Acting Out For No Reason

Trigger Warning — this post includes the reproduction of “jokes” about sexual assault, and also a description of an actual experienced sexual assault.

You may have seen recently on Shakesville a post which got much attention, called The Survivor Thread.  It was an excellent post which garnered 300+ comments from people sharing their experiences with sexual assault.  Liss not only encouraged them to do so — she specifically encouraged those who have been assaulted more than once, saying:

And many of us who are survivors of repeat assaults will not speak of it; many of us will pick the “worst” one and talk about that in threads on assault, as if it’s the only one. We do this for many reasons: We might feel embarrassed by being repeatedly victimized, as if it’s indicative of a character flaw within ourselves; we might have trouble discussing multiple assaults without undermining what tenuous feeling of safety we have; we might have faced reactions of incredulity from people with whom we shared this information and thought we could trust; we might have been called liars or hysterics—accusations born of the silence about sexual assault.

I am the survivor of repeated assaults.  Though I have never spoken of them in much detail, I have been public and open about the fact that as a teenager, my boyfriend raped me more than once and otherwise assaulted me more times than I counted or even remember.  I think, when filling out a survivor survey and forced to choose, I picked between 21-35 times.  Liss is right, though, that we tend to pick the “worst” assault to discuss.  For me, this is both in spite of and because of the fact that I often find two of the assaults that were not penetrative to have actually affected me just as much if not more than those which were.

But it also reminded me that while I talk of only him, my ex-boyfriend is not the only one to have ever sexually assaulted me.

So while I didn’t speak on that thread, it was there, brought out of the recesses of my memory, and in the back of my mind.  That was when, on Saturday, I came across a thread on a private blogging community I belong to.  An original poster talked in his journal about seeing an attractive woman at Subway and thinking that she might have been flirting with him, and a commenter responded with: “You should’ve grabbed her tits.” And then, when he got a positive response to his “humor,” I just don’t want that bitch to think it’s okay to ever go into a Subway again.”

Of course, being the humorless feminist harpy that I am, I called him on it, and not very nicely.  Then, because I was triggered, I wrote an earlier version of the story below in my own private journal, as a means of processing and coping.

In the meantime, the “joke”-maker refused to apologize,  made further jokes, and claimed I was making assumptions and ought to drop the matter.  When I refused to back down, and spoke openly, loudly, and angrily about my own sexual assault and the damage he had done to me and my entire day, and the blatant disrespect he was showing me with his lack of acknowledgment and apology, he responded with the information that: 1. he was being ironic and making fun of people who did think that way, so it didn’t count and 2. the fact that he didn’t care that he had triggered me had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with gender.  Another person (who I think is female, but I do not know for sure) also took it upon themselves to step in and say to me “There’s really no need to act out like this.”

In addition to the fact that I want to now make a feminist tee-shirt out of that phrase (Feminist Bloggers: Acting Out For No Reason), and have used it as a title for this post, it cemented in my mind something that I had already long suspected: there are not many things in this world that scare more people than a sexual assault survivor who is willing to speak loudly and without shame about what was done to her — including, often, to other survivors, themselves.  Even worse is when she demands accountability from other people for the attitudes that allowed her assault(s) to be committed and for them to be excused.  Seriously, it scares the living shit out of them.

And it scares the living shit out of me, too.  Because I’m often the one who is speaking, and that speaking is scary.  It is particularly terrifying when you do it outside of a feminist space, a space that is relatively safe, and know it’s unlikely that anyone will speak with you.

But while I think that all of us need to speak out in our own time, when we are ready, if we are going to speak out at all, this is precisely the reason why I feel the need to do so.  It is the reason I feel the need to not hide anymore.  Because people expect me to.  They want me to.  And if they want me to talk about it?  They want me to be apologetic for doing so, and damn shy and timid about it.

They don’t want me to “act out.”  And they don’t want you to, either.

One of my stories is below.  It is the one that was triggered by the incident outlined above.  It is the only one I am yet ready to tell, and by far I imagine the “best” of them all.  And I have decided to share it for all of the reasons stated above.

If you are able to, I encourage to do the same in the comments.  Yes, I am totally ripping off Liss’ idea, but I have to believe that she would actually be pleased that it is staying alive.

“Act out for no reason.”
Whether trans or cis, woman, man or genderqueer, whether your assault would be seen as “negligible” by most or almost unspeakable, say it here.  This is a place where it will not be minimized, it will not be dismissed, it will not be laughed at, it will not be questioned, and you will not be accused of overreacting, like I was on Saturday.  I’ll see to it.



His name was Andrew. I remember because he had the same name as the crush who I idolized for many years; otherwise, I hardly knew him. We were in middle school, though I don’t remember what grade. I had boobs. Significantly more so than most of the other girls at that age and I remember that I was still trying to figure out what the hell to do with them and how to support them properly. They always felt very much there.

Anyway, it was gym class. We were playing baseball that day, and I went outside, walking with one of my friends. I was wearing my purple uniform-mandated gym tee-shirt. It was sunny; I remember that well. Andrew was wearing a baseball glove, and walked up to me like he wanted something.

Just as I was starting to say “what?” he reached out with the baseball glove-clad hand and grabbed my boob. The right one, as I remember it. Just like that. Marched on up like he owned me.

Another, separate time, he grabbed my ass, out on the running track, with a bare had that time, of course. I don’t remember what I did either time. I was humiliated, that I remember. I probably smacked him and yelled something. I don’t know.

But it was the first sexual assault I ever endured. And what a sad thing to have a “first” of.

It didn’t even occur to me to report this to the teacher, the administration, my parents, anyone. It didn’t even occur to me. I didn’t think they’d take it seriously, because I didn’t think it was serious. Not in a way that wasn’t self-doubting. After all, a boy randomly grabbing your tit was supposed to be some kind of compliment. Especially for an unpopular, kinda chubby girl like me.

And anyway, it was minor, right? It was just my boob. He was wearing a baseball glove! And he was a kid. He didn’t know any better. It’s not like he raped me. It’s not like I said “no,” of course putting aside that I never had the chance.

Oh, the excuses that could be made.

Yeah, you know, it was comparatively “mild.” In fact, I think that most women endure something like this at some point in their lives. But that’s exactly why it’s such a problem. Because it’s assault. And yes, he was old enough to know better; even 5-year-olds know they’re supposed to keep their hands to themselves.

I was 12 or 13. Again, it was the first sexual assault I had ever endured. I knew that he shouldn’t have done it, but felt that there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it.

When those around us giggled as a response, when they shrugged their shoulders, when a boy grabbing your boob was some kind of compliment and I knew that was wrong, but then it happened to me … it was the first indication I ever really had, sexually speaking, that my body, mine, didn’t belong to me. Not really. That boys could do what they wanted to do with it. And that was just boys being boys.

One to two years later I was being routinely sexually assaulted and even raped by my boyfriend.  And I don’t really see that as some kind of strange coincidence, or think that what I was taught then is wholly unrelated to my failure to recognize abuse as abuse.  I honestly don’t even remember whether the rapes or other sexual assaults came first.  It’s all a hodgepodge of incidents, some surely forgotten, of various assaults floating through my mind.  There are two reasons why I think that my memory is like swiss cheese in that regard: because it’s a side effect of post-traumatic stress, and because it was just a part of daily life, and you forget daily life.

But of the ones that I do actually consciously remember at some place in my mind, this one that is most normally forgotten. For many reasons, I think. It was also the first.

0 thoughts on “Acting Out For No Reason

  1. Renee

    I remember my first assault. I was 13 years old and it was March break and we were coming back from the Cn tower. It was rush hour and we were on the Dundas line so it was really packed. I was wearing a purple pair of pants and a blue jacket (not that the details matter). I was standing as there were no seats available when I felt pressure on my behind. I didn’t know what this pressure was and it was becoming more insistent. I remember looking down and seeing this white hand wrapped around my thigh and I realized that this pressure was a man “dry humping my behind” in public. I was terrified and immediately froze. There was an adult white male standing directly in front of me and I remember pleading to him for help with my eyes because I was to terrified to say anything and this man just kept thrusting himself against my behind. Finally when we approached the station where everyone usually switches over, I cleared my throat and he whispered in my ear. “Yes I am getting off here to, thanks.” When we switched to the other train I was absolutely shaking. When I explained what happened to the woman who was in charge of us, she told me it was my fault because I should have screamed, hit him or otherwise acted out. I was only 13 and I was scared and yet this incident became my fault. This is just one of the incidents that have happened to me. I am not ready to talk about the others yet. I bring this one up to point out that even those you trust are capable of blaming you for your own assault.

    Reply
  2. Paul

    This isn’t sexual but i need to vent – specially as some of the people that did it have recently tried to “apologize” about it through my Facebook

    I was hit and kicked and spat on by a bunch of kids at my high school – it’s now almost fifteen years later and it still hurts – they weren’t even really punished – a few days suspension for the ringleader

    I was bullied a lot through high school – out of depression i turned to eating – which made me grow fat – which only made things – a girl called Sally told me i should wear a bra and someone else sent me a selection of ladies lingerie

    Would you accept an “apology” from a now-grown-up school bully?

    I told them that their words didn’t change what they did to me and that a large part of me still hurt and still wanted vengeance

    Reply
    1. Cara Post author

      Renee, thank you so much for sharing your story here. I know how incredibly difficult and scary it is (this post was difficult and scary), so I appreciate your strength and bravery.

      Paul, I can’t speak to non-sexual assault. I only know that if my rapist attempted to “apologize” to me via facebook or any other means, the results would not, to put it mildly, be positive for either one of us.

