I’ve often ran into the misconception that a woman raping a young boy isn’t rape, that it’s what all boys fantasize about and what all men wish had happened, and generally that it’s a victimless crime that causes no harm.
Even though society and especially the media perpetuate this absurd notion, most people really have no idea how psychologically and emotionally devastating these kinds of experiences are, and how they’ve affected my life, my perceptions on sex and women, and my relationships (or lack thereof) with people even now about 14 years later.
A lot of people don’t really see this kind of thing as ‘real’ rape in the first place and they don’t understand how traumatizing it actually is for a boy to go through something like this. But it is, and ultimately it’s sexual abuse like any other and the rapist being a woman and the victim being a boy doesn’t somehow make it positive or any less violating.”
—HeForeverBleeds
22. We were making out and all of a sudden she just straddles me, grabs my dick, and shoves it in there.
“If I was so horny that I just slid my dick into a girl who was piss drunk and told me she wasn’t trying to have sex? I’d be in fucking jail. But the reverse happened to me with a girl I didn’t know well and wasn’t trying to fuck. No condom, no discussion, we were making out and all of a sudden she just straddles me, grabs my dick, and shoves it in there. Fucking asshole. The craziest thing is that I just can’t allow myself to consider it some kind of assault even though it’d be a shitshow if the genders were reversed. It’s a societal thing. Imagine if I told the average bro about this?
‘What are you, gay!? Didn’t wanna get your dick wet? She’s hot, what the fuck is wrong with you…’”
—CashingOutInShinjuku
23. I was molested by my brothers and raped while blacked-out drunk by my first girlfriend.
“People always think you are joking, eventually you start to think of it as a funny happenstance yourself.
But deep down you will always know it was wrong, and so you smile and laugh it off when anyone asks about it.
I was molested by my brothers and raped while blacked-out drunk by my first girlfriend who was sober. And felt up while passed out by a girl I went to school with who later lied and said I fondled her.
Nobody ever takes this seriously when I tell them about it; they laugh or call me a liar. So now I don’t talk about it, I pretend it didn’t happen.
Males aren’t allowed to be emotional, and we always want someone else’s sexual advances. This is what I learned from my experiences telling other people about my abuses.
I fucking hate this shit.”
—AregularFeller
24. I had nightmares about it for years.
“I got raped when I was 10. I kind of blacked it out and I don’t remember much but I had nightmares about it for years. I know what happened, but the memory is very dissociated from me. I went through a severe depression soon after and tried to kill myself when I was 11 because I thought it meant that I was gay. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with being gay; I just didn’t understand what had happened. That didn’t stop me from tying a belt around my neck and hanging myself in my closet only to awake on the floor with bruises around my neck and the bar I’d tied myself to broken.
Was afraid to have sex for a lot of years even with a lot of female attention, even with the desire to do so. Still weirded out by sex and have a hard time sharing my admittedly vanilla kinks with my partner. I feel like sex is kind of damaged for me, and while I enjoy it, it feels like an extremely personal thing for me to share and I absolutely cannot just go around slutting it up. In fact, there are long periods I’ve had in a great relationship where I just didn’t want to / couldn’t be touched.”
—TitsMcGee8854
25. That’s the most primal fear I’ve ever known.
“For years I had an unhealthy obsession with finding the man who raped me to ask him why he’d done it and was it my fault?
I didn’t understand why. Was it because I gave some sort of signal? Did he think I wanted it?
I was 12. I’m in my 30s now.
I regularly skipped school to get out of gym class. Football was just an hour of tripping over myself then getting mocked for it until the next class.
I had a system: Go in for morning registration and sign in as present, go to the first class of the day, then slip out before gym to go ‘to the doctors’ (if anyone spotted me leaving). They didn’t take register in the afternoon so they never missed me. I’d take a book and hide out somewhere till my usual home time.
On this day I’d hidden out in the woods between home and school. I followed a path, found a clearing to settle down, and set up with my book….
I heard someone walking toward me. Assumed it was just someone walking their dog. Got up, jammed my things into my bag, and walked directly away from him further down the path. (I wasn’t afraid of him, I was scared of being found out skipping school.) The path (a dirt animal track) had lots of branches so every time I came to one I went down the more overgrown, muddier path deeper into to woods that I thought someone would be less likely to follow me down. He took the same one every time.
