…And I think the story is relevant to what I’m dealing with now (and the national conversation about sexual assault and everything – being that a presidential candidate bragged about grabbing women today (what?))…
[Also, warning. We’re gonna talk about sex in a bit of detail here. So if you feel that’s inappropriate, or you don’t want to hear about it, then maybe this is a post to skip.]
[Edited to add: I’ve been talking a lot about sexual assault on the blog lately, because that’s the biggest thing I’ve been dealing with this year. I am not ready to share intimate details of that story (and I’m unsure if I ever will, publicly). But, for now, I can talk about this one from many years ago, as it is related.]
Thankfully, I don’t remember a lot of details leading up to the night I was in his apartment. I can’t tell you how we met, or if he was even a Berklee student. (I’m pretty sure he was not.)
But I can very much remember the night. I can remember where his bed was positioned in his apartment, and where we were on it. I can remember the wall I could see over his shoulder as I struggled to try to get him off of me, but couldn’t.
…But thankfully, I can’t remember his name.
I’d had an IUD that wasn’t totally inserted properly. So, when we started to have sex, he was hitting it when he was thrusting into me.
I told him how much it hurt. I asked him, “Hey, can we please move? This really hurts.” He just kept shushing me and calling me baby. “Baby, baby, I’m gonna finish soon. Just let me finish.”
“It’s just that… this really hurts. A lot. Please stop. Just please, let’s just move. I promise I’ll still have sex with you. I just need to try a different position because this really hurts. Please.”
“Baby, baby, shhhhhh. I’m gonna finish soon!”
He was bigger than me and stronger than me. And I kind of tried to wiggle free or sit up a bit – just get out from under him, but I couldn’t.
I will readily admit, I didn’t pull out all the stops. I didn’t bite him. I didn’t fight with all my will, like it was life or death or anything. I didn’t scream at the top of my lungs.
I just – from start to finish, I didn’t stop asking for him to move or stop. But I asked politely. I kept saying please. I let him know how painful it was – both with grimaces of my face and with my words. Nothing was nuanced about it.
But if you grilled me on a stand or something, I’d have to answer, “No, I didn’t scream,” etc.
He finally finished. And I was bleeding on his bed. Then he yelled at me for bleeding on his bed.
Then, I’m pretty sure that when he yelled at me, I apologized for bleeding on his bed.
I didn’t tell him what he did was wrong. I merely apologized, and left.
At the time, I didn’t even think of it as an assault. I always thought of it as just “a rude guy…” “a bad night of sex.”
And I’m sure I’m gonna get more into that – I’ll talk more about this story and sexual assault stuff I’ve been thinking about… But I thought this was a story that needed to be told as a base to upcoming posts… So, there it is.