The 6 Times I Remember Being Sexually Assaulted

Arman Zhenikeyev / (
Arman Zhenikeyev / (

I’ve been sexually harassed and assaulted from a very young age. Given how deeply I despise radical feminism and its claims that men can’t be victims of rape (or therefore sexual assault), it’s hard for me to admit that my experiences no longer bother me. Sure, they left me feeling creeped-out, shaken, and confused at the time, but I have since learned to laugh them off as part of my developing into the emotionally balanced and psychologically robust happy-go-lucky male cheerleader for the human race that some of you are lucky enough to know today.

With that said, nobody ever held me down and sodomized me, though I have narrowly avoided a buggering on more than one occasion. What follows is as complete an account of my sexual assaults and harassments as I can give; for all I know, I’m still blocking half of them out.


At the age of ten a friend and I were walking home from school when, as we passed a gas station, a scruffy-looking man in his thirties approached us with a sinister grin on his face. “You boys wanna see what’s in my van?” he asked, and the two of us became frozen with fear. After looking at him, and then looking at each other, I cried out, “Let’s run!” and we hauled ass as fast as we could, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car in the process.


At the age of twelve while riding the bus, I was propositioned by what I can only describe as an old, floppy-faced Jew. I can’t remember the events that preceded it, but at one point he told me that I was a wise guy who needed a good spanking. Thankfully he was too old and decrepit to forcibly administer one, but I still felt threatened all the same.


At the age of fifteen, I passed out in the bed of a friend’s sister following a night of heavy drinking. According to numerous accounts that I received the next day, she came in while I was sleeping, pulled out my dick, and examined it. It’s worth mentioning that she was two years older than me and therefore above the British age of consent, while I was still a year shy of it. Despite the fact that she was fat and unattractive, I still counted her violating me as a handjob at the time, mainly because I hadn’t gotten many and was eager to flesh out my number. Kids, eh?


Once when I was seventeen a gay friend of mine started rubbing my thigh and making lovey-eyes at me despite my having made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t interested. This one wasn’t that severe, but still, it’s my leg, dude. Don’t rub it.


When I was nineteen a guy I had just met, high out of his mind on MDMA, started talking about how he thought I was attractive and inviting me to whip my cock out so he could compare it with his. I politely declined, and he started biting my shoulder as if to leave a hickey. I put my foot down at this point and told him to stop. If it happened today I would probably gouge his eyes out, but I was a lot more passive back then and had this naïve belief that people weren’t all loathsome idiots.


At twenty-one I visited a popular London gay club with a mixed group. Having been to these kinds of places before, I expected to be flirted with a couple of times, but what I didn’t expect was to be aggressively groped in public. While I was dancing with a female friend, an enormous man lumbered over to me and pulled the two of us apart before shoving a hand down my pants and furiously grabbing my junk. I’m not sure what was more surreal; that fact that he was dressed like an escaped mental patient (baby-blue work shorts and a matching button-up shirt that failed to conceal his gut), that he carried out the assault with a completely expressionless look on his face, or that he clearly seemed to think I was enjoying the experience, despite my repeatedly telling him to stop while attempting to shove him away (this guy was retard stron). The entire time, my dick was about as hard as a VIP wristband. I’m just thankful that he didn’t throw me over his shoulder and bang me in an alley. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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