You’ve been friends for awhile. You’ve been alone with him and he’s acted like a perfect gentleman. He’s never made a single pass at you. Never touched you inappropriately even when offering a back massage. He’s been very respectful of you in all your dealings with him. You’ve built a trust based on this spotless record.
Then one day during by far not the first back rub, he decides to take your pants down. You tell him, “Don’t do that.” and you accept his, “It’s okay. I’m not doing anything.”
You feel his penis rubbing on you and you’re paralyzed. “This just can’t be happening,” you think to yourself.
“Hey, cut that shit out,” you say out loud.
“Oh, it’s okay. It’s too flaccid to go in,” he says
But it’s not.
You fall into a pit of hopelessness and wish you were dead because this is all your fault for trusting him. You should have known better. You should have never thought for one second that any man could be capable of controlling himself and not raping someone. You find yourself reliving a moment from your childhood. Your mother’s words echo in your head, “It’s better you than somebody else.”
You no longer feel your womanly body but feel as if you’ve returned to the small seven-year-old frame every man in your life used for their own pleasures. You feel powerless and worthless and scared of the inevitable beating that would come if you didn’t comply. So, when he instructs you to roll over, you obey.
You’re deaf to the sounds coming out of him. You think you hear some words but they’re muted and unclear.
Suddenly, he stops and pulls out saying “Oh my god, what am I doing?”
He hangs his head, unable to look at you saying, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t shoot me.”
Still feeling like the seven-year-old you, you sit up and with your eyes fixed on the floor you say, “It’s okay.”
But is it really?