The fifth or sixth time that happened…that’s the most primal fear I’ve ever known.
I broke into a flat run…tried to angle back out of the woods towards. I was quite deep into the woods at that point so was running through brambles and getting smacked in the face by low hanging branches. I could hear him behind me.
In my head the thing I was afraid of was getting in trouble at school. I feel I have to make that clear because of what I did next.
I stopped running. The brambles were tearing at my school trousers. We were poor. I didn’t want to get in trouble for tearing them. I just stopped.
Then he was behind me. Lifted me clean off my feet. Carried me back into the woods.
I’m not typing out the rest. I was 12. I didn’t know anything about any of this. It hurt. I was covered in blood at the end. He made me tell me his name and where I lived. I did. I lived in terror for years that he’d find me and do it again.
His face. This is the thing. I can’t remember what he looked like. Even close to it. So he was everyone. He was my friends’ fathers, one of my teachers, the man from the corner shop, my own father, the man who I thought was looking at me on the bus. It was and am scared of other men even now in my thirties.
A few years ago I got beat up on the way home. A gang of young guys took exception to me and beat the hell out of me. I should be dead by all accounts. I saw the CCTV footage of my head being stamped into the pavement. Part of me wishes that had been the end of it.
I can’t stand physical intimacy. I can’t stand being held. I can’t stand sharing a bed with someone. I can’t have a romantic relationship.
Flashbacks. Out of nowhere. I can see the field out in front when his arm curled around me. My own feet and my arms hanging down over a log. I have to shake my head to get rid of it. It’s there all the time under the surface.
I told my nan, one of my friends (much later in life), a stranger online, and a counselor, but otherwise I can’t talk about it.
When I started this reply, I thought I’d be giving some deep and meaningful insight into this experience. Instead it’s a rambling mess, sorry.”
—itsbeenanhonour
26. I’ve been forcibly removed from ‘all are welcome’ support groups because as a man, I ‘engendered the violence these women are trying to forget.’
“How little support there is for male rape victims. How aggressively violent women will defend their right to erase your experience.
Sometimes both happen at the same time. I’ve been forcibly removed from ‘all are welcome’ support groups because as a man, I ‘engendered the violence these women are trying to forget.’
So you engender the violence I’m trying to forget?
No one listens.
No one cares.
You’re either a liar or a bitch or have something wrong with you.
Psychologists minimize your experience. Family members don’t believe you. Friends try to one-up you.
Male rape is real.
But you’d never think it was unless it happened to you.”
—shdarren
27. The constant threat of violence either toward me or her if I didn’t just fuck her was like the Sword of Damocles hanging over me.
“There’s an odd cognitive dissonance as to what is considered rape to a man and what is considered rape to a woman. Consent doesn’t seem to factor into it, neither does position of power—only what recreational equipment you possess.
While I might be exaggerating, I would categorize my experience as a systematic, direct assault on who I was by violating me in several ways. The way this woman treated me was aggressively apathetic toward my wants. Our relationship had a lot of problems, and not all of them were on her, but the constant threat of violence either toward me or her if I didn’t just fuck her was like the Sword of Damocles hanging over me. One small wrong move and the whole thing would just boil over and turn into a nightmare. Worse is that she knew what she was doing, she fucking knew that she was stripping away who I was as a man and she didn’t care.
Before I ever realized that it was rape and not just, you know, a dysfunctional relationship, I would tell people what would happen. Basically everyone would tell me it was a fucked-up situation and that it sucked that I was in that position. It wasn’t until nearly a year after our relationship ended I was with a group of friends and recalling stuff for someone who hadn’t heard and she stared at me in disbelief at how casually I recanted my experiences. I told so many people how it hurt, how it took me apart bit by bit, but it wasn’t until I spoke to her that it ever clicked. The words hit harder that I could have imagined because it wasn’t just everyone around me, it was myself as well, I never thought of it like it was. A single sentence completely fucked me, ‘Harold, I don’t mean to be so forward, but that’s not just not normal, you were raped.’ A quick chuckle, a diverted gaze, and then it just kind of washes over you like ‘Holy shit, I was raped.’