      Reply
  3. Becka

    Last year on our way to Cuba, my husband and I spent a night in Mexico City. We decided to take public transit (kind of like a skytrain) from the aiport into the city, as it was cheaper and we felt like we’d heard dodgy things about taxis.

    We’d arrived early on a Monday morning, rush hour, and it was packed. Both trying to figure out where the hell we were going, we’d forgotten the advice to find the women and children’s carriage. So we squeezed on, it was so full the doors could barely shut. Once on there were bodies pressed up all around us, and I felt a hand reach in between my thighs. I tried moving or closing my legs, but there was just no room. I knew who it was, he was looking right at me as he was rubbing. My husband was behind me and due to my giant pack I couldn’t turn around to get his attention. I was the only female in the carriage and I was way too scared to say anything.

    It was a weird mix of emotions. Mostly it was fear. Fear that if I told him to stop, that I would get hurt. I was very aware that we had no idea where we were at that stage and were very alone. But then, I would feel bad for being afraid as if I was playing into this negative stereotype of Mexican men as being overly volatile and all violent gangstas ready to kill white people. I felt bad because I shouldn’t have gone in this carriage in the first place, and was I just some white woman trying to have an ‘authentic’ Mexican experience so really I deserved all I got and it was racist of me to feel scared and later outraged?

    I told my husband after we got off at the next stop, he was devastated that he didn’t/couldn’t have done anything. I never told anyone else, I was too embarassed that I ‘let’ myself get in that situation in the first place.

    Reply
  4. Yoshimi

    I’m not sure if I’ve been raped or not. A couple of years ago I was dating this guy. We’d been together for a while, and in high school had a great sex life. Then we went through some rough spots and I felt I couldn’t trust him anymore but for some reason we were still together. Long story short(ish), we hadn’t had sex in a very long time. I was sleeping in his bed one night (we both sleep naked) and I felt him penetrate me. I tried to shake him off but I couldn’t. I didn’t say anything because I was groggy and still half asleep and just confused and angry about why he wasn’t taking the hint and stopping. The next morning he had no idea why I was mad at him because he had been asleep. I know when this sort of thing has come up in the past on varrious feminist blogs most people just say it’s an excuse to avoid responsibility for raping someone, but I knew this guy well enough to know that he wasn’t lying and that he was genuinely remorseful. Anyway, it happened a few more times, even when I wore pants to bed he would pull them down. eventually we solved the problem by each of us wrapping ourselves in different blankets. It didn’t even occur to me that this may have been rape until after we broke up. The thing is, I guess it is because someone had sex with me without my consent, but it’s complicated because I can’t blame the rapist. I don’t even consider him a rapist. The things that bother me most are that it happened several times and for some reason (maybe surprise, embarassment, being confused because I was mostly asleep, etc.) I never tried to wake him up. I always just twisted away to his penis fell out and then he would do it again. The other is that we aren’t on speaking terms so I can’t confront him and ask if he remembers/still feels bad/feels responsible. Sorry for any typoes or whatever. I’m home sick today and my fever didn’t help me deal with some of these emotions.

    Reply
  5. queen emily

    I’ve been sexually assaulted numerous times, mostly since transitioning.

    On my first New Year’s Eve after coming out, a friend of mine was drunk and kissed me hello a little too sloppily. Then grinded on me too closely, even though I pushed him off me. Later he came up to me while I was talking to someone else, grabbed my breasts and pulled up my dress so everyone could see my knickers.

    But the worst bit was, he sent me all these text messages afterwards. First apologising. Then when I said, that’s fine, we’re good–because I wanted to be left alone–he asked me out to dinner, *then* texted me more when I said no, all “about I thought you forgave me.” I ended up turning my phone off for a week cos I didn’t know how to block texts. So many layers of yuck.

    Reply
  6. Bridget

    Hi…I’ve been reading for awhile, but I don’t think I’ve ever commented.

    My sexual assault was very muddy and confusing for me both then and now. I was a freshman in college (now finishing up my fifth year) and had been hanging out with a guy friend a lot in the weeks leading up to it. He had a girlfriend but they were having issues, and he and I had been talking about it a lot. I had a crush on him even though he had a girlfriend, but I hadn’t acted on it. We were growing pretty close and he seemed to have a bit of a crush on me as well. To complicate things, he was sort of acting as a mentor/teacher to me for some spiritual stuff, and there was a clear imbalance of power in that section of our relationship. That power imbalance mostly stayed out of our friendship, and though our friends teased us about it, it seemed okay at the time. One afternoon we were in my dorm room doing some of the teacher/student stuff, and it was fairly intense. At one point I told him I needed to take a break, so we started just talking on my bed. Talking lead to kissing, and eventually his hands started to wander. I told him no very clearly and pushed his hand away. He said okay and we started kissing again. The hand came back, more insistent this time. I said no and pushed it away again. This continued until his fingers made his way into my vagina and began thrusting. I told him to stop, pushed him off and started to cry. He finally stopped. A few minutes later my roommate came in and gave me this look that said “You whore!” because I think she assumed that I slept with all of my guy friends. (She wasn’t very nice.) Spent the rest of the evening consoling HIM about how his relationship was doomed, and surprisingly bounced back from the assault quickly…too quickly. Fast forward to this past summer. Sitting around the apartment, finishing some unpacking, going on 3 years in a relationship with an amazing guy…and suddenly it all comes RUSHING back and I freak out and stay in bed for a week because I can’t handle it. Post-traumatic stress, big-time. I give him a call and say I want to talk about it (he’s friends with all my friends and me as well, though our relationship will never be quite repaired) and we have a big long talk about it. He gives me some lines about how his now-fiance likes to be “convinced” for sex or something (same girl he was dating years ago, they’re getting married in July) and how it didn’t occur to him that not all girls were like that and but I’m a good guy and I didn’t mean to hurt you and won’t you please forgive me? It’s been a long recovery road. I don’t think I can ever quite trust him again the way I used to. Any time the topic turns to sex and he’s around, I feel myself tensing up.

    He doesn’t understand that I’m not okay…that I’ll never be okay.

    Reply
    1. Cara Post author

      Bridget, in addition to being sexual assault, that’s also rape (rape is penetration without consent, penis used or no penis used), and sounds an awful lot like my own (and it took me many years to finally be able to call it what it was). Frighteningly so, in many ways. I hope that you find a way to break off all contact with him. It sounds like you need to for your own mental health.

      A big thank you also to everyone else who has shared up to this point. As difficult as all of these stories are to read, I’m so glad that we’re speaking/sharing to/with each other.

      Reply
  7. Elle

    This thread and the other make me so sad, and make me realize how dark a hole we are living in. I’ve had my boobs grabbed many times and occasionally someone has tried to push their fingers into me in public, at clubs. One time I turned toward the person who did it and yelled, “What the fuck?” at him as loud as I could. He said, “sheesh, chill out” and my then-boyfriend, now-husband tried to get me to calm down, tried to tell me it was a compliment, etc.

    In high school and college I remember making out with guys and having them try to penetrate me digitally, even when I pushed them away or said no to anything below the waist.

    And another time in high school I was watching movies with a mixed-sex group of friends and the guy I was sitting next to kept trying to do stuff, and all I felt like I could do was keep his attentions above my waist, because telling him no (without making a scene) didn’t seem to stop it entirely.

    We call the former “what happens when you go out” and the latter two “what happens when you make out with guys.” I never would have thought to call them sexual assault, even on the very mildest side of the scale. I’m not sure anyone outside the feminist blogosphere would consider them sexual assualt.

    But now I’m dealing with ongoing, pernicious sexual harassment at work, and again my urge is not to make a scene. It’s not that bad, I can take it.

    It’s hard for me to believe that every woman has not at least experienced that “mild” form of sexual assualt–being groped in public or having a man go too far, and keep going too far even after she’s said no. I hope there are women who haven’t experienced that, but I haven’t met any. Realizing this makes me realize how very far we have to go. Because even as feminist as I like to think of myself as being, my urge is to minimize this stuff, at least when it happens to me, not to rock the boat or “make a big deal out of nothing.”

    Reply
  8. Yoshimi

    @Elle: I have to struggle against minimizing my experiences as well. When I experience street harassment my first thought is to search for safety and my second is not to make a scene or cause a fuss. Even the experience I described above I hesitate to call rape because I keep worrying it will minimize the experiences of other women who have had even worse things happen. I know all the reasons why that’s a harmful way to think but I have to constantly fight against it anyway.

    Reply
  9. karak

    My sexual assault was a popular boy in class. He started with harassing me… telling me how he loved me, how we should date, and everyone laughed because I was ugly and alone and he was pretending I was attractive.

    And then he started to grab me. Started to pull me in his lap or play with my hair and touch me face, or push me and yank me off balance into his arms because, you see, he lloooooooved me, and wasn’t that just too funny?

    Everyone watched. I mean, the students, and the teachers, they watched this and laughed at me because I was so fucking ugly I should be grateful that this boy was willing to touch me, even if it just was to humiliate me in class.

    I started throwing up before school. But I didn’t tell anyone, because I was such a humorless bitch, and everyone would hate me for ruining the joke.

    The day I broke was the day he came up behind me while I was sitting on the ground and started violently humping my head, so hard he hurt my neck, and I lost my mind, turned around and grabbed him and threw him on the ground, screaming incoherently about how he may never touch me.

    “But we did this last night,” he said, and laughed. And so did everyone else.

    My story, though, ends well–this broke me enough to go the principal. And all I said, over and over, was it just wasn’t funny anymore, I’m SO SORRY, but it just isn’t funny anymore (as I cried and cried and cried).

    I went home and told my mother, who broke an ashtray and smoked angrily, and my father, who had to leave the house he was so angry that he didn’t want to scare me. And he came to school with me the next day, and that boy was suspended and never in a class with me again.

