Seven shots deep, hair a mess, at the party, "Can I kiss you?" the words sloppily spill from my mouth, burning with cheap vodka. You've been walking me to my rehearsals, eating lunch with me, and making me laugh. I like you and you're so polite and thoughtful and kind. You say yes to my question.
Seven shots deep, hair a mess, at the party, we are making out against the wall and I am deeply unaware of how many people can see that, until you ask me, "do you want to leave?" I nod. I do. I weave through the crowd, staring through faces asking me if I am okay. I think I am.
Seven shots deep, hair a mess, no longer at the party, walking uphill to your dorm, I only remember the first couple steps of the walk and my memory stops there.
Seven shots deep, hair a mess, I'm throwing up in your trashcan, one, two, three times, I am only partially aware of the fact that I am partially naked. You tell me we had sex. I didn't know. Still drunk, I fall asleep next to you.
And the next morning, when I wake up without an alarm, I don't know where I am. I sit up, trying to breathe, and slip out of your room before you can fully wake up. I am off for the rest of the day, friends giving me concerned looks, telling me it's okay to cry and be upset. I don't really understand why. I just don't want you to think I'm an idiot, so we talk and I tell you "I don't normally do things like that." And you say "me either." And then you tell me, "You could press charges against me, if you want to." "Why would I?" I ask it and mean it. I don't understand.
And then I am in a workshop about consent culture and they use an example of someone drunk, passed out, who can't consent to sex. That's rape, they tell us, rape. My friend tells me that she was raped. Rape. And I am showering after spending all night reading definitions and stories and the yellow tiles start to spin. I tell you I need to know what happened exactly that night. "You don't remember any of it?" you ask me wide-eyed. I don't. You tell me that when we got to your room, we start to hook up and I tell you I want to have sex. You ask me, have you ever done that before? I tell you no because I hadn't, I had never had sex before. You ask me if I am sure. I say yes. You tell me that I say I want it. You start fucking me and realize that I am unconscious. My body is limp, I am no longer responsive. You pull out, pull me up, and then I start to aggressively vomit into your trashcan. I don't remember any of it, I tell you. I don't remember saying yes, I don't remember asking you to fuck me for my first time. -- Can you go to a concert with your rapist? Or hang up Christmas lights – blue and white - they were patchy and beautiful. Even when they fell down, they were still soft on our skin. What if you like, love, your rapist? What if you date your rapist?
He tells me I can report him. I don't. I am so confused, I like him so much, I hate him so much, I ask him how could he have done that, how could he have been so fucking irresponsible, how could he think that that was his decision to make, how could he fuck me like that, how could he not have realized I was unconscious, how how how. He hates himself. I hate myself. I feel empty for a while. We date for a while. We are happy. I think. We just broke up.