I was going to platonically sleep in his bed. Platonically. I climbed in and turned onto my right side, facing away from him. But nothing about this was platonic to him. To him, a girl climbed into his bed and turned over so her ass was in his lap. So he went with it. He caressed me, rubbed himself against me. So I went with it. I kissed him. In that moment I gave him permission. He removed my clothes. I let him. I helped remove his. I didn’t want him. I just went along with each stupid step because it was what I should do. Right?
Before I knew it, he was inside of me. I was ok with it. I tolerated it. I may have even liked it for a second. But soon, it switched. I became aware of my environment. I remembered what was around me, where I was, and who was there. He became disgusting. His repetitive, heavy, fast breathing pierced my ears. I told him to be quiet. I told him to stop.
I told him to stop.
Then I felt his hand. On my mouth. Gripping me. Burying my words in the force of his body and inhibiting my ability to say no. I bet he thought it was sexy. I don’t think he knew he was doing anything wrong. He didn’t stop. There was nothing I could do, because all I could think and hear and feel and see was his hand on my mouth. Finally, it moved and I pushed him away and said,
“Get the fuck off of me.”
But then, something happened. I put on my sexiest voice to say, “let’s finish this another time...just not tonight.” And then I proceeded to sleep in his bed for the rest of the night. I woke with his arm draped over my body. The arm that was home to that disgusting hand.
The next morning, I didn’t remember that I was uncomfortable. I didn’t remember that I told him to stop. I only remembered that I kissed him. I only remembered that I helped take off his clothes. I only remembered that I asked for it, and that I may have enjoyed it for one split second. But I knew I was repulsed by him and whatever happened. I regretted getting into his bed. I regretted kissing him. I regretted all of it.
Fragments of that night began to come back to me. They still do. When I put together enough fragments to realize for the first time what he really did - when I remembered - I got mad. I was furious. I used the R word. But I immediately felt guilty for saying it. Maybe he didn’t hear me say no. Because my memory is fragmented, I could be remembering only the worst moments. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Does it count? I don’t think it does.
I still see him. I see him in class, I see him at parties, I see him in his dorm room - the host of many pregames. I play pong inches away from his bed. I smile at him when I need to. He says hi to me. He waves at me with that horrible disgusting hand, and I wave back.