There has been nothing else in my life that I have experienced that has made me feel so weak, so defenseless, and so devastated as to realize that, yea, I was raped.
So, to me, the thing people don’t know (other than victims or first degree to a victim) is that people will go to extreme lengths both voluntarily and involuntarily to avoid that word. It doesn’t fit your personal narrative until the moment that it does and your walls are knocked down and you start the rebuilding process over again.”
—HaroldSax
28. I was told that I should ‘shut up about it because no one will ever believe me because she’s too charismatic.’
“Nobody who knows the person who sexually assaulted you will believe you at first.
In fact, pretty much no one will believe you.
Feminists say this is toxic masculinity or something of that sort. Yet most of the people doubting me were feminists!
I was told by one that I should ‘shut up about it because no one will ever believe me because she’s too charismatic’ another said about my rapist that ‘it’s absolutely disgusting that so many people have made such horrible allegations against her.’
The way I see it, if you make an allegation against someone with more power or social capital than you, don’t expect anyone to believe it.
In my case, it was only when she lost a whole bunch of social capital that these people started to believe what I had been saying about her.
A few years after it all happened they took me aside one by one and apologized for doubting me.”
—CousCousOtterCat
29. My stepsister molested me from I was six until I was nine.
“My stepsister molested me from I was six until I was nine; the few times I have tried to tell a couple people that I thought were close friends laughed it off and told me that it was impossible because I’m a guy. At that point I usually just tried to spin it like I was joking because they said I was lying and that if a guy has that happen to him it’s not rape because he probably enjoyed it.
It has fucked me up mentally from the actual incident and just from the few that I have tried telling in real life that just laugh it off. I feel embarrassed whenever I think about it and like less of a man because of it. I want to get a therapist but I’m afraid of them just laughing it off, too, and saying to get over it.”
—Melgitat_Shujaa
30. Nobody tells you that performing cunnilingus on future partners is always going to remind you of the time your face was forcibly buried between her thighs.
“Nobody ever talks about it. Nobody. Consequently, there is nobody to refer you to. There’s no crisis line, there’s no support group. What there is, is a counselor that takes your family’s money for a year or two, playing checkers with you every other week, trying to probe answers out of your skull. And that eventually, the solution is that you ‘Need Jesus to intercede.’ Thanks, asshole, you cost my family thousands in therapy, but God is the answer? Asshole never asked the right questions anyway.
They also never tell you that the price of keeping your family together is your silence, after your female fourteen-year-old cousin molests you repeatedly. Nobody tells you that performing cunnilingus on future partners is always going to remind you of the time your face was forcibly buried between her thighs, and that that would efficiently stop you from being able to enjoy an act many men love to share with their partner above all else.
Nobody tells you that, as a further act of just keeping things going normally, that you might have to attend her wedding to some relatively wealthy seafood importer, and how rosy she is in life. They don’t warn you not to drink your brother and your uncle under the table so you don’t cry hysterically, even twenty years after the fact.
And finally, they don’t warn you that the words ‘this is what people do with each other when they love each other, don’t you love me?’ would be enough to make me abandon everything I had been taught about bad touching. It has just enough truth to it to be the perfect thing to disarm a bright young man being rushed into a world he doesn’t comprehend.”
—DisposableBastard
31. I blacked out, but my body registered the sensations/feelings and she was able to have her way with me.
“A woman can rape a man when he is drunk/passed out….
I had a girlfriend for 5 years. we were really close and we loved each other very much.
One night we’re at home drinking and playing games/watching movies. whatever. And I drink too much…waaay too much. I was very drunk. I laid down on my bed and passed out instantly. I have super vague/flashing memories of me waking up but immediately passing back out—kinda like when you’re falling asleep and you are aware you’re starting to dream/think of really weird stuff but you suddenly jolt awake—that half-state of awake/sleep ya know? Well I ‘wake up’ intermittently and my eyes never fully open…only glance open for a split second (they’re so damn heavy and I’m drunk as hell) but I remember the sensations and feelings.
She was going down on me…getting me hard. I was out like a light. Even in a drunk/passed out state, the sensation registered and I was able to get hard. But all I VERY VAGUELY remember was like one second of her going down on me and the feeling of her on me.
