Dear <you're lucky I'm leaving your name out>,
Last Thursday night, you invited me over for a friendly dinner to discuss a play you wanted us to perform together. I felt weird as soon as I saw the bottle of wine on the table, but I thought it would be rude not to drink it. I was also surprised you poured me so much; my boyfriend only puts a small amount of wine in our glasses, and I like that because it makes the wine feel classy.
I think you refilled my glass the first time when I wasn't looking. Maybe you were filling yours too, and I wasn't paying attention because I was enjoying the salad you had made. I wonder, now, why I didn't feel more alert. You drove me there, so why were we drinking? What did you think was going to happen? I should have realized something was up.
We talked, we laughed. We were having a good evening. But I was getting uncomfortable. You were leaning too close to me while we were sitting at the dinner table, but you were right beside me so I couldn't get far enough away. And then you led me over to the couch, and you left the script for the play behind, and brought our wine glasses with you. They were full and the bottle was empty. Had we drank so much already? You pulled me onto your lap. I didn't like that. I didn't know what to do. I turned away from you, and you put a hand in my pants. I didn't know what to do about that, either, so I just pretended it wasn't happening. I didn't react. I naively thought that would make you stop.
Then you kissed me, and I finally reacted: I pulled away. But I didn't want to offend you or be mean, so instead of reminding you (as I had told you on occasions before this night) that I wasn't interested in you, I simply said I didn't like your moustache.
I would like to think that when a girl pulls away from someone who is kissing her, that person might stop and reconsider what they're doing. But you didn't, or maybe you saw an opportunity there, because next you picked me up and started to carry me. You said you were going to shave off your moustache for me. That terrified me. That sounded like an absolutely crazy thing to do. But then you carried me right past the bathroom, and you put me on the bed. You kissed me again, and started to undo my pants. I didn't know what to do any more. I felt completely out of control of the situation.
"My phone," I said. It was the only distraction I could come up with. "I left my phone in the living room, but people will be trying to reach me to figure out when we're going to the bar."
Have you ever had sex with someone who wanted you so bad they forgot their phone exists? I have. In fact, that's usually what sex is. I forget the phone, I forget the movie we might have been watching, I am all about my partner and their body. I guess that's not what you're used to, because you instructed me to take off my pants and then went to get my phone.
Everything was going wrong now and I didn't know what to do or say. I tried to convince myself it would be OK. I like sex. I like sex a lot, actually. I didn't want to have sex with you, but I thought maybe if I pretended you were someone else, and if you finished quickly, I could just go on with my evening and everything would be great.
You came back with my phone and gave it to me, then finished stripping me. I texted my best friend. But I didn't think to ask her for help. It seemed far too late for anything to save me now. I just asked her to remind me what time she would be finishing work. She would be done work at eleven, so she could meet me at the bar around 11:30. But it was barely after 9pm, and I knew I didn't want this to go on for two hours. My mind started searching frantically for something else.
Birth control! I'm not using any birth control right now. My boyfriend and I use condoms, every single time. We're very careful. "Do you have a condom?" I asked. You told me you might, in your wallet, which was probably out in the car. Why would you leave your wallet in the car? Why wouldn't you have your condoms near your bed? These questions didn't even enter my mind. I was far too frozen.
You entered me. You didn't use a condom. You didn't ask me if that would be OK. Actually, I don't think you cared if it was okay. "This is stupid!" I said. Those were my exact words, I remember that clearly. But I don't remember what you said next.
I don't remember a lot of what happened next.
I remember the positions you put me in. One position was my favourite position, but I only ever did it first thing in the morning with my boyfriend. It was my favourite way to start the day, and it always seemed like such a tender position; him behind me, arms around me, us lying on our sides in his big comfy bed. It wasn't like that with you. I didn't want you to touch me. You kept your hands off me mostly, which I guess was nice. You didn't pretend to be tender or caring. You just fucked me. You just raped me.
I know you remember the night differently than I do. You thought it was all a fun time, though you probably felt bummed when I said we needed to stop having sex so I could have a cigarette.
That was how I managed to make you stop. I said I needed to have a cigarette, and to pee. The only thing I could think to do was to try to appear unattractive. Fighting you off never entered my mind. You're twice my size anyway, so it's probably for the best that I didn't provoke you like that.
While I picked my clothes up off the floor (loose red dress pants and a comfortable, sparkly gray sweater, for the record - not what I would consider "asking for it"), you left the room. Then you came back and passed me the cigarettes I had in my coat.
You didn't ask me if you could search through my coat pockets and touch all of my things in there, looking for the cigarettes. I felt violated, that you would just go through my belongings like that. That feeling of betrayal somehow woke me up to what had really just happened. It wasn't just my possessions that had been violated, invaded, touched without permission. It was my body that been violated, invaded, touched without permission.
But I suppose, making sure you have permission isn't your style.
My boyfriend called me while I was outside, chain-smoking and waiting for a taxi. I told him what had happened, and he told me to tell you I was going home, so that you wouldn't get in the cab with me. When I was away from you, and I felt safe, I texted you: "You know this won't happen again." Won't. Will not. You said, "well it might, but if it doesn't that's OK." Might. As in, could. But I said will not and that means no, no I don't want to do this again, you can't say might, you don't get to choose for me. It's supposed to be my choice.
This wasn't my choice.
I wanted to know why you did this. I texted you again. I asked what your intention was with the wine, why would you serve wine to another man's girlfriend? You told me your intention was to discuss the play, but that if anything else were to happen you were going to go with it. You said you usually drink wine with dinner. Then I was confused though. What did YOU "go with"? What did I start? I said that. I told you you initiated it, but then you told me you didn't do anything I didn't invite. Now I was more confused than ever. How did I invite it? You said, "We had a wonderful evening. I enjoyed your company with your stories and your laughter. Let's not ruin that."
I thought the night was ruined for me long before we started texting. I asked again. How did I invite it? You said "invite" wasn't the right word. But invite was the word you used first! I felt so confused and indignant. I was getting mad at you. Finally, I said "tonight was unacceptable" and I stopped texting you.
I'm still upset, and confused. My best friend and my boyfriend keep telling me it's not my fault. Just because I didn't say "no" to you doesn't mean what you did was OK. The law backs them up on that. I couldn't legally consent because I was drunk, and a verbalized "no" isn't the only way to say no. The fact that I leaned away from you, rejected your first kiss, and kept my phone in my hand while we had sex were all non-verbal signs of, at a minimum, disinterest and, in truth, discomfort.
You raped me.
Sincerely,
Your victim.
