My First and Only Date With The Golden Boy of Hamtramck.
The making out gets a little too out of control, so you say "hey, things are moving too fast. We need to slow it down." Things do slow down, but only for a few minutes before quickly turning back up. He takes your underwear off, and as you say something about how you can't do this right now he starts to go down on you. You say "no," but it is to no affect. You grimace at the ceiling, then manage to wriggle away and roll over onto your side into the fetal position, facing away from him. He asks what's wrong, and you tell him that things are moving too fast. He apologizes, and spoons up behind you. Your heart begins to race. You do not want to be touched right now. At all. So you say that you just need some space, and turn your body away once again to the last strip of mattress that's left.
With your arms curled up under your body, you lie face down, hiding your face in the pillow in attempt to gain composure and halt the tears that have started welling up. And then you feel him get on top of you. You can feel his dick slide between your thighs, despite keeping them tightly pressed together. "Come on... please don't do that," you manage to say. He pulls away slightly only to move forward again, pushing his entire penis inside of your vagina. You attempt to raise your head, and find yourself speaking the words, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" He says, "I didn't think it was actually gonna go in." You are panicking now. Your mind is flooded with all of those PSAs about "no means no," and news stories of women who never see justice because they didn't explicitly say "stop." You can feel your mind attempting to disassociate, so you immediately let out "no! Please stop." But he does not stop. He keeps thrusting and tells you, "Don't worry, I'm not going to cum."
Your body's next reaction is turning to stone. Because when you're face down with your arms pinned beneath your body and your face is smothered into the mattress and pillow, there's nothing you can do about a six-foot-something, 200+ pound man pressing his entire weight upon you. Your crying becomes audible, but you don't recognize the sounds. They are moaning tears of utter helplessness and defeat. Because you realize that your body's defense mechanism of clenching all of your muscles in attempt to keep out any foreign objects is probably just making it more pleasurable for him. His body feels like wet sandpaper against yours and it hurts.
When he finally stops fucking you, he sees that you're not moving or talking and asks if you're okay. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom. You turn the sink on full blast, stare at yourself in the mirror, and tell yourself it's going to be okay. You grab a razor from the shower, but drop it when you attempt to take the plastic cover off because your hands are violently shaking. You curl up on the floor and cry without any sound, and feel angry with yourself for wanting to commit suicide. You stand outside of your roommates door for a few minutes trying to find the courage to knock. You tell yourself that you have to be brave and go back to your room, because if you don't, he will still be there in the morning.
You get back to your room and lay on the very edge of the bed. He is laying naked under the covers. He mentions that you don't seem alright. You tell him you don't want to talk about it, and he tries to snuggle up close to you. You tell him you need space and draw an invisible bubble around yourself with your arms. He says that's it's okay, you can talk to him. After a moment, you tell him "I asked you to stop, but you didn't." His voice waivers, "oh, of course, I'm so sorry," and he insists that he sleep on the couch so you can have your space. You wonder when he made the assumption that he was invited to sleep over; was it before or after he made the assumption that he was invited to fuck you? Visibly distressed, he starts getting up to leave the bed and you tell him, "actually, I'm just going to get you an Uber home." He bursts into uncontrollable tears and declares, "I can't believe this happened; I am a feminist!" So you slap him on the back a few times in feigned sympathy and, despite his protests of miscommunication and misread signals, you steady your hands long enough to type in his address on the Uber app and request a driver to start heading to your home. Through his snot and tears, he shakes his head in disbelief, "I can't believe I fucked this up. We could have been so great, but I ruined it." The glow from your phone stings your eyes and the pain makes you feel a little better, which confirms that you can't be trusted behind the wheel of a car right now. Especially with him in it. Having someone else drive him home was the right decision.
Exiting your bedroom, he begins to cry again. You find yourself giving him a hug goodbye, and the fact that you've been conditioned to behave this way makes you want to kill yourself. He doesn't even have his shoes on when you close the front door behind him, but you don't care. You make yourself small and peek out of the corner window to make sure that he gets into the car and it actually leaves. When it does, your knees buckle.
You need fresh air, so you go out onto your apartment balcony. Your one roommate, whose door your stood at, comes outside to smoke a cigarette. She asks you how your date went. You say something about how it wasn't good, and insinuate that something bad happened. She tells you that she loves you and is here for you if you need to talk about it. She gives you a hug and goes back to bed. It is freezing, but you remain crouched down inside of the storm door to protect you from the wind. You smoke 4 cigarettes in a row and do a google search on your phone for "what to do after you've been raped." You throw your phone because the layer of tears in your eyes are blurring your vision and nobody will believe you anyway. Everyone loves him, you are nobody. You flirted with him for days and brought him into your home. You kissed him first.
He sends you a text that says "thanks for the ride home." You try to remember if your crafty roommate still has a blowtorch in the basement and start to gag while imagining setting the inside of your vagina on fire.
You go back inside and tear all of the bedding off of your mattress, and throw it into a pile outside of your bedroom. Your pillows smell like dusty old records and books; they smell like him. You throw those into the pile as well, along with the pajamas you'd been wearing earlier. You lay in bed with a single blanket, the one you only use to feel safe when you're extremely ill, until the sun comes up.
