The card attached to the bouquet read, “Let’s grab dinner.”
After enduring a painful breakup, I spent months trying to heal my fractured heart. One night, on a whim, my friends persuaded me to join them at a local bar. “It’s time to put yourself out there again,” they insisted. Hesitantly, I found myself at the bar, nursing a drink when he caught my eye.
He had an inviting smile.
With a confident approach, he unleashed the typical pickup lines while my friends cheered from a distance, giving me encouraging gestures. He was assertive, and I should have sensed the warning signs. However, his charming smile and the impressive wad of cash he flashed melted my defenses. He bought rounds for my friends throughout the night, his gaze fixed on me. Eventually, with my friends nudging me along, I gave him my number. As we left the bar, my friends embraced me, thrilled that I had met someone new.
The following day, the sweet scent of two dozen roses filled my dorm room. I was taken aback and flattered—how had he discovered my address? I pushed my misgivings aside; I deserved happiness after all. “Dinner sounds good,” I thought. Just small steps.
Little did I know.
In the weeks that followed, he showered me with lavish gifts and orchestrated our dates with exceptional care. Each outing was more thrilling than the last—spontaneous dinners in restaurants he had reserved just for us, and jewelry boxes that made my friends swoon. My roommates eagerly welcomed the grand flower arrangements that arrived at our door. “He’s the one!” they exclaimed. I smiled, wondering if they were right.
Gradually, I let my guard down and allowed myself to envision him as my Prince Charming. But as he kissed me—always more passionately than I was comfortable with—I tried to dismiss my growing unease. I was inexperienced and wanted to take things slowly, and I voiced my feelings. “I won’t wait forever,” he warned, and he meant it.
It happened during dinner at his apartment.
He had invited me over for a private meal. “Just us,” he had said.
Upon arriving, I noticed the ambiance—candles, flowers, soft music. I barely made it through the door when he enveloped me in his arms, kissing me to the point of breathlessness. I resisted, but my reluctance seemed to fuel his desire. He pulled me into his bedroom, laying me on the bed and showering me with kisses I didn’t want. “It’s time,” he declared. “We’ve been together for a month.”
At 19, I was still a virgin and 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 movement, he unbuttoned my pants and forced his fingers roughly inside me. I screamed and pleaded for him to stop. My cries only seemed to infuriate him, and he grabbed me with a ferocity that left me terrified.
“You’re mine,” he hissed. “If you don’t be quiet, I’ll shove my whole fist in there.”
I sobbed as he violated me, his breath hot against my neck as he uttered obscenities. When he was finished, he tossed me aside like trash and ordered me to leave.
From start to finish, I was in his apartment for barely 20 minutes. I had my “20 minutes of action” with my own Brock Turner.
As I stumbled to my car, each step felt like a painful reminder of my shameful violation. I drove home, tears silently streaming down my face. I crept into my dorm room, careful not to wake my roommates, fearing I would have to explain how my ideal Prince Charming had sexually assaulted me.
As the hot water cascaded down my back, I cried uncontrollably, vowing never to speak of my trauma again. The shame engulfed me, and I replayed every detail for months, years.
I visited his apartment. I should have known better.
And now I do.
I understand what it’s like to be violated in a dark room, feeling utterly powerless. I know the terror of a man gripping you so tightly that you fear he will tear you apart. I know the anguish of having a man rob you of your innocence and dignity. I know how it feels to suffer flashbacks when you’re finally with a loving partner who respects you. I know the pain of keeping this secret from the one who has loved me for nearly two decades.
I know how it feels to hear other women share their stories of sexual assault, and I desperately want to say, “Me too.”
I know the harsh reality of being grabbed without consent—and it’s not at all what some men might claim. It’s painful, and it’s a burden I carry daily. It’s not mere “words” or “locker room talk.”
It’s sexual assault.
It’s rape.
I may not have been able to fight back then, but recent revelations in the media have compelled me to speak out. I refuse to remain silent, especially for those women who are still too ashamed to admit they were raped. I won’t allow rape culture to thrive in a world where men think it’s their right to violate women at will. I will not let my daughter grow up thinking that such behavior is acceptable.
I will fight for her. I never want her to look me in the eye and utter, “Me too, Mom.”
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Summary:
This poignant confession recounts the harrowing experience of a young woman who, after a breakup, found herself in an abusive situation disguised as romance. Through her narrative, she reveals the emotional trauma of sexual assault and the lasting impact it has on survivors. Her story emphasizes the need to break the silence surrounding such experiences and challenge the culture that allows them to persist.