The Story

I have attended two plays in the last year that dealt with heavy issues like women's sexuality, violence, coercion, etc. These plays were based on women's stories and their pain, and they have affected me deeply.

I thought I didn't have any stories. Not any good stories. By good, I mean really bad, traumatic, worthy-of-sharing, stories. I told myself that nothing really bad ever happened to me. So many have had it so much worse. I was never molested. I've never been physically forced to have sex. I've never been really beaten up by a partner. I told myself that anything "bad" that happened to me, that I couldn't let go, was just me feeling sorry for myself. That I was just being melodramatic.

When I tell stories, I put a spin on them. I make them funny. I end with a joke, or I make them into something else. I gloss over the meat. I gloss over the pain. I avoid the discomfort. Mine or otherwise.

I tell stories that are caricatures of stories. I like these stories, and they have their place.

But I want to try telling other stories. I want to tell the truth. The uncomfortable truth.

I can start with a story I've never told. I have told little pieces to a few people, but I have never told the whole story. To anyone. 

I had just started college at ASU. I had a friend, a crush really, who lived across town. We'll call him K. K was recently sober after a short romance with crystal meth. He had been attending Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings. 

He was really cute. We'd met at band camp (how cliche!), made out a few times (even more cliche!), and I'd visited him in Phoenix once or twice before moving down there for college. 

I picked him up on the other side of town after an NA meeting. He invited me over to a friend's house. I was disappointed, because I really liked K and had hoped we could just go out and do something together, even if it was just coffee. I'd thought this would be just us doing something, but I guess not. He and his buddies were going to drink LOTS of coffee and stay up all night, because this was the closest thing they had to a good buzz. The rush from all the coffee and the sleep deprivation was kind of like being high. There was an actual term for it, but I don't remember what it was. I wish I could remember. Forgetting that little term, and the degree to which this forgetting bothers me, is such a microcosm for the rest of the story.

At that time, I had a sort of relationship with a guy we'll call P. I'd hooked up with him (in other words, had a two-night stand with him) right before I moved to Phoenix and we were maybe going to see each other or whatever, but we weren't officially dating. Or at least I didn't think so. I figured he wasn't interested in an actual relationship with me.

After the two-night stand with P, I had been reflecting on my casual sexual encounters over the past few years. Those are stories for another time, but I was kind of concerned that I was a sex addict. I now know that really, I wouldn't have met the criteria. Not even close. But it was a hot term at that time and I really wanted some kind of label for myself and my dysfunction. Sex addiction was kind of glamorous, as opposed to a more accurate label like "child of alcoholic starved for male attention". I mentioned this to K--that I thought I might have a problem with sex. He suggested that I go to NA meetings or AA meetings or whatever, and the program was still the same.

We arrived at his friend's house--we'll call him D for douchebag because I don't remember his real name and douchebag is appropriate--and the coffee consumption began. I didn't drink much of it. D encouraged me to drink more, but I didn't. I'll return to this point later. 

We ended up watching some porn. The me I am now is confused about how this could have seemed like a normal activity, but I was not the me I am now.

I should clarify that at that time in my life, third-wave feminist (though I didn't call myself a feminist) that I was, I had watched porn with friends before. We were young adults. It was taboo. We were liberated. We liked to show that we were so cool we could watch porn and it was no big deal. I had watched porn with my best friend (and roommate) and sometimes we had other friends there and no, we didn't end up making out and we didn't have orgies and it was just...watching porn. Because we were old enough to rent it now! And we were cool. 

But these guys didn't know this. This hadn't been discussed. It was just, hey let's watch some porn, and I was so cool that I said sure. Whatever. Maybe D even asked if I was okay with it, and I of course said yes.

I should also clarify, before you read further, that this night did not end in some kind gang bang or forced sex.

This was 15 years ago. I'm sorry, 16 years ago, so my memory is kind of fuzzy. I was sitting in a dark living room, in a room with three young men. I wasn't sitting next to any of them so I must have been in a different chair. Trying to not react. Trying to be cool. You would think that I would be like, I'm out of here. But I didn't do that. Because I prided myself on being "one of the guys". Most of my close friends in high school, except my very best friend, were guys. I didn't trust women--girls had caused me so much pain throughout my childhood that I was really distrustful of them. Men, on the other hand...they didn't, generally, have the same finesse in being able to destroy you by using your friendships against you. They lacked the same power of social ostracism. By and large, I'd never even had a guy start rumors about me, even those I'd had sex with. They were friends, sometimes sexual partners, but our relationships were pretty straightforward. In my mind, I was just being one of the guys. I knew from other conversations with adolescent boys that sometimes, they watched porn together. Is this normal? I don't know. Maybe I just grew up in some fucked up hick corner of the universe.