I wake up the next morning and ask her if she had sex with me. She said yes with a smile and giggled like it wasn’t a big deal…like it was just another night of consensual sex. It was weird. I was legitimately raped by my own girlfriend.
Instantaneously I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. It wasn’t really rape, was it? A woman can’t rape a man? We’ve been together for 4 years at this point—she loves me.. I love her. A girlfriend can’t rape you, can she? If I wasn’t drunk, I would have said yes anyway, right?
We broke up after the 5th year for a few reasons (well warranted). But I look back on it now and think to myself, she raped me. She fucking raped me. She fucking betrayed me. I don’t feel dirty…I don’t feel incapable. It hasn’t given me trauma and prevented me from having sex with other girls. No, but it emotionally scarred me to know that someone you love so much could take advantage of you without your permission. I can’t fucking believe she did that. If I did that to her you know it would be a very different story. It makes me fucking irate she would do that…someone I loved and who I truly cared about. She loved me and truly cared about me too…but that was okay in her mind? It makes me. SO. ANGRY.
I’m tired of hearing the uninformed say a woman could not rape a man if she gets him drunk at a party or whatever. It’s bullshit. My mind was gone, I blacked out, but my body registered the sensations/feelings and she was able to have her way with me. Just keep that in mind.”
—Garbageman1234
32. I’m awakened by her sucking my dick. I tell her to stop. She undresses and gets on top of me. I tell her to stop.
“I had a date with her that didn’t really click. She invited me to her place after and I declined. She was pretty sour and stopped talking to me. Understandable.
Five months later, she shows up to a party where I had been drinking pretty heavily. She had been at another party beforehand and was drunk. We were amicable and ended up having a good time. I told her I was leaving, as it was about 3 in the morning, and she asked if I just wanted to crash at her place, as it was in the same building but a different floor. I told her if she had a couch or something I would, but I don’t want to sleep in bed with her. She said sure, so we took the elevator two floors down and entered her apartment.
There was no couch. Several arm chairs. She said sorry, haven’t been home yet today since moving in and her roommate said there would be one. I am drunk and say no worries; I’ll just sleep on the floor.
Thirty or so minutes after laying down, I’m awakened by her sucking my dick. I tell her to stop. She undresses and gets on top of me. I tell her to stop. She gets to the right position and puts my now erect penis inside of her. I tell her no, please, stop. I am drunk and going through images of what would happen if I got physical and stopped this, but I am just recently woken up with no real clue as to what’s going on and just keep asking her to stop while moaning out ‘no’ every few dozen of seconds.
I feel myself about to cum so I push her off and ejaculate. It’s all over me. I pick up whatever piece of clothing of hers that was closest and wipe it off, and proceed to clothe myself and leave her apartment. She says nothing.
I got on public transportation home while still being unaware of my surroundings and wake up in my bed.
I remember what happened.
The next day, I told my two closest female friends about it and they were super attentive and listening until I mentioned the circumstance, to which they both laughed and one of them said ‘oh! That was the good kind of rape. You’re okay, at least you still got some.’
‘That was the good kind of rape’ is what I was told in response.
My confusion and shame and self-loathing with letting myself reach a point where I was no longer coherent enough to stop something from happening was diminished and written off as ‘it’s okay, you’re a guy. You had sex, so it’s all good.’
I never spoke to my rapist again and the relationship with my friend that took that position deteriorated really quickly. The one that laughed and said nothing realized how fucking insensitive that was and I still talk to her.”
—wtfzorz
33. She’d climbed on top of me when I was unconscious and had unprotected sex with me.
“I lost my virginity because a girl raped me….
A girl I made out with in the bars hopped into our cab and got out at our stop (I didn’t invite her). Since she was there and I was drunk, I let her in and we made out a little more. When she tried to go further I told her NO and even explained that I was trying to save myself for someone special. She persisted and eventually I got firm with her and told her to just go to sleep. I passed out and the next thing I remember was waking up from what I thought was a wet dream only to find that I was cumming inside her because she’d climbed on top of me when I was unconscious and had unprotected sex with me. I went and had a chlamydia test afterward because I was freaking out, and let me tell you having a Q-tip shoved up my dickhole was not pleasant. It was made even more special by the doctor informing me to ‘wear a condom next time’ because he assumed I was just another dude going out and getting his irresponsible freak on. Then my parents saw the bill for the chlamydia test (despite the nurse saying it was covered by my student insurance and nobody else would know but me, her, and the doctor) and assumed I was just up fuckin’ my way through college. My mother didn’t speak to me for a month and my dad let me know in no uncertain terms he was disappointed. I didn’t know how or what to tell them at the time because I hadn’t processed it myself. And I also got to worry for months about if the girl was pregnant with my child.
