The last couple of days I’ve been thinking about rape. What is rape exactly? I know what it is. But then you get to the confusing lines- and maybe it’s not confusing at all, and it’s just me complicating things.
I don’t consider what happened to me rape. Everyone I’ve told does.
I was stupid. I let myself get drunk with a guy I barely knew. I allowed myself to stay the night in his bed. I didn’t reject his kisses, his touches. Sure, I told him I didn’t want him going down on me, but when he said it’ll be okay, I relented.
Then here comes the self-blame…which could be me muddling things. He sits up, and without me even realizing it, has no pants on, and is putting his hard cock inside me.
I said no, stop. I grabbed his biceps, and tried to push him off.
But then he got upset, and I let him fuck me.
Is that rape?
Everyone says it is.
Maybe I say it’s not because I blame myself for even putting myself in that situation. I blame myself for not fighting him more and making him understand I truly did not want to fuck, how much it hurt.
I cried while he fucked me. He never even knew, never even saw the silent tears trickling from eyes into the pillows.
I know if I know of that happening to someone in my life, or even a stranger, I would be angry. I would call it rape.
There are different types of rape, but it’s all rape. Brutal rape from a stranger. Rape from a guy a girl thought she could trust. Rape from a guy who intentionally got you drunk because you wouldn’t fuck him sober.
Rape. It doesn’t matter what extreme it happens in, it isn’t something you forget. It affects you, lives with you.