So, back to the porn. Or the circle jerk. Like I said, the details are fuzzy, but I could swear it was a circle jerk. Maybe they just talked about circle jerk. I think D actually brought it up and asked if I knew what it was, and if I minded if either he or they beat off. I don't think they all did, because I think I would have REALLY noticed or tried to NOT NOTICE if K had whipped out his dick. So it was probably D and maybe the other guy who I haven't assigned an initial to. I could have said, hey I really have to get going but that seemed like so much effort. It seemed like it would have been a monumentally impossible task to actually get up out of the chair I was in and walk out of the room.

At some point, it's early morning, and I'm fucking tired. I don't know if I said I was tired and heading home, or if I actually asked if there was somewhere I could lay down. The guy who lived there, D for dickhead or douchebag or whatever else you want to say about him, offered that I could sleep in his parents bed. It was his parents house and they were out of town. Awesome, I think, I have a bed to myself. They were still up watching heavy metal videos or something equally obnoxious, and D specifically said that I could close the door and it would be quiet and I could have privacy. What a nice guy, I thought. I figured I could sleep for a few hours, and then head back an hour across town. Looking back, I probably said I was heading home and then he offered, but this may be revisionist history.

I'm almost asleep. D comes in and lays down. This is weird, I think, but he doesn't try anything. At first. I don't know how it started. I didn't like this guy. I wasn't attracted to this guy. 

Oh my god, I just remembered how it started. He was actually laying in bed beating off. I was just trying to ignore it. I was trying to pretend I was asleep. I don't know how I got involved, aside from being in the bed in the first place. SO STUPID. I WAS SO STUPID.

I know that I resisted. I'm pretty sure that he started touching me, stroking me, and I just tried to pretend I was asleep. Then it was let's just kiss. It's likely that I was asked to "help him out". I felt so tired. My head was so foggy. I didn't really want to. I wanted to sleep. I hoped that I could just do enough to get by so he would leave me alone so I could sleep. I said no to each increased advance. I know I said no. I said it more than once. He just kept persisting. I could have gotten up and left, but I knew that the other guys were in the house. I was so embarrassed. They knew I'd gone up to sleep. How could I tell them I was leaving because your friend won't leave me alone? Did they know he was up here? Did they all just think I was easy? Was that why I was here in the first place?

And it seemed like so much effort. Seemed like it was so much easier to just let him kiss me for a few minutes and then maybe he would go away. I was so naive. I was so tired. I couldn't make myself get out of the bed. I could not get out of the bed. I was so

DRUGGED?

It took me years to consider that possibility, because any time I did, I told myself I'd just been tired and lazy and easy anyway and that I was just trying to find an excuse. But seriously, this was not the first time I'd been up all night and I'd never had so much trouble functioning. I wonder now if that's why he kept trying to get me to drink more coffee. I wonder now if they were all in on it. I wonder now if K told them I was a "sex addict".

And I'd been trying to turn a new leaf. I'd told myself I wasn't going to fuck someone for the sake of fucking someone any more. I told him this, in fact. I told him that I thought I had a problem with sex, and didn't want to have sex with someone I'd just met. That's why I kept saying no, I really can't. And then it ended with him begging over and over to eat me out. And I kept saying no. But he "just wanted to go down on me to pleasure me". It was all about me. We didn't need to have sex. It wouldn't be sex. And finally I just said whatever. 

What happened next is kind of foggy. I think I faked an orgasm, and then he wanted to hold me, and I was kind of disgusted, but I just wanted to go to sleep. I'm 97% sure that this is what happened.

When I woke up next, K was in the bed. He was awake. I think he smiled at me. He might have then rolled over and gone to sleep. Was he in the bed because he hoped to get lucky? If he was, he didn't try anything. At least, I don't remember him trying anything. I mean, this is the guy that I would have kind of liked to try something. I had a crush on him, remember? Did he hope I would try something? I have a vague memory that I asked where D was, and K said he'd gone to work. Maybe he was simply in the bed because he was tired and it was a place to sleep now that D was gone.

I don't remember how I left. I don't remember if K was asleep or awake. I think he did roll over, with his back to me, and when he fell asleep I left. I was ashamed. I, of course, assumed that D had told K everything. In retrospect, I don't think he told him anything.

