The card that came with the flowers read, “Let’s go out for dinner.”
After a heart-wrenching breakup, I had spent months trying to piece my heart back together. On a whim, my friends dragged me to a local bar. “You need to get back out there,” they insisted. So there I was, nursing a beer at the bar, when he flashed me a charming smile.
His smile was nice.
He sauntered over, armed with the usual pickup lines, while my friends giggled in the background, giving me encouraging thumbs up. He was persistent, and I should have listened to my instincts. But his grin and the wad of cash he flashed were hard to resist. He treated my friends to drinks all night, and his gaze never wavered from me. At the end of the evening, with my friends cheering me on, I gave him my number. As we left, my friends embraced me, thrilled I’d met someone new.
The next day, two dozen roses filled my dorm room with their sweet scent. I was flattered and perplexed—how had he found my address? But I brushed aside my doubts. My heart deserved happiness again, after all. “Let’s go to dinner” sounded harmless enough. Baby steps, right?
I should have been more cautious.
Over the following weeks, he showered me with gifts and planned every detail of our outings. Each date was more elaborate than the last, with spontaneous dinners at private restaurants and sparkling gems that made my friends swoon. My roommates would cheer when huge flower arrangements arrived at our door. “He’s the one!” they exclaimed, and I found myself smiling, wondering if they were right.
I slowly let my guard down. I started to envision him as my Prince Charming. But as he kissed me, always more passionately than I was comfortable with, I pushed aside my growing unease. Inexperienced and shy, I expressed my desire to take things slow. “I won’t wait forever,” he retorted.
And he didn’t.
It happened at his apartment. He invited me over for dinner, insisting, “Just us.” I arrived to find the mood set with candles, flowers, and soft music. Before I had a chance to settle in, he enveloped me in his arms and kissed me deeply. I resisted, but my hesitation only seemed to spur him on. He led me to his bedroom, where he laid me on his bed and overwhelmed me with kisses. “It’s time,” he said. “We’ve been together for a month.”
I was 19 and still a virgin.
I wasn’t ready.
I said NO.
But he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Come on, baby. It’s me. Let’s do this.”
NO.
“Do you know what I’ve spent on you?”
NO.
And then it happened.
In one swift motion, my pants were undone, and he forced his fingers inside me. I cried out and begged him to stop. My cries only fueled his anger as he gripped me tightly. “You tease,” he spat. “You’re mine.”
“If you don’t be quiet, I’ll make it worse,” he threatened.
I sobbed as he invaded my body, his breath hot against my neck. When he was done, he shoved me away and told me to leave. From start to finish, I had been there 20 minutes. It was my own horrifying encounter with someone who thought he could take what he wanted.
As I stumbled to my car, every step reminded me of the violation I had just endured. Tears streamed down my face as I drove home, consumed by shame. I tiptoed into my dorm, careful not to wake my roommates, fearing I might have to explain how my perfect Prince Charming had assaulted me.
Under the hot water in the shower, I cried, promising myself to never speak of my trauma again. The shame washed over me like a tide, and I relived the nightmare for months—years. I had gone to his apartment. I should have known better.
Now, I do know.
I know what it feels like to be violated in a darkened room, unable to fight back. I know how it feels to have someone invade your body with no regard for your autonomy. I know how it feels to have flashbacks of that violation, even when I’m with someone who loves and respects me. I know what it’s like to hide my pain from the one who has stood by me for nearly two decades.
I know how it feels to hear other women share their stories of assault and want to shout, “Me too.”
I know how it feels to be grabbed in a way that’s anything but consensual. It’s not the fantasy some might imagine—it’s a painful, secret shame I carry every day. It’s not “just words,” and it’s certainly not “locker room talk.” It’s sexual assault. It’s rape.
I couldn’t fight back in that darkened room 21 years ago, but recent stories in the media have inspired me to speak out. I refuse to remain silent any longer, especially for the women still too ashamed to admit they’ve been victimized. I won’t sit idly by as a culture of rape continues to thrive, allowing men to think they have the right to grab women whenever they please.
I refuse to let my daughter grow up in a world where such behavior is deemed acceptable. I will fight this battle because I never want her to look me in the eye and say, “Me too, Mom.”
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Summary:
This piece recounts a deeply personal story of trauma, highlighting the struggles of a young woman who experienced sexual assault under the guise of romance. It sheds light on the complex emotions surrounding such experiences, emphasizing the importance of speaking out against the culture of silence and shame. The narrative advocates for awareness and change to prevent future generations from facing similar violations.