    And the fact is, it means so much more to me that my dad was angry than my mother, because my dad is man, and he showed me that men aren’t like that. Because it’s normal that men and women are pitted against each other, and, of course, if there’s a conflict about humor/humiliation, the man is always right, even if I throw up every morning.

    The realization I needed a man to validate my assault is what started me to become a feminist.

    Reply
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  11. depresso

    My first memory of being uncomfortable with this kind of thing must’ve been about 20 years ago. I was hanging upside-down over the fence at the park and two little boys came over. One of them stuck his hand into my crotch with no preamble. I think I might have kicked him as I twirled off the fence, but I’m not sure.

    When I was 15, my boyfriend at the time, who was my first, assaulted me. He forced his hand into my knickers, made me touch him and moved my hand back every time I moved it away. After working up the courage to ask him to stop, telling him I wasn’t ready for that, he waited a while and started again. I vividly recall wanting to cut my hand off for ages after, for being the treacherous hand. I blamed myself, naturally, for not saying no enough. Subsequently, I had sex with all my partners super-quick; it was what they were after and if I gave it to them… Well, I was in control, right? It got it out of the way.

    For years, I thought my depression was just a chemical thing, but no. I realise now that it all stems back to what Fraser did. I can’t help but think, though, that if he hadn’t done what he did, maybe things would’ve been different for me. Maybe I wouldn’t have had 2 years of being abused by Iain. Maybe he wouldn’t have ever had the chance to rape me. Maybe I might’ve pressed charges after he held me down in the hall, pinning me by my throat and telling me what a selfish bitch I was. Maybe I’d’ve called the police after he beat me in the bathroom, bouncing my head off the tiles, on his graduation night. I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t be sleeping with a heavy torch under my pillow, unable to sleep until 5am because of the things in my head.

    Reply
  12. Tokidoki

    @depresso: The being forced to touch someone was how my ex first assaulted me too. Moving my hand back when I moved it away. I can’t have a hand on top of mine or moving mine, even a teacher, without crying or hitting.

    After I left my ex, who eventually raped me..god, probably hundreds of times over the two years, I started trying to figure out why I had always felt like I had no right to my body. (Or, as my parents put it, “let” him rape me.)

    My “friends” used to molest me, as a game, starting in middle school. It was funny to them, especially when I tried to fight back. They stole things from me to get me in positions where I was more vulnerable-where I couldn’t cover my chest and pinned me down on more than one occasion. One called me fat after he molested me, beginning my eating disorder. I thought for my assaults, because I was so ugly and no one had ever wanted me anyways.

    I spoke up about it around this time last year. I told one of the bastards (who I was still friends with) that he likely saw no problem with someone being friends with my ex (who was stalking me at this time) because he was the equivalent a rapist himself. He apologized for making a “mistake” and said I was “overreacting” because he hadn’t raped me, and I was being irrational by comparing the two. All of my friends agreed with him-some suggested he sue me for slander, because I called him a rapist. Some admitted he did a “bad thing” but that he was sorry (though he refused to talk to me, since I had brought it up), and it wasn’t like he had RAPED me, so why didn’t I just get over it? One of them even had the gall to say rape was something that shouldn’t be joked about in class.

    I lost all the people I thought were my friends. I’ve been assaulted by at least five different people. I have PTSD and god knows how many repressed memories waiting to pop up again. And I’m only 17. I hate to admit it, but I’m so scared. How many more times will I get hurt?

    Reply
  13. belledame222

    I remember walking home from school one day and some guy on a bicycle sticking his hand out as he passed by so it connected with my breast. The street was empty; I was pretty rattled as I hurried back in. He didn’t come back or anything, so I was just supposed to forget about it. anyway the folks didn’t seem to really get why I was upset, if he didn’t come back.

    that went double for the time I was at the public library with my dad, wearing short skirt, and some of the local guys who crashed out in the library were blatantly crouching on the other side of the bookshelves to peer up my skirt. Dad seemed vaguely annoyed that I seemed to want him to -do- something, or, well, at least just -get- why I was freaked out. I think that part was worse: the intimation that I was making a big deal out of nothing, or that they couldn’t or wouldn’t be there for me in any way, emotionally, whatever.

    Reply
  14. belledame222

    oh, and girls as well as boys doing bra-snapping, all kinds of casually nasty sexualized comments…yeah, you do take a certain level of unsafety/disrespect for granted.

    Reply
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  16. Anna

    Tokidoki – all I can say is that, platitude it is, it can and often does get better eventually. I’m so sorry these things happened to you – my story is much the same, though I’m too fragile this evening to type it all out.

    Reply
  17. dee

    I never really told anyone about my assault, except my current boyfriend, because I never thought it was assault, it was too minor to count.

    I had been in Colorguard, and a boy in the band had started to take an interest in me. It was completely out of nowhere, and at one competition he just came up behind me and hugged me, sat behind me during the other shows, and licked my ear. I thought it was cute at the time, and I was lonely. Later on we got into a semi-relationship, because I was the back-up girl since the person he really wanted to date didn’t like him. I invited him over my house, and we started kissing, and he started to move his hand up to my breast, and I subsequently pushed his hand away, this happened several more times, and then I gave up. Then he went under my shirt, and under my bra, and I pushed his hand away several times again, and then gave up. I never said no. I just didn’t understand that by disregarding my obvious dislike of his actions that it was wrong. Luckily, before he could go any further he had to leave, and I was immensely relieved, and I never invited over again and eventually completely cut him out of my life.

    And despite that he was and probably still is the scum of the earth, it was him and the other horrible boys in high school that lead my to feminism.

    Reply
  18. jackie

    I have been sexually assaulted numerous times in my life. I will speak only of two, for they are strikingly similar.

    Both occurred in the beginning of my freshman year of college.

    The “first” occurred while I was at a friend’s house. Pretty much everyone there was a friend or a friend of a friend–I had been sexually assaulted before, but it was by a stranger, so, the dangers associated with friends and acquaintances were not yet on my radar. We were all drinking (as freshman do), and when it became late enough, I curled up on the sofa and went to sleep. I awoke to someone’s hands in my pants, groping upwards into my vaginal canal. I remember it hurting, and being confused and disoriented. When I realized what was happening, I shoved the person off and identified him as a boy who I had always been uncomfortable around–he always made off-color comments about any girls around, as if he owned them. I ran into the other room, to find my closest two male friends, and told them (visibly upset), what happened. They said, “Aw, you’re overreacting. He’s a nice guy. He’s just drunk.” I protested, saying that was no excuse, but they shrugged it off and went into the other room. I remember feeling betrayed and violated and angry. I slept outside, in the chill October night. The next morning, that asshole came up to me and had the audacity to say, “You’re my favorite person to sleep with.” I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

    The “second” came only a month or so later. I was at a (different) friend’s house, and was not drinking very much (still wary from last time, I had sworn off couch sleeping). My (at the time) friend had just obtained a new boyfriend, and was completely enamored of the greasy bastard. I was supposed to sleep at her house that night, but she decided she wanted the boyfriend to come along. There were four of us, total, and she and a separate friend were driving/sitting shotgun, leaving me in the backseat with the new boyfriend. No sooner had we got in the car did they blast the music as loudly as possible, and the asshole boyfriend lunged for my crotch. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing a skirt. He kept trying to slip his fingers into my vagina, and though I screamed “NO GET OFF” and proceeded to hit him, he would simply sneer and then either grab my breast or take my hand and put it on his penis. I yelled and kicked the seat in front of me, trying to get my friend to turn around, but he was too drunk to notice and the music was too loud to hear. When we finally arrived at my friend’s house, I jumped out of the car and immediately threw up. When I got out of the bathroom, I realized that she had decided to go over to new boyfriend’s house. I left before she got back. Before I could even tell her what happened, she was beaming about the new BF and how she was in love with him, blah blah and sure enough, got knocked up by him (she had a miscarriage, and never carried the baby to term FYI). So I never told her–because I thought she’d take his side over mine. I stopped hanging out with her altogether. Nearly a year later, after she had broken up with him, I gathered the courage and confided in her what had happened that night. She stared at me blankly and dryly responded, “Yeah. I know. So?” That was the last time I ever spoke to her.

    In both cases, I was violated by someone I knew. In both cases, no one gave a damn. It took years to come to terms with the fact that happened to me WAS WRONG, despite the nonchalance of my so-called pals. I have better friends now, thankfully.

    Reply
  19. Emma

    I don’t think being groped should be waved off as a “compliment.”
    Men know what they do is wrong, yet they still do it, simply because they know it’s entirely likely they will get away with it.

    I’ve been sexually assaulted, and my first thought was to keep it to myself, but then i thought, no this isn’t my fault and they know I don’t want this.

    So I yelled out (in a crowded movie theatre) for him to stop. As much as I was humiliated, it did the trick, he got his just desserts.
    This way, I feel more at ease that he won’t try and assault someone else, knowing the consequences.

    Reply
  20. Dr. Confused

    Honestly, I’ve stopped keeping track of things like boob-grabbing, or repeatedly putting a hand up my shirt in public despite me moving it away.

