A letter to the guy who says I wanted it,
Yes, I wanted you. I wanted you off of me. I wanted you to stop telling people how badly I wanted you and the things I supposedly did for you. And I desperately wanted you to stop showing up everywhere I go, only to remind me of what you took.
Yes, that's right, you took something from me that day. You took away my choice. You took away my ability to say no. You made the word itself meaningless.
Since I have had the pleasure of hearing things from your perspective, here is the story from mine..
I was wearing a high-wasted bathing suit with a top that went all the way to my neck. I had been drinking wine but was barely tipsy. Once everyone started to clear out, I gathered my things as well. You forced me on top of you. I told you that I would rather sit beside you. You said how much better I deserved. I deserved a guy who had respect for me and would proudly be my boyfriend. I told you that I did not have those kind of feelings for you. You forced your mouth uncomfortably close to mine. I said I did not want you to kiss me. You told me that just because our mouths were mere centimeters apart did not mean we had to kiss. You untied my top. When I tried to tie it back you forced my hands away. You ripped my top off, even though I told you I wanted to keep it on. You told me that it was okay. You said we did not have to do anything if I did not want to. I told you I did not want to have sex with you. I told you I only thought of you as a friend. You started to kiss my neck while forcing me to remain on top of you. You started to force my body to rub against your erection. I asked you to stop, but you said it was okay. Without warning, you forced your fingers inside of me. I told you it hurt and I wanted to leave, but you told me it was okay. The next thing I knew you were on top of me. You held me down, while forcing yourself inside of me. I started crying, but you said it was okay. When you finally finished, you insisted on taking me home. You forced your way in and preceded to forceyourself on me again. This time I just laid there. No, I did not decide I liked it. No, I did not decide that I wanted you. I gave up. I realized that what I said did not matter to you. I realized that I would be in less pain if I just laid there.
The next morning, I told myself it was all just a nightmare.. It almost worked. You put your arm around me and pulled me into you. I held my breath, hoping that I was still asleep. You kissed the back of my neck and told me good morning. I laid underneath your arm, breathless, begging God that I was still asleep. After what felt like days of you trying to make small talk with your erection pressed up against my back, I told you I needed to shower. When you told me that you would join me, all I wanted to do was cry once more. I told you that I had to take a quick shower, because there was somewhere I had to be. I finally made my way into the bathroom. Since you had already ripped my clothes off just a few hours earlier, I did not have to undress. I sat in the shower floor with the water as hot as it could get. I let the water hit my face, as I cried and begged God to make it all a dream. You came in the bathroom (through the door I meant to lock) and told me you were leaving. You told me that you would text me later and maybe we could do something. I held my breath and said nothing. I held my breath until I heard both the bathroom and the main door shut closed. I sat in the floor of the shower staring at the wall, until the water was so cold that it hurt. I took three showers the same way, before I finally was able to clean myself. I threw out my bedding and the clothes that you pried off of my body.
Everything hurt. My vagina was sore. It hurt to walk. It hurt to use the restroom. Every time I went, there was blood trickling out of me and pooled in my underwear. There were concrete scrapes trailing from my legs to my back and even to my arms. I had bruises in the shape of your hands covering the places you held me down. My wrists, arms, hips, back, legs, and part of my neck all had black and purple traces of where you had been. In all the places void of handprints, you left hickies to remind me of what I needed to forget. You left them on my neck, my chest, my inner thighs, and on my butt. I could not stand seeing myself in the mirror. All I could think about was you telling me that it was okay. It was not okay. It is not okay. It will never be okay.
As time went on, I started to suppress the way I felt. I separated myself from social situations and kept quiet in groups. I stopped feeling like myself. The one person I felt I could talk to pushed me to report you. Reporting you hurt almost as bad as letting the hot shower water run over all of my cuts. I had the pleasure of speaking with someone who's only kind words were to tell me that students "are not punished when university standards are not upheld." Without even finishing the conversation, I wished I had never said anything. I tuned out for most of what followed, but I was brought out of my thoughts for the questions "were you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol" and "was there actual penetration." I regretted coming forward. I said that I just wanted to let it be known and did not want to go any further. I was informed that I would have to speak to the Title IX board director, even though I desperately wanted it to end.
I chose not to tell your name. Not because I wanted it. Not because it was okay. Because I knew that what I said was unimportant. You are a "good, christian guy." You are a proud university athlete. You represent the students in senate. I am just the girl who cried rape, when I was clearly asking for it.
So, congratulations on "fucking" me. From what I have heard, I was begging for it.
I just need you to know that you hurt me more than I show. Physically, I was sore, heavily bruised, and had scrapes from the concrete all over my body. The physical things healed up within a few months. Mentally, I wonder if my "no" will be accepted by the next boys I find myself alone with. Spiritually, I wonder if I am a bad person for hating you. What hurts most of all is having to see you. I hate seeing people talk about what a good guy you are. I hate that you sit in front of me in class twice a week. I hate the way you turn to look at me over your shoulder, when I speak. I hate hearing you say my name. I hate that I hate you. I know I am supposed to forgive you, and maybe one day I will. Today, I still hate you, but I am trying to move on from the choice you made for me.
The girl who did not want it