I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and a lot of research lately. About rape and sexual promiscuity. Basically what it suggests is that out of the women (men get assaulted too, just not in this research) that reported rape, almost 50% of them declined in sexual activity, which is what one would expect.
Another almost 40% reported an increase in sexual activity, which raises the question, your question, why?
Why would someone open up what had been so sacredly taken from them?
I used to wonder why? I wasn’t walking down a street in thigh high boots, I wasn’t at some rager (is that how you even spell it) at a frat house. I was at a ‘apartment warming party’ with a co-worker and her boyfriend who were having issues. I was wearing jeans shorts and a cute shirt, still my go to comfy clothes. There was two other guys and one other girl. Two of them hooked up and that left me and him. It was an empty apartment with empty rooms. We were kissing and after having been with one man and kissed only three others (at 19? 20?) I was electrified…and more than a little drunk.
I knew it. I knew I was drunk and when he led me from the hallway to an empty bedroom I knew I should have resisted. I was afraid to make noise. Afraid I’d be laughed at by the five other more mature grown ups there. Afraid if what I was doing. I should have stopped it there.
I didn’t. I let him pull me along, almost knowing what was going to happen. About thirty seconds of getting in the bedroom I knew I had gotten myself too deep. Even as I asked him to stop, begged him to stop, pleaded him stop, he didn’t.
He took me, he entered me against my will, and I struggled and I resisted and I pushed against him and I didn’t want any of it anymore and he still pushed against me, raping me.
I could have screamed. I should have screamed. I stayed silent, still berating myself for being there, I stayed silent, the fear of being ostracized from my supposed friend more important than the violation that was taking place against my body. I stayed silent, and in the two, five, ten minutes I made a huge mistake.
I should have screamed. I should have pounded against the wall, against the music, against him, louder. Stronger, harder, more.
I didn’t. And I am forever sorry.
I was raped.
I was taken against my will. After I said no. After I struggled and he held my neck down. After I hit him and he backhanded me. He raped me. And I let him. I made myself go limp and he still pushed against me and ejaculated.
He pulled himself out, slapped my face, cleaned himself, dressed, and left.
I huddled in the corner where it happened and cried. The corner had a medium brown carpet with tan walls and a shade in between for the trim. I don’t remember his face or what he was wearing, but I remember that corner. It smelled of cleaning solution and sex. I hated it.