    1. First year of university. I went to a frat party with a friend and his ex-girlfriend from out of town. I danced with some much older guy (he was in grad school… to me that seemed very old). He was drunk, I was sober. Eventually I left with my friends, and he came with us. I was too polite to tell him to go away. When we got back to the dorm I didn’t want to be alone with him so I went to my friend’s room. Eventually my friend asked me to leave his room: he wanted to be alone with his ex-girlfriend so they could talk. I left my friend’s room but didn’t want to bring the guy back to my room so I went to a public lounge. The guy pulled down my pants. He tried to penetrate me but failed due to the combination of his drunken flacidness and my vaginismus. He got on top of me and I tried to push him away but he was too big. Eventually I told him I thought I heard someone coming. He got off me and I left the room to “check on the noise.” I went back to my friend’s room and told the story. My friend told me to go away, he was still talking to his ex. So I went back to my room alone. To this day I am more angry with the “friend” than with the attempted rapist. I don’t know if the guy really knew what he was doing… he was very very drunk.

    2. Back at my hometown for the summer. Hanging out with an old friend and ex from high school. We went to his grandfather’s apartment (his grandfather was out of town.) We cooked pasta and hung out in the hottub and drank tequila and kahlua. We watched a Disney movie while drunk. I was so drunk I cannot remember which Disney movie it was. I was drifting in and out of consciousness during the movie. At some point I was being fucked, and still, repeatedly blacking out and coming to. The scene in Observe and Report? Yeah, that was pretty much exactly it. This is the one of the three that I now consider definitely and absolutely rape, and the one I think about the most, but the weird thing is that at the time I did not process it as rape. My thought the next day was that he must think I’m terrible in bed, cuz I couldn’t possibly have been at all responsive since I was passed out. It took me more than a year to definitively identify the event as rape. I stayed friends with the guy all that year and even flirted with him a bit. I have since stopped talking to him. I don’t think he knows why.

    3. 4th year of university. My roommate’s boyfriend was always at our place. He had a key. Both my roommates were out and I was watching TV alone. The boyfriend came into the apartment. He started talking to me and was behaving very strangely; I was into the TV show and giving monosyllabic answers. He went into my bedroom and came back out and kept talking to me. He suddenly grabbed my breast. This one was the most… surreal. I can’t even really tell the rest of the story as it gets all mixed up in my head with the telling and the re-telling and the discussion. We had sex. Did I consent? Certainly not enthusiastically. Did I say no? Possibly not? Who knows really? His behaviour was just so *strange* and I didn’t really know how to respond. So yeah, rape, but probably not criminally prosecutable. He apologised the next day. I think he was worried I’d tell his girlfriend. I never did.

    Reply
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  22. Cate

    I remember my first sexual assault very clearly, and it makes me sad that at the time, it didn’t strike me as noteworthy.

    In seventh grade social studies, I sat behind a boy named Jimmy. During class, he used to reach behind him and fondle my legs. Sometimes he would try to see how far up my skirt he could reach, but most of the time he was just touching my legs. When it was particularly annoying (not as in, “I feel really violated,” but as in, “I’m trying to do my work and you’re distracting”), I would stab him with my pencil. I specifically remember being ashamed when I hadn’t shaved my legs in a day or two–he never said anything about it, but how dare I let his hands graze stubble while invading my bodily integrity! In my yearbook, he wrote “Watch out, cause I’m gonna grab those legs.”

    It is only now that this seems very, very sad.

    Reply
  23. Jenee

    I’ve only recently started telling people the full version of this story, because I thought everyone would blame me if I told them it happened with the same guy at the same place two nights in a row.

    Over the past year, I had developed a very, very close friendship (best friends, I trusted him completely) with a male friend who didn’t have much luck with romance and had told me he had developed a crush on me. I was dating my on-again, off-again boyfriend long-distance, so I politely explained that I wasn’t interested. My group of friends would drink and party together almost every night. One night, at his house, I got really wasted and decided I wanted a quiet place to go to sleep. Barry had already gone to sleep a little earlier in his bedroom. Since the rest of the house was full of loud, drunk people, I asked if it was okay for me to sleep in his bed. The last thing I remember is asking if it was okay with him if I slept without my jeans on.

    The next morning, I woke up naked in his bed. I was dismayed, as I hadn’t intended to be unfaithful to my boyfriend, but I figured we’d both been wasted and things must have just gone down. So we laid in bed together for a long time (not cuddling or anything, just talking) and I explained to him that I didn’t regret this because I regretted sleeping with him, specifically, but I regretted it because I wanted to be in an exclusive relationship with my long-distance boyfriend, and that under no circumstances did I want anything like this to happen again. I honestly didn’t think anything of it at the time, because people get drunk and make bad choices. I did, however, hesitate for a moment when, after giving him the whole, “drunk people make bad choices,” thing he told me he hadn’t been drunk at the time and that when I reassured him that I was sure he must have had no idea I was blacked out, since no one can ever tell, he told me he could recognize when I was blacked out. (For the record, he’s the only person I know of who could recognize when I blacked out)

    Anyway, later that night. Same deal, everyone is over at Barry’s house partying. I drink to the point where I black out. Only this time, Barry kicks everyone out of the house, telling them that I’ve gotten too drunk and that he needs to drive me home. Instead, he fucks me and then, the kicker, forces me drive myself home.

    Now my suspicion is up, since I had explicitly told him that morning that I would not consent to any sort of sexual activity. So I questioned him about it. To this day, I am stunned at his honesty. He told me that he was sober both times. That he knew that I was blacked out and had no idea what was going on. That if I weren’t drunk, I would never have consented. In fact, my very first response the first time he came on to me when I was trying to sleep beside him in his bed was “No, we shouldn’t,” but I relented under pressure. When I told him I thought he’d “taken advantage” of me (I remember that I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “rape” to his face), he apologized saying that in his experience, girls stayed with him after they had slept together and he wanted to date me.

    All of this took a week or so to piece together. In the meantime, I had confessed to my boyfriend that I had “cheated” on him, and yet, miraculously, he believed me when my story “changed” to rape. For some reason, I was really concerned about becoming a wedge in our close-knit group of friends, so I insisted that I continue hanging out with him, although I quit drinking.

    The first person, besides my long-distance boyfriend, that I decided to tell about it, was a recent ex-boyfriend (part of that same group of friends) who was still supposedly “in love” with me. His first reaction? “Honestly, Jenee, what did you expect? You’re an attractive young girl drinking with a bunch of guys…” I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized that, just because I was female, I could NEVER, EVER let me guard down, EVER. Even with my closest friends. Even around the person that, at the time, I trusted more than almost anyone.

    Anyway. After that reaction, I didn’t tell anyone about it for a long time. I finally came to realize that my excessive drinking didn’t mean that I had caused the rapes to happen. I have been drunk countless times around countless people, mostly men (for some reason, my groups of friends are almost exclusively male… my jr. year spring break was me in a house in SC for a week with 13 guys), but the only times I’ve ever been raped were the times that I was around a rapist. I stopped being able to bring myself to see Barry a couple of months later, although he still doesn’t understand why we’re not still friends.

    Reply
  24. Sara B.

    I think this is a great idea. Naming the assault, especially when no one thinks you have a right to, is the first step toward recovery. Like Elle said, when you put all these experiences end to end it really puts the feminist movement in perspective.

    By the time my little brother hit puberty our parents were so up their own asses with their own drama I was practically raising him, myself. So I was the one who had “the sex talk” with him. In retrospect it’s a good thing because, if my mother had been involved in preparing him for sexual maturity, I shudder to think how she would have spun the “if a woman leads a man on she had better be prepared to go all the way” speech she gave me. Before all the sexual violence in my life even started I already believed it was my fault.

    Fast forward to my mid-twenties and, not surprisingly, I’d never had a consensual sexual experience in my life. Of course, I never actually said “no,” either. How could I? I never even knew it was an option. I was hospitalized for major depression (all the sexual abuse certainly contributed) and one night I was playing cards with a few other people in the day hall, just around the corner from the nurses’ station. It was late and one by one all the other people went to bed, leaving me alone with one man. He started asking me if I wanted to be his girlfriend, and immediately I panicked. I had no desire to be his girlfriend, in fact, it had been years since I’d been anyone’s “girlfriend” (whatever you call a teenage girl in relation to a grown man) and I had no desire to revisit that part of my life. But what could I do? Obviously I’d done something wrong, again. I must have led him on, smiled too many times, not done enough to hide my figure, now I was stuck. I sort of mumbled a “not really” before he asked me if I wanted to go into the laundry room to have sex with him.

    The next 20 minutes or so are a blur. He kept insisting I go into the laundry room with him (obviously he couldn’t have physically forced me because the staff would have seen and or heard it) while fondling my arms and back and inner thighs. He complimented me on my beautiful hair and “great pair of tits” and when I refused to flash him he shoved his hand up my shirt and helped himself to a feel. I was so afraid I was frozen in place. The staff was 50 feet away, but I couldn’t scream. I just sat there, as in all my previous sexual experiences, waiting for it to be over. Finally he gave up. Someone was going to be around to make bed checks eventually, so he told me to get a PRN from the nurse and “not tell anyone” what happened.

    Later I reported the incident but the staff decided it wasn’t worth relocating him to a higher security ward, despite the fact that when I asked around I discovered he had exposed himself to the other patients and assaulted or raped at least three other women. The saddest part, in my opinion, was being 26 and having to be told this was assault, not just a “come on.” Everything I had ever been told about sex was a lie.

    Reply
  25. Lynne

    Wow, first of all, I think this comment discussion is wonderful idea for people to talk about their experiences without fear of it being minimized or mocked.