All in all, 1/10. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
—mug6688
34. I was raped dozens of times by my older brother when I was elementary school and middle-school.
“I was raped dozens of times by my older brother when I was elementary school and middle-school age. It happened maybe a couple times a month. I was too young to understand what was happening so I never really fought back. I just kinda let it happen without really knowing what was going on. the hardest part has been carrying the burden of the secret of what he did to me. I have never told anyone because I’m afraid if I confessed to someone that my brother will get thrown in prison which will tear my family apart. I can’t imagine how awful it would be to go through court and sentencing etc. plus the judgement from friends and other relatives. It would absolutely devastate my parents and I love them too much to put them through that. I decided a while ago that this is something I have to carry to my grave.”
—cvghr5t678
35. I try to push her off; she in turn puts all her weight on me and starts grinding as hard as she can.
“Around freshman year of college I met a girl and we really hit it off. We spent the whole semester together and I got adopted into her friend group. I had been new to the school and she was a year older so it was nice to be in such a cool, close group. A couple months went by and I hadn’t made a move on her because I was too damn nervous.
Fast forward to winter break. I gave her a first kiss before we separated for an agonizing 2ish weeks. When I got back to school I couldn’t wait to see her. She wasn’t back yet so I went to a party with her friends. We got drunker and drunker and then I blacked out. I remember asking to crash on a couch somewhere and was told I could sleep in the bed of someone who wasn’t there.
Fast forward a bit more and I start coming to on my back and my crotch is wet and warm. My first semi-blacked out thought is that I pissed myself. I opened my eyes and I see my crush’s good friend squatting over me (keeping her body weight off me), and me inside of her.
I, a virgin to this point, immediately freak out and try to push her off. She in turn puts all her weight on me and starts grinding as hard as she can. I push her off and reach for a trash can to start puking into. When I turned around she was gone.
I ended up falling asleep crying and babbling my crush’s name. My rapist dropped out of school right after that and moved out of the state….I sometimes see a flash of it happening as if I’m wearing VR goggles or I feel like I’m being too dominant.
Everybody says that I’m the happiest person they know, but I can’t keep a healthy dating relationship for longer than 9 months.”
—supertossaway1234
36. When I was nine I was sexually assaulted by a male family member.
“When I was nine I was sexually assaulted by a male family member. It was something I didn’t tell anyone about until I was in college and suffering from severe depression. I think the hardest part for me was I have a bit of a manly man thing going. Not something I’m trying to be a douche about but I’ve never had a problem getting girls, I played sports at the collegiate level, I hunt, drink, pretty much enjoy all the things that our society labels as ‘real man stuff.’ It was hard for me to mentally cope with that and also have such a terrible secret. I struggled with feeling like it was my fault for not stopping it from happening. I eventually got to the point where I was suicidal. Luckily, I had some really good friends who helped me through this. I told them what happened and received nothing but love and support. I made the decision to tell my parents and they did the same. I started meeting with a counselor and that really helped to. It’s incredible how much it helps to just talk about it. I didn’t need anyone to make it better I just needed them to listen. I’m about 5 years removed from this and I’m happy to saying I’m a happy, healthy, successful adult. If there’s any guys reading this who are struggling with the same thing please reach out to me. It wasn’t your fault and it doesn’t make you any less of a man.”
—throwaway2320325
37. I was tied to a bed and taken advantage of in my sleep by a woman a few years ago.
“I was tied to a bed and taken advantage of in my sleep by a woman a few years ago. All the counseling in the world won’t change that they don’t care about what happens to men if you’re assaulted by a woman. You should like it, you’re a man.”
—babystripper
38. After gym class for about a week, they all urinated on me in the shower.
“When I was 15, I was assaulted by 5 guys in my grade. After gym class for about a week, they all urinated on me in the shower. All at the same time. All while calling me horrible things.