At the time, I felt victorious because I hadn't banged the guy. In my mind, this was a victory because I hadn't given in to fucking someone for the sake of fucking someone. Even though I felt sick about the whole thing, I had WON. Right?

I said that I never told whole story. I want to tell you about what happened the first time I told part of  the story. P--the two-night stand I assumed would never really follow up with me--came to visit me. I told him that I'd made out someone. I just wanted to be honest if we were going to become a thing. He was kind of annoyed, but I told him that I hadn't thought I'd actually hear from him again. I didn't tell him everything else. Long story short, P ended up being my boyfriend. This led to a whole host of poor decisions in that first year of college, culminating in me dropping out, moving to the woods, getting pregnant while doing a lot of drugs, begging my mother to rescue me, and me having an abortion. My stories about P are stories for another time. Except this one.

About 6 months after the D incident, I had horrible abdominal pains. I went to the emergency room. I had a nasty virus and they gave me painkillers. GOOOOOD painkillers. P and me and our roommate were drinking hard liquor. Because I had far less sense than I have now.

I don't know how the hell it came up. I don't know if it was a slip. I don't know if it was a confession. I think it may have actually been a "hey, I love you so much, and there's only one thing I have hidden from you and I want you to know about it" scenario. Somehow, the conversation turned to the fact that D had gone down on me. 

P was furious. 

It was one thing to have "made out" with D, but THIS. THIS!

Of course, I'd never told him I'd been potentially drugged. I didn't tell him I'd been coerced. I didn't tell him that this was either borderline date rape or outright date rape. These were terms I didn't have words for back then. Remember, I'd walked away from the D situation feeling VICTORIOUS. As if.

So P said he would never do that on me/for me/to me again. I know now that this is classic abusive behavior. Withholding affection. At the time, I apologized. I cried. I pleaded. I felt like I was a horrible person. I should have told you. I thought I told you. It doesn't matter. What's the difference? It's in the past. I'm so sorry.

  

I don't know exactly what I said. All I knew is that someone who I (naively) thought I would spend my life with was taking away something. Forever. Because I was bad. Because I was a slut.

Fast forward a few weeks later. P had been out of town for a week. When he returned, we were making out, leading up to sex. He said he had a really special surprise gift for me. I thought it might be an engagement ring. Instead, he started to go down on me.

Instead of feeling happy, I just felt sick. Dirty. Manipulated. Insulted. And then I pushed all those feelings away, hid my disappointment, and fucked him anyway.

I ran into K about 18 months later. P and I had broken up long before then, and I'd moved on to an even more abusive relationship. K looked great when I saw him. Sober. Healthy. Kind. I could tell he really was doing well. 

We chatted for a few minutes. I asked him if he was still friends with D. I think I wanted to tell him what happened, or try to figure out if he knew. He said D was serving time in jail for raping a girl. I could tell from the rest of our conversation that he didn't know what happened. I don't think he told his friends that night that I was a "sex addict". I don't think, if I was drugged, that he knew about it. I think that he was a genuinely good guy.

And I wished then that I had told him, either that night or soon thereafter. And I felt bad because maybe if I'd said something, someone else would not have been raped. And selfishly, I also felt relieved. If D had "really" raped some other woman, maybe it wasn't all my fault after all.

I know that what he did was wrong, but I still feel so ashamed. So dirty. Ashamed that I just sat there while they watched porn. Ashamed that I didn't leave. Ashamed that I tried to sleep there. Ashamed that I didn't leave when D came upstairs. Ashamed that I gave in because it was easier than not giving in. I don't know if I was actually drugged with something, and it shouldn't really matter. I said no. Just because he didn't have to hold me down doesn't make it okay. I tell myself that thinking I might have been drugged is just a way to let myself off the hook. Off the hook for what? I know, rationally, that I should not feel ashamed, but I do.

And the worst part. THE WORST part, was not the night with D. It was the way P treated me. As if him giving back affection that should have never been withheld was a "gift". A GIFT. And even though I knew that it wasn't right, I let him give this "gift" to me. I accepted it. And now, even though I know that he was an asshole, I feel so embarrassed. I don''t want to tell anyone because it will show that I was so stupid. That I am dirty. That I was a slut. That I am a bad person. That I am dishonest. You will say that I had it coming. I got what I deserved.

But even if you think all these things, I still have to tell this story. And other stories. They are eating me alive from the inside out.

I don't want your sympathy. I don't want you to tell me that none of it was my fault, because I know I won't believe you.

I want you to know this, and still be my friend anyway. I want to know that you think no less of me.