Photographed by Bianca Valle. The following includes a graphic description of the author's experience with rape. The myriad feelings, insurmountable, insuppressible, unspeakable.
Yet I must try today to describe the indescribable. I must speak, because right now, women are being told that we can be raped , without consequence, behind a Dumpster. Time and time again, blame for sexual attacks falls on the survivor, for their lack of strength and their inability to prove complete and utter moral perfection as a human being. It makes people uncomfortable.
When I was 15 years old, I was invited to a high school keg party at a house where the parents were out of town. On the way there, Jane swooned about the host that I was soon to meet. He was hottest guy at the public school that she used to attend before coming to ours. He was rich, popular, drove a brand new Nissan ZX, was captain of the lacrosse team, and lived in a huge McMansion — notable to me only because, although I was a private school kid, I was like a white, female version of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
I had a troubled home life, was poor, and had moved in with an aunt who was generous enough to pay for my education in hopes of steering my future in the right direction. I wanted more than anything to be like my peers from happy, normal homes. Advertisement Blaine was a senior, soon to be 18, which to the average sophomore is the equivalent of a Fortune CEO or a rock star.
Like most year-old girls, cars, popularity and fame impressed me. I knew my mission before I arrived: Make Blaine like me. I had started to model locally, and my physicality leggy, strategically buxom , meant I was usually popular with any teenaged guy I set my sights on. And I was again that night when we arrived at the party.
Blaine beelined to the door to greet me. In typical teenage fashion, under the influence of several watery Midwestern light beers, we flirted over the next few hours with tall tales and juvenile jokes. Blaine kissed me in the kitchen when no one was looking, and I liked it.
I kissed him back, because I wanted to. We mauled our way from the garishly lit kitchen into the vastly boring and tackily chandeliered foyer, and again, I liked the way he kissed. New partygoers arrived through the foyer, and Blaine steered my body toward the stairs, which led to the bedrooms. I knew what that bedroom steer meant, and I resisted. And I probably would have wanted to have sex with him on a different day. I giggled, rolled my eyes, and reluctantly went up the stairs and into his room, where he laid on top of me on his bed and kissed me.
And again, I liked it as he pressed his body against mine. But I did not want to have sex with him. Because I actually liked him. His dexterity alone was shocking. He lifted himself and, in another quick gesture, yanked my Bermuda shorts to my knees.
I tried to get up, and he pinned me back down. No one could hear me. I was now frightened. He smiled, wickedly mocking my No's, and grabbed my wrists harshly as he pinned me down and tried to kiss me. Again, I tried to get away from him, but he pushed me back down and pinned my wrists above my shoulders. I fought for what might have been a minute or two, as his star athlete body weighed down my waif frame, and my thin arms managed only to lift millimeters from the bed. Advertisement It was at this point that everything changed.
And then I dove inward, into my mind, into a montage of thoughts and memories. The first, a comprehension of what was happening to me. This is really happening.
Then, the feeling that I had to survive. Sadly, a familiar feeling to me, as I had been repeatedly beaten and molested at age 6. I was not only street smart, but sociopath smart. How do I get through this? It will make him more violent. It will hurt your outsides. Brain pulling from the rape file. I wanted to cry. A line struck me as something to remember — the same way I know to throw flour on an oil fire.
You will prevent additional trauma. If you can, try to relax. The rapist gains pleasure from controlling you. He fucked me hard as I laid still and played dead.
I decided to relax my hands; he loosened his grip subtly. Now my arms hurt less. I thought of the pamphlet again. Had my family friend been raped? How had she never spoken of it? What do I do? His legs, pressing against my shorts around my knees, acted as a harness, pinning my legs flat against the bed.
I was now thankful for the menstrual blood smearing in between my restrained legs. Prevent further trauma to the area. I focused on the pamphlet. And my body let go. And for a moment I thought of how I would tell on him, of how serious this was. He could go to jail, and his future would be ruined. This future was terrifying. He kissed my face as he forcefully pumped into me, and I felt detached, and a bit victorious over my body.
He believes I like this now. All the while I dreamt of his punishment. Steering himself to press his hips strongly against my clitoris. My blood felt colder. I was in a courtroom. He was the defendant. I was pointing at him. Then I imagined the questions, and my hopes of future revenge shriveled. Every girl has seen enough TV to know what I would be asked: And only 15 years old?