After that week, I thought it would continue and talked to my Dad for help. He got really angry, which, 16 years later, I can’t fault him for. He wanted to go to the school with a gun and scare the guys doing it to me. I just wanted to know what to do. So he told me to fight the smallest one when they started again. I’d never been in a fight and had little confidence in that plan.
Turns out, my Dad sought out the advice from my Grandpa who was on the school board. My Grandpa drove to the school that day and threatened to kill every kid that ever touched me again.
Boy, did that backfire. My gym teacher got all the guys together and told us he’d heard some complaints about boys teasing other boys. He said it wouldn’t be tolerated and he’d personally expel anyone that ever did it again.
My high school was small, so everyone immediately knew I told in some form on them. It got worse for a couple weeks, I buried it. Then my gym teacher, who knew I was still getting peed on, just started standing outside the shower. Just watching all of us. It worked. No one ever did it again.
I know he was trying to do his best. The early 2000’s seems like a millennium ago in bullying standards. I’m not mad at him for his efforts, like I said, he probably had never been put in that situation and didn’t want me to be further embarrassed.
But to the five guys that did it, I don’t really have any thoughts on them at all. They did what they did and probably never think about the extreme humiliation they put me through.
These days, tell. Tell anyone. Tell your teacher immediately. Tell the local fucking news. There should be absolutely no tolerance for anyone being put in that position. Just give up the fact that you’ll be humiliated, because it’s far worse to keep getting treated that way.”
—inchscreenmoneygreen
39. I will never get justice.
“I was 8 and placed into foster care by the state. From about the fifth day to my last 6 months later I was abused nightly by a teenage boy. He terrorized me, beating me with a belt if I didn’t fall asleep in 5 minutes or less at night. One night he broke a mirror and threatened to kill me with a large shard.
Regardless of what ever he did I was still raped nightly be it before I fell asleep or waking up to being raped. I tried to tell my foster mother but she grounded me for trying to make her look bad keeping home from school for a week I had to stand in the corner and wait to be told what to do and when to use the bathroom.
After my father got custody I was depressed never told anyone and didn’t make any friends until middle school. I was that goth kid in my teens.
Now I am in my mid 20s figuring stuff out I should have as a teen. Last year I came to the realization I am transgendered—something that was fairly obvious even before foster care.
I’ve known for years I am big but due to the abuse I can never be with a man.
I have terrible hemorrhoids and IBS. If anyone raises their hand like they are going to hit me I instinctively wince and put my hands up.
I devolved a porn addiction as 10yr kid I struggle with to this day.
My biggest kink likely came from the abuse—anal.
I have performance anxiety I fear being beat if I don’t please my partner.
I didn’t tell anyone about the abuse until I was 16 and had been in a relationship for 4 years.
There is a lot I am leaving out part because remembering is to painful and a bigger part my mind has just blacked out. I know I was in foster care for 6 months but my memories all together only equal out to a few weeks at most.
My first 8 years were spent with a schizophrenic alcoholic mother who rarely sent me to school or let me outside the house so that part of my life was lost to.
For me life didn’t truly start until I was around 10 and then that was alone still. I started living at 12 not merely existing.
I will never get justice.”
—lenut
40. I was raped by a woman who got me drunk and forced herself on me, saying she would say I raped her if I didn’t do it.
“I was raped by a guy at 11 years old. It hurt physically and I thought that I had done something wrong and was ashamed so I never told my parents. It fucked up my sexuality as well as my psyche for a long time. At 18 I was raped by a woman who got me drunk and forced herself on me, saying she would say I raped her if I didn’t do it. Again I felt dirty and ashamed. It took years for me to talk about either and realize that it wasn’t my fault. I’ve since found that most men (that are raped by women at least) are often brushed off when trying to talk about it and aren’t taken seriously because ‘guys are supposed to want to get laid”. This is NOT the case.”
—fadedmouse
41. I was sadistically molested by an uncle.
“I was sadistically molested by an uncle when I was pretty young, probably four or so. When I was 16 my parents sent me to a Mormon treatment facility in Utah, where I was raped by another inmate (for lack of a better term).
