When I sleep with a man, I close my eyes. I do everything I can to make it be over if it starts taking him too long. I do this even when its my decision and I came on to him; but it always feels wrong. The sweating grosses me out, the body hair, the awkward humping like he thinks he's rocking your world when all he's really doing is drying my out and causing awful friction. When I close my eyes, I don't have to see him anymore, and it separates me from the situation. I wondered when I started doing that; coming onto guys and then waiting for it to end.
When I was 16, my first boyfriend Parker took my virginity. Like most embarrassed teenage girls I couldn't look then, either. Then I got comfortable, and eventually I was confident enough to look, to take control, to fuck him back. It was all we ever did when we were together, which the horny teenager in me didn't mind a bit. But then weeks passed, and months. We were still only fucking. Not just once, but at least two times every day. I would go see him every day, pick him up, bring him home with me. Let him fuck me as much as he wanted, and then take him home again. It became routine, to let him have what he wanted even if I didn't feel like it. If I said no, he would keep asking. So I let him. When I couldn't stand him anymore, I ended it.
He was the first boy I ever slept with, and he used me like a sex doll. And I let him. I gave him what he wanted, because isn't that easier than fighting it?
I think that really created the foundation for other men to take advantage of me. Never by force, but coercion. If they tried enough, I would let them. If I knew that was what they wanted from me, I gave it to them. Again, and again, and again. Sometimes, it was drugs that convinced me. Or alcohol. Or both. They would get me fucked up and then I was even easier to convince. Friend gets me molly, and suddenly a little touching isn't as big of a deal. We're tripping on shrooms together, and the harmless back massage travels to my ass, and I allow it. Give me some painkillers, and I'll take my best friend's virginity. More painkillers, I let you do anal. Some acid and coke, I let you spit in my mouth and call me a w**re. At the time, maybe it even felt good. Maybe I wanted to do it, too.
But I didn't want to, not really. I wanted the drugs, to feel better for just a while. I wanted the attention, because loneliness hurts almost as much. It was always him that wanted to. The dozens of hims that I barely remember or remember all too well; I knew what they wanted from me, what every guy always wanted from me, and I let them have it because it seemed like the only thing left of me to give. So I didn't fight, I just closed my eyes. In a way, so did they, because no one ever seemed to notice how much I was cutting myself back then.
After a while, I tried to get better. I'd stopped being as reckless, tried to find someone that didn't think of me as a nice piece of ass to destroy. Tried to take better care of myself, and tried to push back the memories of all the things I let other people do to me. And I was doing alright, for a short while. I had just started taking klonopin for my anxiety, and had no idea how strongly it would interact with something to drink. I was on a tinder date, and between the two of us we finished the bottle. He was handsome, and older, and I was trashed. I got on top of him, kissed him hard. When I started to take off my clothes, and he politely slowed it down, then left. Told me maybe next time.
Bet you we're expecting that; neither was I. I'd never had a guy turn down sex with me before. I was ripe for the taking, but he knew I was too drunk. He was the first respectful guy I'd ever come across.
But then, I invited over my friend, Max. We had also met on tinder, but I hooked up with him roommate a few times and had made it abundantly clear that I was only interested in being friends. It wasn't that he was a bad guy or anything, but for the love of Christ his teeth were so repulsive, the thought of kissing him made me gag.
So there we were, me already half blackout drunk, Max having his first drink while pouring me another. I told him all about how I'd just had the most wonderful date, and that we were going to see each other again soon. We chatted and drank and then I noticed how he was looking at me. How he was always looking at me. Then, I kissed HIM. There's a lot I don't remember about that night, parts that got left out because of the drugs. That, I do remember. I kissed him first. I still blame myself for that.
