It feels like your hand touching me through my jeans as my confused mind tries to catch up to what is happening to me.
It feels like me stopping you from removing my shirt and you taking that as a sign that it’s time for you to try unbuttoning my pants.
It feels like I can’t move away with your arm wrapped so tightly around my waist and your hand so intent on exploring parts of me that I fruitlessly try to keep to myself.
It feels like me trying to decipher exactly when kissing was no longer the only goal, when I became uncomfortable, when I became threatened.
It feels like being told to stay despite my request to leave. It feels like you physically lifting me from the ground as I stand to go, my mouth silenced by yours.
It feels like guilt and confusion, like it may have been my fault that you took advantage of my inexperience. Like kissing you in the first place may have justified you touching me after me telling you to stop.
It feels like realizing that my words mean nothing as you text me repeatedly and that my silence is equally as invaluable as you assume that your unanswered “Sorry” fixes everything.
It feels like you asking me to dinner because you apologized for violating me, like until there is a reason that I could have said no, I’m in a constant state of consent.
It feels like I’m nothing but my body, that I have no valid excuse to objecting to your touch, that as a man you are entitled to everything I am.
It feels empty.