The note accompanying the bouquet read, “Let’s have dinner together.”
After a heart-wrenching breakup, I found myself trying to mend my emotional wounds over a span of several months. On a whim, my friends urged me to accompany them to a local bar. “It’s time to re-enter the scene,” they insisted. As I hesitantly sipped a beer at the bar, he caught my eye.
He had a charming smile.
Approaching me with the usual flirtations while my friends cheered from across the bar, I felt the weight of their encouragement. His confidence, along with the cash he flashed, began to sway my judgment. He treated my friends to drinks all night, and his gaze remained fixed on me. By the end of the evening, with my friends enthusiastically urging me on, I reluctantly shared my number with him. As we left the bar, my friends enveloped me in hugs, thrilled that I had met someone new.
The following day, the sweet fragrance of two dozen roses filled my dorm room, leaving me both flattered and perplexed. How had he discovered my address? I pushed aside my concerns, convincing myself that my broken heart deserved a chance at happiness. “Let’s have dinner” felt manageable, a small step forward.
But I should have known better.
In the weeks that followed, he showered me with luxurious gifts and orchestrated our dates with meticulous care. Each outing was more extravagant than the last—spontaneous dinners at exclusive restaurants reserved just for us, and sparkling gems wrapped in delicate boxes. My roommates were enamored, eagerly answering the door to receive grand floral arrangements. “He’s the one!” they would exclaim, and I found myself wondering if perhaps they were right.
Gradually, I began to lower my defenses, allowing myself to fantasize about him being my Prince Charming. Yet, as our kisses grew more fervent, my instinctual hesitations were pushed to the back of my mind. In my naivety, I expressed my desire to take things slow. “I won’t wait forever,” he cautioned.
And he didn’t.
The turning point came one evening at his apartment. “Just the two of us,” he had said with a smile.
Upon my arrival, the atmosphere was set with dim lighting, candles, and soft music. Almost immediately, he enveloped me in a suffocating embrace, kissing me with an intensity that left me breathless. As I hesitated, my reluctance seemed to fuel his desire. He whisked me into his bedroom, laying me down and showering my ears with fervent kisses. “It’s time,” he insisted. “We’ve been together for a month.”
At just 19, and a virgin, I felt unprepared.
I said NO.
But he pressed on. “Come on, it’s me. Let’s do this.”
NO.
“Do you know how much I’ve spent on you?”
NO.
And then it happened.
In one swift motion, my pants were unfastened, and he forcefully penetrated me with his fingers. My desperate pleas for him to stop only incited his anger. “You tease,” he spat, “you’re mine.” His grip tightened, and I felt fear clutch my insides. “If you don’t be quiet, I’ll take it further,” he threatened.
I sobbed, pleading for him to cease as he violated my boundaries and indulged in his own gratification. When he finished, he callously shoved me aside and ordered me out of his apartment.
In total, I had been there for no more than 20 minutes. I had just endured my “20 minutes of action” with a man who embodied the very definition of assault.
As I staggered to my car, each step served as a painful reminder of the violation I had endured. Silent tears streamed down my face as I drove home. Entering my dorm room, I tiptoed carefully, anxious not to wake my roommates and avoid explaining how my perfect Prince Charming had perpetrated sexual assault against me.
As the warm water cascaded down my back, I wept uncontrollably, vowing never to speak of my trauma again. The shame consumed me, replaying the event in my mind for months, even years.
I should have known.
Now, I do know. I understand the feeling of violation in a dark room, the powerlessness against a man who disregards boundaries. I know the sting of having my innocence stolen. I know the haunting memories that resurface when I finally find a man who respects and loves me.
I know what it’s like to carry the heavy secret from my partner of nearly two decades. I know the yearning to speak out when others share their stories of assault, wishing desperately to say, “Me, too.”
I know what it feels like to be violated. And it’s not as glamorous as some might suggest. It hurts deeply—a secret shame I carry every day.
This is not “just talk” or “locker room banter.” It’s sexual assault. It’s rape.
While I couldn’t fight back then, current dialogues in media have empowered me to raise my voice. I refuse to remain silent for the sake of those who are still too ashamed to admit their trauma. I will not stand idly by while a culture that condones such actions persists. I will fight for a future where my daughter does not have to face the same harrowing experiences.
This is a war I will wage because I refuse to hear my child say, “Me, too, Mom.”
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Summary:
This narrative highlights a personal experience of sexual assault, exploring themes of violation, shame, and the need for awareness. It reflects on the complexities of consent and the societal implications surrounding assault. The author expresses a commitment to raising awareness and supporting future generations.
Keyphrase: Personal account of sexual assault
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