See, when you get drunk while also on a benzo like xanax or klonopin, you don't black out entirely. At least, I didn't. While I was drunk, I was there, experiencing everything. It was only the next day that parts were missing, blurred out like someone didn't erase them properly. There were also parts that, for the life of me, I couldn't stop remembering. Images were playing through my mind over and over. Me kissing him, me leading us to my room. Him pushing my head down to blow him, it chocking me. Then it was me, laying on my stomach with him behind me. I was too fucked up to do anything but lay there, too dizzy to move. I remember how much it hurt, how aggressively he forced himself into me over and over again. I remember him spanking me, and how humiliating it was. When the worst part happened, when he decided to take his too big c*ck and force it in my ass, I remember my face in the pillow, eyes clenched shut, almost screaming, my hand grabbing the blankets for dear life. I don't remember how it ended, or much of anything after that, except that I kept laying there, staring straight ahead, and tears hitting the pillow.
He slept over, and the next morning, I made excuses about having to be somewhere soon and that he needed to leave. I went back to bed, in shock, and just cried. All day, I cried. Then, I decided to fight. I fought with him, over text, furious that he'd taken advantage of me when I had been so drunk, fresh off a date, after I had been so clear that I never wanted anything like that from him. I told his roommate, my friend, but he wasn't on my side. Said Max told him we were both drunk, that I kissed him first, that I wanted it to happen, but regretted it. Person after person I told, no one was on my side. Except for my roommate; he had been in his room, and heard all of it. I still think about how it must have damaged him, being a witness to something he couldn't stop.
28 days from now it will be a full year since I attempted suicide.
I never make it to the one year mark; for three years I've come within a month or two but then relapse in the worst ways. It's like all the cuts I didn't make were building up until the pressure was so great that one touch of a blade to my skin left a devastating wound.
The boy I had been on a date with that night stayed with me through the entire winter. I don't know if I could have made it without him. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but it was the worst time.
I rearranged my room, made everything look different. I will never put my bed back in the spot by the window, because that's where it happened. I could never lay in that bed there again, knowing that's where my face had been buried in the pillow. For a while, everything was really difficult. Then I buried it deep and soldiered on, because there are always so many other things to worry about. After a while, and after being cut off by that group of friends, I moved on with my life.
Then I started a new job, and he was there. He asked the boss to never schedule us on the same nights, because he couldn't stand to be around me, because I made HIM uncomfortable. He played the victim, telling all his friends I went crazy after coming on to him and all sorts of lies. He had his life, his friends, and I had panic attacks in the bathroom. My skin crawled when I saw him. People would say his name in conversation and I thought I was going to be sick. I couldn't keep working like that, and I couldn't quit the job, so I told someone. A manager asked what was wrong, so I told him. Nothing happened. I told the girls I worked with, and turned out, I wasn't the only one. Not one, but TWO other girls had been his friend, partied together, gotten way too shit faced, and woke up next to Max. Apparently, that was just "what he does". He targets women that can't say no. One of the other girls talked to a different manager with me, and still, nothing happened. Every feeling from that night came back into my life and I kept remembering my face in the pillow, the pain. No one did a thing to help me, no matter how many times I asked.
I eventually was fired from that job after having a panic attack that sent me home during a busy shift. Fired because I was raped, and no one would help me.
I think about how many other girls hes done this to, how many more there are to come. I want to report it, I want to put him away so he can't hurt anyone ever again. There are THREE that I know of, but even if they did come forward with me, who would believe us. Girls getting too drunk, having sex, regretting it. How do you call it rape if you didn't say no, if you didn't fight him off? My name, all of our names, would get dragged through the dirt. They would call us slutty, reckless, paint a picture of drug addicts and mental cases until no one took us seriously. And all that, for my family to witness?
There is no justice for people like me, like the other girls. We elect rapists into our Supreme Court and then are asked why it is we didn't come forward sooner, say something when it happened.
And besides, I kissed him first, remember? I kissed him first because since I was 16 years old, the world taught me to just give men what they wanted from me, that it was easier that way. How do you explain that to a court? To your friends? Your family?
The most ironic part is, I'm gay. And when I'm with a girl, I keep my eyes wide open, and I never want it to end.