Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Knowledge

The first time he raped me was in my parents' home. I had lived there as a child, I felt safe in those walls. The old brown couch had held me through many milestones, why not add one more?

He had driven me back into town for the summer. It was not a short drive, so I had arranged for him to stay the night at my parents' house with me and my brother. He was going to leave the next day.

We weren't dating, not by a long shot. We were just friends, fooling around with one another. I was okay with this, I was used to it, it felt normal. We had been doing it for months, and I was happy with the arrangement. We would cuddle for a while, then make out, he would touch me for a while, and I would touch him until he finished. It was a pattern. It felt normal, it felt comfortable, it felt safe.

So when his hand slid up my shirt on my parents' couch, I didn't think anything of it. I went along with it happily. It was part of our usual pattern. He kissed me a couple of times and took my shirt off. He struggled with the clasp on my bra, so I helped him. I unbuttoned his shirt. I can still picture the way he looked that day. His red plaid shirt buttoned except for the top two buttons, his sleeves rolled messily up to his elbows, his jeans ripped in just the one knee. I thought he was rather handsome.

We made out for a while, and eventually his hand found its way between my legs. He slipped it under the waistband of my blue shorts and started touching me. At this point, I was still on board. It fit our pattern, I felt comfortable and safe with him. I reached for his jeans and undid the button and zipper, sliding them off his legs clumsily. I remember he was wearing his blue and green plaid boxers, the ones that looked like the kind someone's mom might buy for them.

When I reached out to touch him, he grabbed my wrist and pulled it away. I thought he just wasn't ready yet. I let him touch me for a few more minutes, one hand on my chest, one between my legs. I ran my fingers through his hair. Shortly, I reached for the waistband of his boxers again. I took them off of him and reached for him once more. He again grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand away. Confused and only a little bit hurt, I let him maneuver the two of us so that he was laying on the couch and I was laying on top of him. I began to kiss his neck, but soon felt hands pushing on my shoulders. Pushing, pushing. I let him push, confused about what he wanted. Soon, I was face level with his waist.

Oh.

OH.

I did not want to do that. I turned my head away from him, resting my cheek on his hipbone. I figured if I passively resisted it would be enough for him to get the hint. He grabbed my face with both of his hands, insistently trying to turn it towards his crotch. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a door opening.

In one motion, he roughly pulled me up so that I was face to face with him, and threw the blanket that was on the back of the couch over us both to cover our nakedness.

My brother came into the room, turning on the overhead light. I snapped my eyes shut as I heard footsteps approach. I heard him stop, and felt his eyes on us. I was glad for the blanket. How strange it would have been for him to see his baby sister in such a compromising position with a man he barely knew. I heard him walk into the kitchen, then heard the refrigerator door open, then close again. My heart was pounding in my chest. I heard him enter the living room again, and he stopped and looked at us one more time before retreating back to his room, shutting off the light on the way.

Once his bedroom door was safely closed, I opened my eyes. I looked at the naked man beside me and could barely suppress a giggle. He grinned like the cat who got the canary. I was just counting my blessings when he kissed me roughly. He started pushing on my shoulders again, and we were soon back where we started.

He had my face in his hands, trying to turn my head towards him. I started to shake, tears forming in my eyes. I thought about shouting, making a fuss. My parents were in the next room, they would have heard me. But all I could think of was my father promising me that if anyone ever hurt me like that, ever touched me without my permission, he would kill them.

I didn't want him to kill this man, I loved him. I wanted to make this man happy, nothing more, nothing less.

He kept trying to turn my head, getting less and less gentle by the minute. He was starting to hurt me, so I let him win. Tears rolling down my cheeks, I let him win. Shaking all over, I allowed him to put his penis into my mouth. A few seconds later, I heard my brother's bedroom door open again, then heard the bathroom door close. I sat up.

He looked at me, bewildered and hurt. I wanted to tell him no, this wasn't okay and I wasn't ready. Instead, I said "let's go to my room instead."

I grabbed his hand and led him to my childhood bedroom. Inside the confines of the four pastel pink walls, I felt comfortable, safe. I led him to my pastel pink bed, in all its girlish glory. We laid down on it, and he started kissing me again.

By this point I felt obligated. I had invited him into my room. I hadn't said no. I hadn't screamed. I hadn't fought hard at all. I gave in.

It took less time than expected. He even held me after. It seemed like he loved me. He loved me and had made a mistake that had hurt me. In the morning, he acted like nothing had happened at all. I remember texting my friend, begging for advice. In vague, disjointed terms, I told her what had happened, and how not okay it had felt. She advised me to confront him, but how could I? How could I ruin something like what he and I shared? Surely it was better to sweep one mistake under the rug, forgive and forget.

I was wrong.