There are moments when I find myself loudly lamenting the content that fills my Facebook newsfeed. The political debates are tiresome, the constant selfies are overwhelming, and what’s with all the women posing with one hand on their hips, as if they’re reciting some childhood rhyme?
But what really gets under my skin is when I stumble upon a post showcasing a party, and as I casually scan for familiar faces, I’m jolted by the realization: “Oh look, there’s the man who assaulted me back in high school.” Yes, the sight of a rapist overshadows all the political chatter.
It was a long time ago—decades, in fact (I’m not as youthful as I’d like to believe). To be precise, it was thirty years ago. To borrow from Will Smith, let’s set the scene. My friend’s parents had gone on vacation for a week, prompting her to throw an unforgettable keg party. These gatherings were wild, filled with music, laughter, and an abundance of alcohol. And oh, the marijuana—we partook in copious amounts.
Of course, these parties were rife with teenage encounters: couples sneaking kisses in dim corners, intoxicated pairs wandering off to find a private space, and flirty exchanges all around. I was a virgin at the time, intoxicated and lost in the chaos of tenth or eleventh grade—it hardly matters now. I had been through enough turmoil with my parents’ messy divorce and an abusive step-parent, yet I had managed to keep my innocence intact, unlike many girls who navigated those same social circles.
I did enjoy the parties, yes, and I engaged in my fair share of youthful exploration—kissing, groping, and the like. But I was also learning to build a strong emotional barrier, one that I still carry today. “If you don’t let anyone in, they can’t hurt you,” became my mantra, and sadly, it still is.
Let’s return to that fateful party. I recall seeking out my friend, the host, to express that I was feeling unwell and needed a place to rest. She kindly led me to her parents’ bedroom and told me I could stay there as long as I wanted.
I remember the moonlight filtering through the curtains, the cheap nylon comforter that seemed to snag on my hangnails, and the muffled sounds of the party outside—laughter, yelling, and the unmistakable beats of Def Leppard. At some point, I drifted into that hazy state between consciousness and slumber, only to find myself on the floor, wedged between the bed and the wall when I was approached by two guys.
Initially, I thought they had mistakenly entered the wrong room. Then they shut the door behind them. I remember the sudden shift in my awareness; I felt a surge of fear, and my drunken haze began to clear. One of them stood at the foot of the bed, spotting me and blocking my way out.
“There she is!” he hissed, and his companion joined him. I recognized them—not friends, but familiar figures notorious for their reckless behavior. My memories of the ensuing moments are fragmented, reduced to brief impressions and sounds that replay in my mind when triggered.
Years later, I found myself staring at a picture of one of them on my laptop screen—a familiar face, now older and heavier. I couldn’t help but wonder if he remembered that night. Did he recall my struggle to rise from that suffocating space? Did he remember the shock on my face as his friend threw me onto the bed?
I do. I remember everything. I recall yelling “NO!” and “STOP!” and “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” But it seems those words meant nothing to them. The fair one pulled his pants down, revealing an erect penis for the first time in my life. Its shiny surface left me bewildered, contrary to my expectations. He tried to force it toward my mouth while his friend assisted in stripping me of my jeans.
The cacophony of the party continued outside, intertwining with the scent of stale beer and smoke. One of them climbed on top of me, attempting to penetrate while the other stood guard. The song “Mirror in the Bathroom” played in the background, a haunting reminder of that moment.
Ultimately, my memories end there. I don’t recall how or if I rejoined the party afterward. I confided in a friend about the incident, and she dismissed it with, “Those guys are such jerks!” She reassured me that I was still technically a virgin. That was the last time I spoke of it.
Weeks later, I encountered the dark-haired one at school, his presence igniting a wave of shame. I felt that what happened was somehow my fault—my intoxication, my isolation, my failure to fight back more fiercely. My teenage mind twisted the narrative, burying the trauma deep within me.
As I write this, I’m unsure if I’ll ever share it publicly. I don’t wish to tarnish anyone’s reputation with claims from a long-buried past, nor do I believe the man in the photo remembers me. I might have been just one of many victims, or perhaps a singular experience in their sordid history.
What I do know is that I have daughters and sons, and I dread the thought of such an experience befalling them. We all understand that these events occur—past, present, and unfortunately, they will continue into the future. How many of us carry similar haunting memories? How many have felt the cruelty of others while lying on various surfaces—be it cheap comforters or luxurious sheets?
Too many. Countless women and girls bear their own versions of this nightmare. I can’t be the only one who looks at a Facebook post and thinks, “Oh look, there’s the person who assaulted me.” Can I?
This article was originally published on August 22, 2014.
Summary
This piece delves into the painful memories of an assault experienced during high school, triggered by a chance encounter on social media years later. The author reflects on the trauma, societal attitudes toward such incidents, and the pervasive nature of sexual violence. By sharing this story, the author raises awareness about the long-lasting effects of such experiences and the importance of addressing them.