    I was in an abusive (sexually and mentally) relationship in high school. I was kissed, touched (above and below), and often coerced into have intercourse and performing other sexual actions. I was led to believe (from the views expressed by the media, my other friends, and family) that I was at fault if I wasn’t comfortable with it, because I let myself be talked into things. I let myself get into a situation in which I could be assaulted. I even got a in school detention for “PDA”, which was really (in retrospect) assault, but I doubt they would’ve believe me even if I had told the school that. This assumptions comes from other confrontations I had… I was the one at fault (wearing too tight of shirt, overreacting, etc…). It took me a long time to admit to myself that I was even raped, repeatedly, over the course of my relationship. The sexual assault wasn’t even the reason I broke up with him… he was suicidal and in trying to help him, I had endangered my life on several occasions. And that was what I wasn’t strong enough to deal with (That was my thinking at the time anyways). I have scars on my hands from wrestling away knives and I’m still afraid of trains from the time I physically pulled him away from an oncoming train. These I understood as being “valid” reasons to be upset, but it was until years later that I recognized the sexual abuse being just as valid, and just as devastating. I actually started smoking at the time when I finally came to that realization. I’m now in the process of healing, and quitting smoking.

    Reply
  26. Irene

    Thank you, everyone, for sharing this. There’s this mix of happiness and incredible sadness in seeing others have gone through similar, although never identical, things..

    My first experience was something a male cousin of mine did. As an 11-year old, I was playing billiards with my cousins at my grandmother’s birthday party, all younger than I am. I was leaning over the table, and all of a suddan his hand makes a ‘wiping’ move right over my butt – precisely in the middle, starting between my legs, upwards. I remember being shocked, giggly, too – I didn’t know how to react. I don’t remember any one seeing it except my younger siblings, but no one said something, and he giggled, too. he was ten years old, and to this day i do not trust him.

    My last relationship was with a guy who found out, via threats, keeping me awake at night out of jealousy, and reading my diary, that I had slept with my ex bf one week after our (i.e. my then-current boyfriend’s and my) first date. he called it cheating, and betrayal, and for the remainder of our relationship went into day-long fits (maybe every four days). He abused me emotionally, by saying he felt like a loser for even being with me; said I was a calculating, fucked up little girl; that he could never trust me again.. the night he found out about my ‘cheating on him’ we went to bed, probably around 3 in the morning, and I felt horrible (why didn’t he just go?? He enjoyed that power, of just staying, of just being there). He came on to me, in bed, and I thought it was to get closer; to hold me and to share some of his pain, to let me comfort him. Instead, he pulled my head towards his penis [and i didn’t say no] and then forced my legs apart and start [i didn’t say no], then turn me around to fuck be from behind [only when the pain became unbearable and until I couldn’t hide my sobs/cries of pain anymore did he stop, turned around, and fell asleep]. This is something I wanted to avoid at all costs – the remainder of our relationship was a horrible cycle of him verbally abusing me, keeping me awake at night, and criticizing my parents and friends, and me trying to ‘appease’ him with (for me) painful sex. if I didn’t have sex with him, I found out soon enough, he would be unbearable all day, and probably start calling me names and talking in his slow, rational voice about what a horrible person I was.. so i forced myself, even took initiative. But I felt pressured, was, maybe (right?), even pressured. No was not an option back then.

    About the memory thing. I forgot some things; important things; and some of them come back when I hear something about rape (on the news, on blogs, among friends); or, in the months following our relationship, in my sleep, or right before falling asleep.

    Sincerely. If he dies tomorrow I’ll be happy. I know this is a horrible thing to say but this is how I feel.

    Reply
    1. Cara Post author

      Sincerely. If he dies tomorrow I’ll be happy. I know this is a horrible thing to say but this is how I feel.

      To an outsider, it does sound like a horrible thing to say.

      But pretty much the exact same words have come out my mouth at least once, and have certainly out of my head a million times.

      Reply
  27. A

    There are probably quite a few incidences that I don’t recall or haven’t even formulated as assault/rape.

    There are a few that I have no question about, however.

    When I was 12 I was “dating” a boy at my school who was 2-4 years my senior (I don’t remember his exact age). He had a best friend who would often comment on my boobs and how big they were. I took it as a compliment at the time — I was attending a school for the first time where people weren’t beating me up, harassing me and verbally assaulting me day in and day out. Any positive comment was a good one in my books.

    Anyway, I hung out with the both of them often. His friend would often pass his “compliments” my way and they progressively got more explicit. There was one point he was asking if I would pose nude for Hustler and how if I did, he’d buy that edition and jerk off to it.

    It got to the point where he’d motion that he was going to grab my chest and I would say no, and he’d make a game of it, giggling the whole time. I treated it as a nuisance until the day when he finally did grab me.

    I reported it to the administration and he was apparently told to stop, but he never did. No one cared about it.

    Mind you, the guy I was dating never did a thing. He’d often laugh or ask why I wouldn’t let his friend just have a feel.

    It went so far that while we were on a school trip to a water park and we were all in a hot tub that his friend pressed me against the wall of the tub, tried to pull down the front of my swimsuit and started humping my leg.

    He was considerably heavier than me, so I couldn’t push him off. I yelled to the guy I was dating to help me and he just laughed. The guy eventually stopped, since I think he just wanted to pull down my swimsuit more than anything and that was the one thing I could still stop him from doing.

    This was in public. With tons of people around. No one helped.

    Another time was in the backseat of a car. My friends and I had been out at a little haunt we frequented on Friday nights. I had met a few people there and liked the atmosphere. One person in particular kept flirting with me and chatting me up and I would spend a fair bit of time talking religion and the like with him (him being Christian and I Pagan at the time). One of these nights, he needed a lift home, so my best friend offered him one on the way back to my place. I was in the backseat with the guy, my friend was driving and another mutual friend of mine was in shotgun.

    We had loud music playing and the guy was still flirting with me and wanting to get physical, it seemed. I had a boyfriend at the time and despite being attracted to him, I didn’t want to be unfaithful to my boyfriend — I stopped it at a kiss. Or at least I thought I did. He then proceeded to put his hands down my shirt. I tried to pull his hand out but he kept going — I was too afraid to say anything, to make a scene, even to let my friends know what was happening. He stopped when we pulled up to his house.

    Quite recently, I reconnected with the best friend of an old boyfriend of mine. We started chatting on Facebook and realized we had a fair bit in common. He found out I was into aquariums and fish and his roommate had a sorely neglected tank that he wanted me to look at and figure out what to do with. So, I went over there.

    I had just gotten out of an emotionally abusive 7 year long relationship with a healthy dose of social anxiety and agoraphobia to boot and I was trying very hard to get out again and face my fears. We spent a long time talking in his bedroom while we visited his rabbit. I could sense that he was attracted to me, but he wasn’t making any advances other than offering me a hug when the conversation touched on a few things that happened long ago that we both regretted.

    It was when I went back to his place a second time that things started to happen. He asked to snuggle me — I’ve always been a fan of snuggling between friends — and so I did. It was when he asked me to lie down on his bed because it was more comfortable that I started to get nervous, but I ignored the feeling. I felt very timid and was very sensitive to “upsetting” people and so, I preferred to listen rather than raise a fuss, again. He knew everything that had happened, how I was trying to deal with the social anxiety, how I was feeling and how I tended not to put up a fight…

    He asked if he could kiss me and I agreed. I hoped it would stop there. It didn’t — he proceeded to take my clothes off and penetrate me. My discomfort was visible. I spent the whole time trying not to look at him.

    I still have trouble thinking of what’s happened as assault/rape. I accepted it at the time, sometimes because I felt I deserved it, sometimes because it was at least not negative attention, sometimes because I was too afraid to say anything.

    Reply
  28. Genevieve

    I’ve talked about when I was actually raped a few times…but I think I’ve only told the story of the first time I was sexually assaulted once, over at IBTP when the subject of little boys behaving badly was raised in relation to some court case. So here it is:

    When I was in middle school, I was in the school band. We were a tiny Catholic grade school, and so we teamed up with other tiny Catholic grade schools to form a larger band in order to have a concert twice a year. In the weeks leading up to the concerts, we’d all get together to rehearse a few times at a local high school.

    One of my closest friends, Jon, was in the band with me. Big rehearsals were often very boring, and so when the band director would be focusing on sections other than clarinets and flutes, we’d often leave the rehearsal room to go roam the school hallways. We’d leave separately and often tell the director we were going to use the bathroom. Not sure if he bought it.

    One time, I met up with Jon upstairs to see that he had met up with two other dudes from band. I’ll call them Small Boy and Big Boy, I remember Small Boy’s name, but not Big Boy’s. Anyway, we were just sort of talking for a while, and then things got a little more…teasing. I’m not sure what the kicker was, but Big Boy picked me up–his hands were under my barely-developing breasts–and Small Boy began groping around, half-tickling, half-fondling. It was not cool, I eventually managed to kick myself loose, and then Jon and I took off.

    Now, I never told anyone about this, because I knew my parents would be pissed if they knew I had left in the middle of rehearsal. I also suspected that they might dismiss this as mere “playing around.” Also, Small Boy was the son of a local restaurateur whose restaurant my dad often ate lunch at (it was close to his office). Small Boy worked at his dad’s restaurant sometimes, and I knew my dad thought he was funny and admired his work ethic or whatever. We were twelve, it was his family business, his older sister worked there too, he most likely didn’t have a choice.

    Besides, this was so weird to me that I didn’t quite know what to make of it. Sexual assault was not a term on my radar. I was barely pubescent. I had fairy-tale fantasies about boys in my class at school, but they only went as far as kissing, and there was never a possibility for…this kind of behavior.

    Anyway, that summer, my family ended up at Small Boy’s dad’s restaurant (I hadn’t said anything, of course). Small Boy was there, serving ice cream, as usual. Being very impish. My parents thought he was hilarious and when they found out we knew each other teased me that he “probably liked me,” and that I should be nice, because he was a good boy, and I just wanted to scream, “no, don’t you get that I might have a reason to not like him?”