I don’t really…function. I have no idea how much of the way I am is because of what happened, or because of the way I was raised, or just who I am. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
I have trouble holding down a job or committing to anything. I dropped out of high school. I remember before life fell apart I did fairly well, good grades. Wanted to go to college and everything. I don’t really have friends anymore. I often question if I ever did, or if people just tolerated me. I’m not all that interesting. I don’t have any hobbies or anything I care about anymore.
I’ve attempted suicide more times than I can remember. Most of the time I end up not following through. The few times I’ve gone all the way I somehow survived, only racking up medical bills and probably brain damage.
I guess none of the actually answers the question. I’ll try again.
As a guy, it seems like it’s incredibly difficult to experience any sort of human connection, platonic or otherwise. Being friends with women is impossible because I think I come off as creepy, or like I’m trying to sleep with them or something. Friendship between men seems to be awkward and arms-length, where no one can actually care about someone else. And then on top of that, trying to figure out when someone can be considered a sexual entity is pretty much impossible for me. My lines of sexuality are very blurred, so that may be part of the problem.
Pretty much it seems like it doesn’t matter at all. Life isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that if I try to express caring for a guy, I’m creepy. It isn’t fair that I can’t interact with women without being seen as a threat. It isn’t fair that when I’m friendly to kids, their parents pull them away because I may be a molester. I’m a victim, but it’s not like I can tell anyone that. So I just isolate myself and wait until I can build up the courage to end it for good.”
—throwaway_is_taken1
42. I was six years old and held in a neighbor’s mentally ill sons mobile home for three weeks.
“I am a kidnap survivor. I was taken from my front yard when I was six years old and held in a neighbor’s mentally ill sons mobile home for three weeks. I was raped and forced to do things no one should at that age. Sex is difficult still for me at 35. Connecting with someone on that level is very hard, because I relive what happened and get nervous. Its awkward. I’m awkward. I get better as I get to know my partner. She just needs to be just a little patient with me, and we usually can have a pretty great sex life. I have had long-term relationships in the past and hope to have more in the future. Its defiantly not something I bring up on a first date though. I just don’t do well with one night stand kinda things.”
—sometimes_always
43. I ask them to stop again, and again, and again.
“I had a crush on this girl for the longest time, and at some point I’d actually have called it a genuine love, even though I was only fifteen. We had fallen out at one point over some trivial bullshit and had recently started hanging out again, and over the course of our year apart we had developed rapidly into ourselves, but our draw to one another was still very powerful.
It was nice to be talking to her again. I had missed her.
So one day myself and, I’ll say, Natalie, were hanging out, and she introduced me to her ex-boyfriend, who we’ll call Dave. The two had broken up but gotten onto such good terms that they were hanging out again. Dave was short, about five eight. I myself was over six foot and somewhere in the ballpark of two hundred pounds. I played rugby. I was a very large, athletically built human being.
But Dave seemed pretty all right. We quipped to one another, we laughed, we had fun. With us were two other guys, who we’ll call Denny and Brian. Denny being a close friend of mine.
So we all decide to hang out at Denny’s house and head over. It’s a small place, but we carve out the living room to chill in and the whole thing is pretty nice. There was a mattress on the floor because he had had people over, which turned his small living room into a rather comfortable living space. We proceeded to relax there for a while.
I was sprawled on the mattress, Natalie was lying beside, and Dave was beside her. Denny and Brian were on the couch above us. me I proceeded to jokingly read a children’s book. I forget the actual joke but I’m sure it was hilarious. Natalie seemed to draw particularly close and she embraced me. I fancied my chances, it seemed she was interested, and I remember the look in her eyes. That singular picture cemented in my mind; she had these huge, china-blue eyes.
But the situation was complicated by the fact that Dave seemed to be reciprocating all the movements she was making on me, on her, which was uncomfortable, but I didn’t care. I had no experience with women at the time, and the concept of a sexual encounter was way beyond my thoughts at the time. I was just reveling in the concept of having my thoughts affirmed. If I had clued in and shifted her right there and then, maybe everything would have gone better. But I didn’t. And it didn’t.
So she turns, and the whole while holding me, proceeds to start making out with Dave.
