It was summertime and I was starting to feel a little bit better. We matched on Tinder. I was nervous to meet him. His messages felt more like a business transaction than flirty or friendly. But, he graduated from a prestigious liberal arts college, he was a philosophy major, an avid reader and a film buff. I was positive that we would have lots to talk about and I convinced myself I was nervous because I was excited.
But, I couldn't shake the feeling. Minutes before he picked me up, I asked my best friend, "What do you do if you really want to leave a date?" He smiled and said, "You just leave." Of course, you just leave. I could always just leave. With that reassurance, I gathered my bag and was out the door.
He didn't tell me where we were going. At the time, this struck me as spontaneous and fun. When he pulled into the parking lot of the Fells, I was thrilled. We walked down the trail as he grilled me about books and movies. I hated the way it felt more like a test than a conversation. We dipped though the trees to see a large reservoir. He asked me if I wanted to swim. "I don't have a swimsuit." "Me neither," he said, while pulling his pants and shirt off. I shifted uncomfortably. "Come on, don't be a prude ass bitch."
I was furious. To prove him wrong, I threw my clothes off and ran and dived into the water. I swam out a bit, then floated on my back, looking at the sky. Suddenly, I felt hands on my hipbones and was pulled against a body that didn't feel right against mine. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Come on." "Come on." "Come on." "I don't want to." "Come on." "OK." And those two letters haunt me worst of all. They made it impossible to speak about, impossible to tell my friends, I never forgave myself. I was nervous and they slipped out. Looking back on it, I wasn't saying "OK" to him. I was saying this is going to be "OK" to myself. He had already decided, and I thought it better to just act like everything was OK. My body floated easily and felt powerless in the water. My feet slipped in the mud. He thought it was sexy to hold my head underneath the water until I was on the verge of passing out. I could never explain to my friends or family why I didn't swim the rest of that summer. When he came, he turned me around to look me in the eyes. "You're not very smart, but at least you're hot." My delicate psyche couldn't handle the weight of his words. I hated this guy. He was mean. I was nice. So, I said what any nice girl would. I said, "Thanks." He let me go and I swam to the shore, put on my clothes still soaking wet. I walked to his car quickly and silently. "Take me home." "Not yet." "Take me home." "Not yet." At this point, I should have called my friends to pick me up. But I didn't. What could I say? Anything that I admitted to them, I would be admitting to myself. I'm OK. This is OK.
He stopped at a place to pick up Chicken Curry. "We can just make rice at my house." "OK." When we pulled into the driveway, I was shocked to see a large house, a manicured lawn, a doormat. When we walked inside, I was greeted by both of his parents. "Mom, make us rice." I was horrified at the way he addressed his mother. I saw the sadness on her face and wanted to give her a hug. "Come on, you heard him. Make him some rice," his dad grunted. Her eyes dropped and she walked away.
"Wait, I'll help you." I felt so bad for her, and it made it easy to not feel bad for myself. I was thrilled to be out of her son's reach. I didn't look at him the entire time we ate. "Let's watch a movie in the basement." "No thanks, I should really get going." His mom chimed in. "You should stay! Make yourself comfortable." "I can't, I said. I have to go." "Just one," they said at the same time. "OK."
He asked me a lot of stupid questions about surrealist films. He chose one, then turned the volume up all the way. He held me down and took my clothes off. He had clearly done this before. I tried to push him off, but he was twice my size. I tried saying "no," but the movie was too loud. I got louder and louder and louder. I remembered we were in the basement. His parents were on the second story, their door probably closed. I thought about screaming, but screaming seemed so... dramatic. It was just sex. But, I didn't want to be there. I hated him. This is just bad sex I thought. I guess this is OK. I'm OK. After he came, he stared at me. I had no words. "You know something," he said, "you're really fucking stupid." He laughed. "Let's go." We drove in silence. When I finally got home, I realized I had been gone for 12 hours. My friends hopefully asked how the date was, presuming it had been great since I was gone for so long. "I don't know, it was OK I guess." I waited a few minutes. "Actually, it was bad, he said some really mean stuff." I laid out the choice quotes of the evening. "That's horrible. I'm sorry. Fuck that guy."
Over the next few months, he continued to text me daily. He told me his parents had kicked him out of his house, he was homeless, he was desperate, he was depressed, he was suicidal and could I just sell him a few of my anxiety pills that he saw me take on the way back to my apartment. I loved the idea of making money off of him, but I refused to see his face. So, for the next few months, I would leave a few pills in my mailbox. He would leave me twenty dollars. I didn't work that semester. When my prescription ran out, I told him to never talk to me again. I saw him at a party in Allston. He asked me how I was doing. I said "OK." I ran into my friend's arms. A few months later, I saw him crossing the street in Davis Square. We made eye contact. I flipped him off and sped away.
I've never called this rape. But tonight, I will. He is a rapist. He raped me. I am a survivor. I survived.