    Two years later he was arrested for vandalizing his teacher’s car. It was in the newspaper. He lost a scholarship he had been given to a private high school because of it. And I got to feel smug in the fact that I was right all along–but I could never say how right.

    Reply
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  31. She-cago

    Must have been between 6th and 8th grade, I was on a crowded school bus so I had to stand up in the aisle. I felt someone run their finger over my butt. When I turned around, I saw it was an older boy, not anyone who would be interested in me (I was a nerdy girl, with glasses). He was just doing it because he could. I think I said something to the effect of “I oughta smack you”. Part of my was angry, part of me wanted to laugh it off and felt like I should smile and do the boys will be boys thing. He laughed, but he didn’t touch me again. I didn’t tell anyone else, and I don’t remember the reactions of other people on the bus, though I think his friends were also laughing.

    In my late 20s I was living with a boyfriend. He wanted to have sex a lot more often than I, every night if possible. We had discussed this before we moved in together and I could see beforehand that sex was going to be an issue (red flag!). I often had sex with him when I didn’t want to, because he whined, and was pushy, he just wanted to “get his rocks off”, don’t you know? Our sex life got pretty terrible. A couple of times I pretty much told him no, that I didn’t want to have sex, but he whined, and begged, and so I just laid there like a doll, or a dead person. I figured if he could see how much I was not into having sex, that I didn’t have the slightest interest in having sex, he would step back and respect that, however grudgingly. So sad, such a horrible thing that he didn’t care at all- he went ahead and had intercourse with me, and complained that I was just lying there like that and not acting like I enjoyed it. I really felt pretty worthless. Sex with that man was not sex, because sex is for two people. What we did together was all for him- what a self-centered bastard.

    I wouldn’t have even remembered the most recent occasion someone treated my body as something public and available, but one of the earlier comments reminded me of it. This past summer I was staying in a hotel with another boyfriend, and there must have been a wedding at the hotel, or the wedding party was staying there. As my boyfriend and I waited in the lobby for the elevator, the groom (drunk?) came over to me, I mean right next to me, and put his arm around me (my boyfriend was standing next to me right on the other side). This was the first time something like this had happened since I developed a strong feminist identity. It made me SO ANGRY. That a complete stranger would think that it was OK to come up to me and touch me, to invade my privacy like that. So angry. I started screaming at him “what the fuck are you doing? get the fuck away from me”. His friends got him to take a different elevator and leave us alone before the staff got involved. I just couldn’t believe he thought he could touch me. Maybe it’s because I now feel like I have more bodily automony, or because I’ve read more posts and stories on blogs like these since the ‘bad boyfriend’. But this last circumstance makes me the most angry.

    Reply
  32. She-cago

    Also- thanks for the post. I also saw the one on Shakesville, but I didn’t comment. Reading Liss’s post I felt like, I haven’t really been assaulted- so many people have stories that are much harder to tell than mine.

    But after reading your post and the comments, I felt more like sharing and I’m glad for that. I may not think of what happened to me as rape or assault, but- and man I should say “it is”. But I just can’t! I can’t say it. But at least I could share.

    Reply
  33. lindsay

    I’d forgotten about this until recently when I was going through some old journals and found a scribbled entry that I could barely make out. I had to really think to remember what I was trying to say.

    At a party at my house in college, a male friend of mine grabbed my arm for some reason, but I can’t remember why. He grabbed it really forcefully and hurt it somehow, in a way that upset me. I remember tearing up and confused why no one else saw what was happening. I think I just told him to let me go, but by the way I went and wrote drunkenly in my journal, I was obviously upset about it.

    It wasn’t rape and I’m hesitant to call it assault, even though every logical, feminist cell in my body tells me that unwanted touching (especially of an overly aggressive nature) is assault. I suppose this is the first time that I’m naming it as such.

    Rereading my journal, I should have named it then: “i cried and told him to get the fuck out. i told him in my mind. he hurt me and i hate him. no one stood up to him…. i never thought i would be where i am. i can’t believe he didn’t know he’d hurt me.”

    If it wasn’t me, I would have no problem identifying it. And compared to what other women have gone through, this is nothing. But it still disturbed me and I’m a little concerned with how I seemed to have blocked it from my memory – although rereading my journal, it was later that week my friend od’ed right in front of me and we foolishly spent two hours talking her through it as opposed to going to the hospital. I remember that crystal clear.

    Reply
  34. OuyangDan

    I have never told anybody this ever in my whole life, b/c I have always felt really silly whenever I let myself think about it:

    I developed really early. I am pretty sure I bought my first bra at nine. When I was 10 I was at my grandma’s w/ my older cousins (about 17 when I was 10, I believe) while the other adults were out splitting wood. We were sitting around playing a video game (Nintendo had just been recently released and I had never seen one before) when our eldest cousin left to go outside. While he was gone, the other cousin slid closer to me, and first put his hand on my shoulder, then down the back of my shirt, under my bra, and eventually slid around and began feeling me up. I remember tensing up and basically freezing. I remember him telling me to just keep playing that it was no big deal. After a few minutes, I shoved away and went outside to help w/ the wood as well. I was far too embarrassed to say anything and completely mortified. I didn’t say anything to anyone b/c I didn’t think they would believe me, and I was so ashamed b/c he was my cousin. I eventually stuffed the feeling way deep away, making myself believe that it was no big deal. I didn’t even really know then what molestation or rape or sexual assault were.

    Later that year I also found out that my dad had adopted me. It made no difference to me as far as my relationship w/ my dad was concerned, but I remember feeling relieved that the cousin who had done that wasn’t “really” my cousin, as if it somehow made it better, and even though I never made that distinction about my dad or the rest of his side of the family.

    I never talk about it, and try never to think about it. I have convinced myself that it wasn’t really sexual assault b/c it was such a little thing. I never spoke about it, b/c I was embarrassed, like I would be considered overly dramatic or something. When my dad died when I was 19 I remember that cousin trying to give me a hug to comfort me at the funeral, and I remember shrinking back away from him reflexively, snapping at him to not touch me. I even made myself think that he would never remember what he did, and that I was making a big deal out of nothing, apologized to him, and returned the hug, saying I was just still shaken up.

    I think that I don’t discuss this b/c part of me feels like it is no big deal. Like I am making a mountain out of a molehill and never want to detract from people who were “really” assaulted and or raped. What happened to me was so minor in my mind, and now, here, as a 29 year old adult, reading this thread and Liss’ thread earlier, I have finally allowed myself to think about it. I don’t mean to lessen anyone’s suffering, but thank you for giving me a space to sort this out in my mind.

    Reply
  35. Irene

    cara, thanks. I guess my hateful feelings will diminish with time. Right now, that’s all I can feel about him.

    (btw I am a regular reader of your blog.. I’m sorry for not reacting more, and then just dropping a story here. All I can say is that this ‘confessional moment’ felt good; in a weird way, because it was stressful, too. Thanks for that)

    Reply
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  37. Martie

    I don’t know if other people consider this sexual assault but I know it is something I remember and feel it has affected my life.
    Briefly, I was walking home from a football game with my best friend. She was 17 and I was 15. Along the way a man stopped us, quickly flashed some sort of ID and said he was a policeman and needed our help to investigate some aspect of a crime.

    He wanted to see if what someone told him could be possible. It started out with him wanting my friend and me to carry each other and walk as far as we could. It ended with him wanting us to fight each other. It was almost dark by this time. He wanted us to really try and hurt each other and choke each other.

    It ended when I started crying and said I didn’t want to do it any more and wanted to go home. He offered us money. We declined and walked the rest of the way home. We probably arrived about 2 hrs late, my girlfriend’s parents had started out in the car to look for us. It was reported to the police. I’m not sure by whose parents. I remember hearing the police officer say to my mother, “I can see a 15 yr old believing the guy, but a 17 yr. old?

    Guess it’s not too brief after all.

    Reply
  38. Ciaran

    I never thought of this event as a sexual assault, because, well, I’m male and I never thought of it in those terms. But here it is – you decide.

    I was 14 or 15, skinny, a bit immature and small for my age, and completely inexperienced in any sexual conduct. I was invited to a “disco dance” (it was the 70’s) by a girl from another school. It was held in her school’s gym. She was a year or two older than me, a bit taller than me, and a good bit heavier.

    At one point we were talking, leaning against the gym wall, and she stood in front of me and pushed me back against the wall. She started french kissing me – it was the first time for me. I remember her heavy breasts pushing against my skinny chest. I was a bit taken aback but went along with it. Then she reached down and grabbed my genitals through my jeans, and started squeezing. I felt shocked and discomfited, and paralyzed, as I had no idea how to respond. After a bit I decided I didn’t like it, and tried to push her hand away. She responded by squeezing harder, very hard, which was very painful, and while she did this she pushed me harder against the wall and stuck her tongue more forcefully into my mouth. I could sense the pleasure she felt in simultaneously hurting, humiliating, and controlling me as she held my testicles in a vicelike grip. I eventually struggled free, but had no idea what to do or how to respond. Dazed, I stayed with her the rest of the dance until my Dad came to pick me up. I told no-one.

    I was also remembering my early experiences with the first girl I had sex with. We were both virgins. Shortly after we started having intercourse, I asked her if she would like to “do it”. She said – “you don’t need to ask anymore, you can just do it”. This I guess was what she thought a good girlfriend did – grant me possession of her body. I was surprised at this – but I accepted the offer too. Afterwards, if we were in private and I wanted sex, I just started removing her clothes. I suppose we both thought that was how sex worked.

