I think about it all the time. The feeling of my legs shaking afterwards and the rest of the night. The mark that was left on my neck. The wave of confusion that I was left with. The feeling of shame and disappointment I had in myself for letting him take me to that empty parking lot. I feel the shame in the pit of my stomach for getting in the back seat of the car. I said it when we first hung out. I said it when he joked about buying condoms. I said it every time we texted. I said it when we got into the backseat of the car. I said it when he pulled out a condom. I said no countless times, yet we had sex. I try to convince myself it was nothing but then I think about what I already know about consent. I know at all points before it happened I didn’t give any form of consent. I remember when I needed it to stop because I couldn’t take it anymore. I remember him saying to hold out for a little while longer till he was finished. He held me down as I tried to push him off a bit.He somehow knew that I wanted him to fuck me, even though I thoroughly explained to him the reasons why I was being celibate. He just knew that if he didn’t even take off my underwear but just brushed it to the side that he could stick himself into my body and everything would be fine and fucking dandy.
— Survivor, age 18