The next day, you feel numb. You get dressed and announce that you're going to take a walk to go get a coffee, and your roommate who accompanied you last night asks if she can walk with you. She wants to know how the date went. You tell her exactly what happened, minus any emotion. She stops to look you in the eye and says, "that is rape." She feels terrible and blames herself. You feel terrible and blame yourself too, not just for what happened, but for informing her of it and ultimately destroying a friendship that she'd held so dear. She was very close with this man, as were all of her friends. You tell her that everything is going to be okay. You get ready to go play D&D as you would any other Sunday.
You have to stop yourself from crying twice while you're there. A member of the group attempts to give you a surprise hug, and you raise your fist at his face. On your way home, you park at the far end of your street and break down crying. You turn up the stereo and remember listening to this song in high school. This verse reminds you of the scene in Thelma and Louise where they drive off the cliff. You unbuckle your seatbelt, put the car in drive, and press the gas pedal to the floor. An image of your 9 year old niece who looks up to you flashes through your brain, and you slam on the breaks just before slamming into the brick wall at the end of the street in front of your house.
You can't sleep, so you check social media. He sent you a Facebook message while you were playing D&D. He says he feels like he can't function. He's afraid he will be known as "that guy" when he knows that's not who he is. He's afraid of losing people he cares about because of this, but most of all he's afraid he lost you. Things were going so well. He says he wants to close his record store and quit all of his bands. He is too sad to continue. He would start over with you in a heartbeat if he could. No matter what happens or how much he gets dragged through the mud, he still cares about you so much and wonders what could have been. He'd like to know how you feel, and hopes to hear from you again someday. You tell yourself that maybe you'll die in your sleep tonight, and this feels comforting.
The next few days are a blur. You go to work on autopilot and speak as little as possible. Your best friend lets you use her sister's old comforter on your bed, but being in your bedroom still makes you feel sick and you can't sleep anyway. You go talk to your therapist and tell her what happened. This isn't the first time you've been sexually assaulted, and you never fully healed from the two prior experiences in your childhood and teens because you don't know how to. You decide that you will approach this differently, since the things you've tried in the past haven't brought you closure. You will try talking to him about it.
You get home and text him that you want to talk. He says that he would prefer to meet up in person or talk on the phone, but the thought of having to look at him or hear his voice makes your chest feel heavier than it already does. You nearly abort the mission to hear him out as panic sets in, but quickly remind yourself that giving him a chance for redemption may lead to closure. Because you know that holding onto this kind of resentment and anger eats away at you, and is the basis for the destruction of every romantic relationship you've been in. You remind yourself that before this happened, you actually liked him a lot. When he acknowledges what happened and apologizes, you can forgive him, he will agree to get the help that he needs, you both can start to heal, and move on. You are confident in this plan until his attitude proves much different now than it was when you kicked him out of your house that night, or in his regretful Facebook message the following evening.
He tries to convince you that you are remembering things wrong, that you had perceived things much differently than how they truly happened. You realize that he hadn't been crying because he hurt you, but instead it was him worrying what might become of his life if you tell anyone. "One errant tweet is all it takes," he says. You tell him that you want to kill yourself, and he says he feels like you're trying to manipulate him. But of course, he's "here for you when you're ready to have a real discussion about what happened."
A month or so later, word has really started to get around. He made a public Facebook post to address it. Saying that it's sad how people will say anything to try to hurt someone. That the person saying things about him has an extensive history of making false claims regarding sexual assault. That it is this person's M.O. to sleep with people, and then lie about what happened because they regret doing it. You see nearly a hundred comments talking trash about this pathetic, unnamed person. These people aren't just strangers, they are actual acquaintances and friends of yours. What would they be saying if they knew it was you he was talking about?
Then your friends inform you he is hosting a dialogue for the Seraphine Collective at his shop on the topic of "putting an end to rape culture in the local music scene." You are enraged because you know exactly why he is doing this. After much debate, you attend with a handful of close people at your side because you're the baddest motherfucker on the planet. You're able to smile for the first time since it happened upon seeing the look on his face when he realizes you showed up.
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10/24/17 update:
I was notified that at some point the Seraphine Collective reached out to him for transformative justice facilitation. Twice. He flaked out both times.
10/24/17 continued:
Seraphine has reached out to me, and aside from speaking with them directly I'm not going to be using any social media for a while. The inevitable judgements made by complete strangers are starting to set in now, and reading these comments will only backtrack the progress I've made in my recovery from what happened. I did however see way more support and kind words than I'd ever expected; the solidarity displayed has truly been paramount in helping me cope with reliving this on a public platform. To everyone who took the time to read and share my story, to everyone who offered kind words: I extend my deepest gratitude. Stay safe.
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Addendum:
This piece was written over a period of a few days following the incident, which took place on the night of January 21, 2017, the night of the Women's March. Additional paragraphs were added as new developments occurred; I will continue adding any updates to this post shall they arise.
The decision to publish my story came immediately following a text I received on October 22, 2017. I was sent a screenshot of a text stating that this man has done it again. I don't know who the girl he recently assaulted is, or the details of what happened, but if she happens to read this I want her to know that I'm truly regretful for not speaking out sooner. Perhaps if I had, this never would have happened to her. Whether or not she decides to speak out, I love and support her 100%. I'm beyond deeply sorry that he hurt you, too.