    Reply
  39. Decree

    I guess I have been lucky. I only have one incident to recall. It haunts me still.
    I was 7 maybe, 8 possibly. My younger brother (almost 2 years younger) often played around the neighbourhood usually with older boys.
    One afternoon I found myself in one of the boy’s house. One lay on the bed. I was asked to have sex cos they wanted to see what its like. I am unclear on the details. I considered it. Why? Because they gave me the ultimatum – do this or you can’t play with us. Thankfully I left. Happily never saw the boys again. Seeing my brother watch was a great deterent. I knew it was wrong. I held the power and I haven’t let go. I know others haven’t been so lucky and I am so angry for them and the society we live in.

    Reply
  40. Katie

    I often forget about my own moment when my breasts were grabbed against my will.

    Which is weird, because my sister confided her story of that sort in me once, and earlier today I thought about what she’d experienced, and thought I didn’t have such an experience of my own.

    *headsmack*

    Yes I do.

    Mine was by someone I knew was going to try to grope me on the breasts, because he had asked before, reached for them before, etc. I’d quit going into the restaurant where he worked (even though it was my nearest neighborhood open-until-nighttime restaurant by a long shot) whenever it looked like he was there, because I’d fended him off before, but I figured my luck would run out.

    Whenever he wasn’t there, I tried to get change my coins into bills after busking, since it was on my way home from the places I usually played, and since they were actually willing to make change for me most of the time–which was rare in that city.

    The bartender was new and young, and said, “You’ll have to ask him”–I turned around, and there was the man I couldn’t stand. I held back from rolling my eyes, and I chose not to walk out, because I thought that fleeing him would encourage him to push harder past any boundaries I tried to set next time I ran into him. So I asked him if he could make change, like he was just an employee, and he said he wanted to see what I had and count it. I had the change in both hands, there was so much of it, and poured it into his hand. He sifted through it, held it back out to me, and said, “No, I can’t change this,” and while he poured it back into my cupped hands with one hand, he grabbed my breast with the other.

    I was seething–I had told him he could NOT feel my breast. Dammit!

    I suppose I could’ve dropped all the change and swatted his hand away if I’d had catlike reflexes–though I don’t, so I suppose it was best that I kept the money I’d just earned without having to stay in there any longer to pick it up, as long as I wouldn’t have been able to completely block him.

    With my language barrier (foreign country–I spoke the language, but not well, and not words to express anger at boundary-crossing), I pretty much could only drop my jaw and let my eyes go icy cold and stammer.

    At the time, I felt like I only had one upper hand, force-wise. My violin was big and bulky and hanging off my front side, so I didn’t have very good balance–so kicking him or hitting him or slapping him didn’t seem like a very workable idea if he shoved me back. I did think of retaliating by charging him, though. I knew that 3-foot-wide, heavy-with-music violin case would probably bowl him over. But there were customers behind him, and the front window behind that, and I knew that I might not escape getting put behind bars in a foreign country for…who knows what…if in retaliating against him I hurt bystanders and broke the restaurant’s window.

    So…seething and hurt about my powerlessness to react, after all my psyching myself up all my life to react strongly if I ever got groped…I stormed out of the restaurant…I think to my senses just enough on the way out to remember that I could at least curse at him in English, even if no one would understand what I was mad about (still, boy, what I would’ve given to be able to say, “YOU CANNOT TOUCH MY BREAST! I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO TOUCH MY BREAST!”)

    By the time I had my money safely in a bag and a hand free to flip him the bird, I think he was back to waiting on customers who barely heard me say something like, “ASSHOLE!” and didn’t see me give him the finger.

    What a shitty experience.

    And so strange that I can forget about it so much as to only remember it when I hear about some groping stories.

    Reply
  41. Aileen Wuornos

    I often find it easy to type and write about my assualts and childhood sexual abuse, but actually physically verbalising it is the hard part for me. And this is a womyn who will tell you if yes, your bum does look big in that (bad example I know), no, you shouldn’t stop studying etc.

    I was two years old when I was first molested. I wasn’t molested by anyone older than me though. I was molested by other kids at my primary school. They used to hold me down on one of the beds in the room we played “House” in and stuck knives and forks and fruit and vegetables and pretty much anything they could find in my cunt. The one time I snapped and hit one of the little fuckers I was the one who got in trouble. The teachers never believed that another child would do something like that to a peer and so my abuse continued the entire three years I spent at that pre-primary/kindergarden/day care/after-school care.

    I was sexually assualted again when I was 14 by an older guy named Mike (name changed) who was 24. I hung out with him cos he smoked pot and listened to bad religion and other awesome shit that I still do listen to. I met up with him for a coffee one day and he took me down an alley way and stabbed me with one of his studded collars and fingered me really hard through my underwear while telling me I was a “pedatemptress”

    less than six months later i was raped by another male friend named rick (name changed). i was still 14 and he was 20. we hung out cos we both played guitar and met up to go see a new cd store that had opened. i got lured to a different arcade and was raped while several people walked past and did nothing.

    then i got into my first relationship. i was 14 and he was 15. (my birthday is in october if this is making sense)
    he came from a fucked up home so i felt sorry for him. i got stoned with one of my friends once so he pulled a knife on me and told me that if i ever saw her again he’d kill me. any time i spoke to my guy friends he’d threaten me. then he started raping me on a weekly basis. telling me that he loved me after every single time he did it. he had the coldest deadest bluest eyes i have ever see and he’s the reason i can never actually look at someone when i’m having sex with them. he would force me to look at him and tell me he how much he loved me when he was raping me in his bed and in my own bed.

    then there was the fourth guy. he was the worst. i confided in him of all the fucked up shit that had happened to me before in explicit details. he was into rape porn, not even bdsm porn but shit that makes my stomach turn and i’m a sex-pos type. we would only ever have sex on his term. hed started doing things i wasnt okay with like slapping me or choking me and trying to fuck me in the ass. i was 16. he was 20. he would get me drunk and feed me full of downers. i would go to pass out in bed fully clothed and wake up naked with him next to me. he raped me in his house with his mother downstairs who did nothing when she heard me screaming and crying. he raped me in my own bed. and then he told me things were going too fast. i always find that i make this one out to be the worst but to me it does seem like it is because HE KNEW that i’d been RAPED BEFORE HE KNEW i was abused as a child.

    it’s taken me more or less my whole life so far to recover from mistakes these assholes have made. but now when i see them walking down the street – i’ll spit at them, point at them and say ‘THAT’S THE CUNT WHO RAPED ME’

    Reply
  42. Becky

    This thread is infuriating and heartbreaking.

    I wrote an essay about my own experiences with sexual assault: http://blot.kaedrin.com/archives/2009/03/public_property.html.

    Here’s the story of my first one: The first time I was sexually assaulted was at a public swimming pool when I was 18 years old. At the time I was a teeny tiny little thing – short, thin and small of frame – with a young looking face and disproportionately large breasts. A group of young boys – about 14 – came up and started leering at me. They asked how old I was, and when I answered 18 they didn’t believe me. “More like a 14 year old with huge tits”. I ignored them but they continued to talk in crude terms about my breasts. Then one of them decided he wanted to touch them. He did, and there was nothing I could do to stop him, because he was stronger than I was. I felt violated and completely helpless. And nobody made a move to stop him. Not the lifeguard, not the people around us, not his friends who were egging him on or my friends who were laughing. After all – boys will be boys, and I was wearing a bikini top, and what did I expect, really, walking around in public with those things. It wasn’t until I discovered feminism that I realised, yes, that was sexual assault.

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  45. Halla

    I’ve read all these comments, I’m so sad for us all. So many comments say that we didn’t know we had a choice, we didn’t know we could say no, we didn’t know it was wrong for someone else to do things to us – *any* things – without our explicit consent. Is it because we’re warned from childhood about the scarey stranger in the dark alley and that only women who dress ‘wrong’ or behave ‘wrong’ are in danger?

    I was raped when I was sixteen. I’ve been dancing round the wording for years, ‘well, it’s not really rape because…’ ‘but I can’t call it rape as such because…’

    I was dead drunk in a dark park, got into a drinking contest with some other friends of a similar age. I had been wanting to try this sex thing but was really nervous about it (my other sexual experiences before that had been pretty much assaults too, now I think of it. Being groped, being coerced into kissing some boy I didn’t like because that’s what you’re supposed to do at that age, you’re ugly if you can’t get someone who wants to kiss you, you’re weird if you don’t want to, all that shit).

    I was blind drunk and I staggered over to some random teen boy and threw my arm round his neck. It’s all hazy but I dimly recall his friends laughing and leaving and this boy saying ‘we’ll just lie down here’ and him clumsily fucking me as I did nothing to help or hinder him. No consent asked for or given but I still feel to this day that I could have done nothing but lie there anwyay. Besides, I had wanted to experience sex and this was what it was, no? Giving over control of my body to be used as a plaything for someone else?

    Someone came along with a torch to scare off the noisy teenagers and lock the park gates, the boy either got up or had done by then, but I got myself together and staggered out of the park – my friends were all drunk and outside the park somewhere now – and straight into the company of a guy who led me round the side of a half-build house and raped me. I remember actually managing to feel something this time and thinking that maybe penetrative intercourse might be OK, but then he complained that I should lie on the ground because he was having a hard time fucking me while I lay on some scaffolding. I don’t remember much in between that and this guy coming back with a friend of his to also have a go on the drunk woman. His friend was not keen after he was left along with me but after he’d though about it for a few minutes (perhaps I was making encouraging noises, I don’t know) he fucked me too.

    I woke up at some point in the night and managed to get it together enough to get to my friend’s house, where I was supposed to be sleeping over, and get indoors. Her mum pretty much knew we’d been out drinking but I don’t believe she ever knew about any of the rest of it. Because we always hung around the area round the park I was back there the next weekend. I thought I had felt so bad simply because of the hangover. Everyone in that crowd of people knew what had happened the previous week, all my friends knew, it was regarded in various ways.

