It was a hot summer night a few weeks before I was to start my second year of university. I was chattering on about an upcoming trip I had planned when my therapist interrupted me. After that, I began to dissociate more and more during sex. Sections Fifteen years of silence I was raped three times in less than 10 years. Police did not believe her and instead charged her with filing a false report, forcing her to take a plea deal of probation.
When I asked if he remembered the night before, he told me no, not really. It was also a twisted sort of affirmation: I suggested we just go to bed, and he agreed. We resorted to blunt butter knives for months, crookedly sawing carrots, cheese, peppers. Some of them became angry and left, hastily dressing and bolting out the door. More than anything else, I wanted him to be right. When I screamed, he lost his erection. Acquittals often pivot on extraneous details: While my friends delightedly talked about their new boyfriends, their flings, their discovery of sex, I was numb. I craved any sort of control because I felt I had none. He was kind, funny and considerate. Later that night, I tallied the damage. It transformed my personal experiences into a political rallying cry. In many ways, that person was a stranger—she was worth good things, love, support, happiness. Rug burns on my back. It happened indiscriminately, whether I was with a casual fling or in a serious relationship. His face was a kaleidoscope through my tears. When he kissed me, he tasted like beer, hamburgers and barbecue potato chips. Sometimes I even laugh when I try to explain my old thought processes to people; I finally understand why they always look so confused. My pants were pulled down, his fly was open, and he was inside me. There was no intercourse, because he passed out just as he began to climb up my body. I saw no problem in compromising myself to get that approval. He was the first boy I allowed below the waistband of my Bluenotes, and underneath my fluorescent padded bra. I believed it when my rapist called me a slut, blamed myself and was sure everyone else would, too. It sounds ridiculous out loud.
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