I’m not ready to tell this story on Facebook, so instead I’m going to tell it here. I’m not ready for them to know this piece of me. They can place a story to a face and I can’t go there with people.
I knew my assaulter. We had had consensual sex before. I was pretty done with him and his games.
That month, a friend I knew, but hadn’t spoken to in a long while had died a really awful and tragic death. I was in shock, my heart ached for this life – he had only just liked a photo of mine on Instagram not that long ago – he had been in my thoughts for several weeks. I was thinking of reaching out to him.
The next day, my assaulter, who had been a friend before, got a hold of me. I was in class. He sent me a snapchat.
I was not in the mood. I did not want to have sex. I was going through attempting to end my long term fling (six years long) and was dealing with the shock of a death so horrific to such a good person I knew. I told him I didn’t want to do it and I was going to go home, watch a movie, and that was all. He pressured, promised that we could just hang out and enjoy each other. I caved.
I really wanted to ditch the situation – all before he came over. However, he was pudgy, not really all that attractive, and I had been able to handle guys before. So, he came over bringing tequila. I have a high alcohol tolerance. I took two shots and grabbed a glass of wine. We started a movie and he was all over me. Before too long, he was drunk and I was relatively sober. He wouldn’t stop kissing me and I kept pulling away saying I didn’t want to.
I was verbal. I told him no. I told him I didn’t want to do anything. I honestly wanted to be left alone.
He grabbed me, picked me up, and placed me on my bed. I didn’t want to. My apartment was dark, he was determined, and I knew I was in trouble. My heart started pounding and he started to forcefully take off my clothes. I turned myself around, my hands grasped the bed frame and I tried to pull myself away from him. He forcefully pulled me over. There was no giggling, no laughing, his eyes were set and he knew what he wanted. I was afraid. What would happen to me? I was scared he would kill me.
He began to penetrate once, twice, and I have no idea how I managed to escape. My body shaking and I ran to my phone and sent messages for friends to call me – it was important. I pulled up the news stories of my friend who had died in a motorcycle accident – my heart dropping still. I pretended that I had just found out.
He came over as my eyes filled with tears, tears from what he had done, not my friend’s death. He rubbed my back and I wanted to grab his hand and break it. I wanted to hurt him for what he had done. I said that my good friend died, my friends back home were begging me to come home – I needed to go. I needed to be with my friends. It was a lie.
“Are you kidding?” I began to quickly get dressed. I said that I needed to go, this was important. He got dressed and followed me out of my apartment. I didn’t even say goodbye, but rushed to my car. Instead, I went to a friend’s apartment. I cried.
I blocked him on social media. He knew what he had done to me. There was no question. There was no way to prove what he had done. He got away with it.
I hate him. I do. He has a girlfriend now. I wonder if she knows that she’s dating a rapist. A man who feels he’s entitled when he’s white, pudgy, and ugly. He’s a frat boy. He thinks he’s hot.