    Almost inevitably I thought it was my fault – I was too drunk, I shouldn’t have spoken to any boys, I must have just about begged for it because hey, I wasn’t one of those girls I’d been warned about who wore the wrong stuff or whatever so therefore I must be one of those sluts who just fucked around. Yes, I was drunk, but then my two other closest friends at the time both got shitfaced drunk the week before me and a couple of weeks after, and no one fucked either of them in a park. So of course it must be something uniquely bad about me that meant it happened to me.

    Out of the crowd the guys came from, the girls said they were ‘on my side’ (whatever that means) and the guys tended to make dirty and slightly embarassed gestures and jokes when they thought I wasn’t looking. The guy in the middle, number two, he obviously thought this was a good way to go about getting sex and he got some other girl drink and had sex with her a week or two later. I hope he’s dead, he did like his drugs so hopefully he took too many. I don’t feel like that about the other guys, probaby because as far as I know they have lived otherwise blameless lives except for raping me, and I think they’d be surprised to hear that’s what they did. Eveyrone gets drunk and fucks around, don’t they? It’s just embrassing or regrettable the next day, isn’t it? Not rape. Rape is that scary stranger guy in the alleyway picking on the scantily-clad stupid woman.

    Now I think it over I was abused a bit by my next two boyfriends, I can’t blame them for me not being able to express ‘no’ or say that what they were trying to do was uncomfortable (groping or digital penetration, that sort of level), neitehr can I blame the next couple of one night stands for thinking I was like a sack of potatoes, unresponsive and pretending liek I wasn’t there. But sex, as was mentioned upthread, is what they wanted, right? So best get it out the way. Sex is how to bond with males when you’re female, no? I’m sure I’ve been on the other side of the fence too, being horrible to boys at junior school, punching or kicking them and concentrating on their groin area because I knew it was really sore. I’m so sad for us all that we seem to have to fight through all of this, so many of us.

    Reply
  46. mary

    I’d never thought about it in terms of reporting only the ‘worst’ experience, but I suppose that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.
    I just started therapy after being raped over a year ago. I’ve been so focused on this single incident, but taking it out of the context of repeated victimizations can never lead to full recovery.
    I have the (mis)fortune of having a petite figure, large breasts, and blonde hair. Naturally that makes me a willing recipient of strangers’ sexual attention. Since puberty, I’ve been subjected to catcalls, whistles, and lewd comments from strangers. In high school, I nearly crashed my car into a median after being badly startled by a group of men in a truck screaming sexual comments at me while driving.
    A friend of mine in high school made a point of regularly noting that I was, to quote him directly, “so short that everytime you walk by, I can see right down your shirt,” and would make a game of trying to throw wads of paper into my cleavage.
    The summer before college, some friends and I rented a beach house. A male friend of mine, after one too many drinks, aggressively pinned me to the floor, began kissing me on my face and chest, and trying to remove my shirt. I was very shaken by the incident, and my friends told me I was overreacting, that it had clearly been a harmless joke.
    In college, I came out as a lesbian. I was at a party where nearly all of the guests were LGBT, but somehow the little blonde passed out on the couch sets off the radar of any straight male in the vicinity. I won’t deny that I was drunk and stoned, but I remember deciding to stay the night on my friend’s couch instead of walking home in that condition. And I remember falling asleep ALONE. I awoke to a boy I did not know kissing my neck and unzipping my dress. I laughed it off and said, “careful with that zipper, it’s designer!” and pushed him off.

    A few months later, I came out to a good friend from high school. She was clearly a little uncomfortable with it, but managed in her own cynical, joking sort of way. We went to a new year’s party at an apartment of one of her friends. I didn’t know anyone there and was very uncomfortable. I asked her if we could leave, but she seemed to be having a good time. I got a terrible vibe from the place, but I didn’t want her there by herself. Throughout the night, she outed me to several strangers. Again, I was uncomfortable, but this was apparently her way of dealing with the news. I have a vague memory of an older guy (late 20s maybe) flirting with me, when she came over and told him not to bother, that I was a dyke.
    At midnight, someone handed out cups of champagne. It seemed harmless enough. Next thing I know, it’s 6 am, I’m alone on a gurney in the hallway of the ER. My dress is ripped. My head hurts. I have an IV in each hand. I have no shoes. I stagger to the nearest bathroom, throw up, and pee. There’s blood in the toilet.
    A doctor looks at me and says “Oh, you’re up. You can go.” I’m still completely dazed, the situation does not even register with me. I stare at him and all I can say is, “where are my shoes?”
    I’ll never forget the look of absolute disgust on his face. “You didn’t come with any,” he said.
    I couldn’t remember my name or address to tell the discharge nurse. I feel like that should’ve been a red flag. I needed the support of the wall to walk. I managed to tell her the address of my dormitory, and she let me go. I scribbled my signature, leaving out most of the letters because I couldn’t think of them.
    I walked the wrong way for a mile, barefoot, on new year’s day in a torn dress and still bleeding slightly from the IV I’d torn out of my arm in confusion, before I remembered where the party had been. By the time I found my friend, passed out on the floor in the room where I had been raped just hours before, it was a little past 7 am. I kicked her in the side and told her we needed to get the hell out of there.
    Apparently whatever drug I was slipped caused me to have a seizure. If anyone had bothered to ask me, I would’ve told them I am highly sensitive to medication and allergic to just about everything. Then again, since when to rapists ask permission? At 1:15 am someone called 911 because I was unconscious, seizing, and vomiting. Killing the mood of the party, right?
    It was new year’s eve in a college town. I was passed out and throwing up. Clearly just another silly girl who had too much to drink. There was no rape kit. No blood test. No CAT scan, despite the unexplained seizure.
    I had what I can only describe as the worst hangover imaginable for 5 full days. I was disoriented, nauseated, and dizzy. I didn’t even notice the bruises on my arms, hips, and chest until days later. It wasn’t until my mind finally cleared that I realized you don’t just wake up in the hospital, bruised and bleeding vaginally for no reason. Too late for a rape kit.
    For a long time, I invested all my mental and emotional energy in telling myself nothing happened. You don’t even remember it, who’s to say you got raped? Maybe NOTHING happened. Maybe you wanted it. Maybe you imagined it.
    But I know better, really. We all do. Denial gets us nowhere.

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  49. Erin

    This is very late, but I’ve never been on the Curvature in spite of the fact that I’ve been reading posts on Feministe for months.

    First, to Mary, whose comment hasn’t been responded to yet here, I am so very sorry that you’ve had to go through this. Whoever gave you ‘care’ at the ER that day should not be allowed to practice medicine.

    For myself, I want to post here even if nobody ever comes back to read it. I’ve had a number of experiences, including random mosh-pit gropings and other public and widely accepted sexual assaults. The situation that I feel like I need to hash out is one that happened two years ago while I was in a relationship. It started way too quickly, with me not wanting to say no because I figured that if I did, that would be that… (because it would have been such a shame if I’d never seen this guy again… the things we learn) Anyway. For about eight months, I had consensual sex with this guy off and on. On a few occasions, though, he tried to convince me to have anal sex with him. I said no every time, and I usually had to repeat it again and again. One night, he first refused to put on a condom before we had (vaginal) intercourse. He pushed into me and I pushed him back out, managed to get him to put the condom on, and went on with the act… After a while, when he was behind me, he started asking for anal. I kept saying no, but he eventually pulled out and started pushing his penis against my anus anyway. I said no, again, and he kept pushing, and I got away and out of bed and was very upset and he had no clue why. I told him what I thought of him trying to force me to do something to which I had explicitly said NO, you fucker, and he got pissed off. Thankfully, from there it just went on to some screaming and him kicking me out of his car on a busy road at 2 am.

    On another occasion, the same man blindfolded me and used his hands to pull the back of my head down so I could give him oral. It sounds so innocuous when I write it down, but now I can’t handle my fabulous boyfriend’s hands on my head when we have oral sex.

    Thanks, Cara, for posting this thread.

    Reply
  50. Blackrose

    Erin, I know how you feel. I’m going to post here too, even though no one is probably going to read this.

    My first assault happened with my first long term relationship. I can’t have people touch me on the backof my head because of it. I was giving him oral, when he violently grabbed my head and choked me with his penis. I couldn’t breath, and I tried to push him off. He then ejaculated in the back of my throat. I almost threw up. His excuse was that he “got to into it” I wanted to cry, I felt disgusting. That was the first one. On another occasion, we were fooling around and thought it would be interesting to try some glass candle thing that kind of looked like a dildo. He put it inside me and it hurt, so I told him to stop. He did, then a few minutes later decides to do it again. I tell him again to stop. He stops, then a few minutes later continues what he was doing. I was sore for a few days after, and it hurt a lot. I was also stoned at this point (Don’t look down on me for being a stoner please) So being able to process whats going on was not working. He had an excuse of it slipped in….God I love that excuse/sarcasm.
    The other three times he raped me where when he basically begged and pleaded for sex, even though we had broken up and he knew I didn’t want to. He then pretty much blamed me for having sex with him even though he initiated it, and knew I didn’t want to. He was also an emotionally abusive prick, and also on several occasions tried to force me into anal, which is something I am not interested in. It makes me mad because now my new boyfriend is the one who has to deal with all the emotionl scars and the split personality(Yes, I have multiple personality disorder because of that asshole). Especially since the anniverasy of the last two assaults is coming up and what would have been our 3 year anniversary just passed on the 15th. I know so many people had worse done to them, and it makes me feel bad for even writing this, because what happened to me isn’t that bad. Fuck the summer.

    Reply

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