I am made profoundly and astoundingly uncomfortable by this occurrence; I am lying on the mattress with them and am being held by them. I proceed to start reading the book and joke about how uncomfortable my predicament is. Brian immediately realizes the gravity of what is occurring and peaces the fuck out; he doesn’t want any part in it. I’m fairly certain that Denny is asexual, and he doesn’t really seem to grasp what is occurring as anything more than funny.
But neither Natalie or Dave seem discouraged by my voicing my distaste for the situation. They start getting handsy with me. They look at me and joke while they both put their hands on me. I ask them to stop and laugh about it, because hey it’s kinda funny, right? I mean, I’m laughing, so it must be. But my laugh isn’t my normal laugh; it’s panicked. I’m panicking, but I’m laughing. It’s just joking around.
So I ask them to stop again, and again, and again. I’m retreating across the mattress, inch my inch, and they follow me. I fall off the side and get tucked into the side between the mattress and the couch. Denny is laughing, while Dave and Natalie encroach ever onwards.
Lucky for me, there’s actually a blanket for the couch, and because we’re just joking around, I drape it over myself while telling them to stop. I laugh about the situation, but they just seem amused. They start playing a game of ‘Let’s find parts of him under the blanket’ and I can feel a hand around my crotch. Denny joins in to play, still clearly totally unaware of what is going on.
This continues for who knows how long. Could have been five minutes, could have been an hour, as I pathetically shimmy whilst under the blanket, inching my way along the mattress, asking them to stop, as my nervous laughter gets more and more panicked. They do not relent. They laugh. It’s hilarious.
I eventually get up on top of the couch and sit there. They start groping me, but then Natalie and Dave decide it would be funny to sit on me and make out. Denny laughs.
I’m still. Shell-shocked. They get bored and decide to go to the kitchen. I sit, quietly. Then I peek my head out from under the blanket and lie down straight across the couch. I’m totally silent and utterly stunned. I get this sinking feeling. This brutal, twisting, stomach-turning feeling in the depths of my soul. I feel so…unclean.
After who knows how long I stumble out into the kitchen. Natalie seems to clue in that I’m upset, but Dave and Denny just keep on laughing. It is hilarious, after all.
A short time later a group of my friends show up. They immediately pick that there’s something wrong with me, but I kind of avoid answering directly. They think I’m sad that Dave shifted Natalie because I liked her. I couldn’t understand it myself, let alone expect someone else to.
I head home early, and stumble back into my houses. ‘How was your day?’ ‘Fine. Yeah, it was nice. Yeah.’ My answers are distant even for a teenager. I’m feeling sick to my stomach.
Natalie messages me later asking me if I’m OK. I respond that I am not. I am not OK at all. Everything is wrong. I feel so numb and so bitter all at the same time. So unclean. So emasculated. She apologizes.
I cried when I told my sister. I needed to say something to someone, right? She said that I had been sexually assaulted. She asked me if I wanted to call the rape help line. I rejected the mere idea. It wasn’t sexual assault. It couldn’t have been.
I looked it up. It was.
It fucked me up. It made me feel so pathetic. I was disgusted with myself. I was so much bigger than both of them, but it didn’t matter. I was strong, I was fast, I was powerful. It didn’t matter. I was totally humiliated. I was utterly emasculated. I was fucking violated.
And I stayed friends with Natalie. I got over it pretty quick and settled on blaming Dave. After all, I liked her. Someone told me that I only forgave her because I liked her, and maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s not.
See, the thing is that it’s impossible to explain the emotions that came with what happened. The twisted levels of just how wrong the whole thing was. I try to explain it to people and they don’t understand; why didn’t I just stop them, right? Why didn’t I? I mean I was laughing, wasn’t I? Did I enjoy it? Was it actually funny?
No.
I was sexually assaulted by a couple. They’re still together now, a few years on, which is cute. I went right back to being friends with them because emotions are complicated. Maybe I should have done things differently. Maybe I should have stood up for myself instead of just being pushed over.
All I know is that I was sexually assaulted. They wronged me on a fundamental level. The barrage of emotions that resulted from it: my confused remaining attraction to Natalie, my desperate attempts to try and not to make a fuss out of it, or my furious, homicidal, soul-sundering rage towards Dave, were all the result. The moral greys around my actions, and how I dealt with the fallout are all down to personal opinion.
I was violated. That is the truth.”
—ASadTaleToTell0111 