Updated: November 1, 2017
Originally Published: August 22, 2014
Every now and then, I find myself grumbling—loudly and to myself—about the oddities that parade through my Facebook feed. Seriously, can we all agree to stop with the political squabbling? And let’s cut back on the endless selfies, shall we? And what is it with every woman striking that pose with one hand on her hip, elbow out like she’s about to launch into a rendition of “I’m a Little Teapot”?
But the real kicker? When someone shares snapshots from a party they attended, and I find myself thinking, “Well, there’s the guy who assaulted me in high school.” Yep, that definitely overshadows the political chatter.
This incident took place a long time ago—decades, in fact (I’m not as young as I’d like to believe). Specifically, thirty years ago. To set the scene: my friend’s parents had left for a week, and she decided to host a keg party. Her gatherings were legendary—think sweaty chaos. There was always an abundance of alcohol and enough marijuana to fill a small greenhouse. Ah, the 80s.
And, of course, there was sex. Couples making out in dim corners, drunken hookups sneaking off to dark basements, and flirty exchanges buzzing around the room.
I was a virgin. And I was tipsy. I couldn’t quite recall if I was in tenth or eleventh grade, but honestly, that’s irrelevant now. Back then, I was already feeling the weight of my family’s tumultuous divorce and living with an abusive stepparent. Yet, I had managed to hold onto my virginity—something not too common for girls like me, who often found themselves lost in the party scene, searching for love in all the wrong places.
Sure, I partied. I partied hard and I partied often. I’d kissed my fair share of boys, engaged in that awkward teenage exploration, but I was building walls—emotional armor that has stuck with me through the years. My motto? “If you don’t let anyone in, they can’t hurt you.” Sadly, that still rings true.
Back to the party. I remember feeling unwell and seeking out my friend, the generous hostess. I told her I needed somewhere to rest, and she guided me down a short hallway to her parents’ bedroom. “You can stay in here as long as you want!” she said cheerfully before rejoining the festivities.
The moonlight filtered through the curtains, and I sank into a cheap nylon comforter, the kind that snags on hangnails. I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the kegger. Eventually, I drifted into that hazy state between consciousness and sleep, only to find myself on the floor, wedged in the tight space between the bed and the wall.
That’s when they came in—two guys I vaguely knew but wouldn’t call friends. They were older, known for their rowdy antics. I thought, at first, they must have stumbled into the wrong room. But then they shut the door.
I could hear them whispering, and suddenly, my instincts kicked in. I was no longer inebriated; I was terrified. One of them came close, blocking my way out. “Here she is!” he whispered.
The other guy joined him, and I realized with a sinking feeling who they were—two boys notorious for their mischief. They might have said something to me, but I can’t recall; my memories from that moment are fragmented, like a film stuck on repeat.
Then I saw him—the smiling face from my laptop screen, now aged and paunchy. My rapist. I couldn’t help but wonder if he remembered that night. Did he recall my panic as I struggled to rise from the floor? How about the shock on my face when his friend grabbed me and threw me onto the bed? Did he remember my pleas—“NO!” “STOP!” “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”
I do. I remember every detail—the shiny, unfamiliar sight of his erect penis, the way it contrasted starkly with the rest of my young life. I was surprised by its sheen; I had imagined them to be dull and leathery.
He attempted to force me into an act I had never experienced before, while the other guy efficiently helped to remove my jeans. The sounds of the party outside mingled with my confusion and fear.
I was left alone, pants-less, sitting on the bed, grappling with what had just happened. I don’t recall if I ever went back to the party that night.
I mentioned the incident to a friend later on. “Those guys are such jerks!” she said, reassuring me that, technically, I was still a virgin. We never spoke of it again.
Weeks later, I turned a corner at school and there he was—the dark one, with that same leering smile. A wave of shame washed over me, burning hot. I had convinced myself that what happened was my fault. I was drunk; I was alone; I didn’t fight hard enough. Perhaps they thought they liked me? My teenage mind had buried this trauma deep, tucking it away like a forgotten holiday decoration.
I’m sharing this now, though I’m unsure if I’ll actually publish it. I’m not here to ruin anyone’s life with an old allegation, nor do I think the man in the photo even remembers who I am. Maybe I was just one of many, or perhaps this was a one-time event for them. But I have a daughter and sons now, and the thought of this happening to my girl is unbearable. I cannot fathom my boys being capable of such an act.
But we know it happens. It has happened in the past, it continues today, and sadly, it will happen again in the future. How many of us carry around similar haunting memories? How many have felt the weight of a cheap comforter or the coldness of the floor beneath them while unspeakable acts were committed?
Too many. Too many women and girls have their own versions of this nightmare. Surely, I can’t be the only one who has scrolled through Facebook and thought, “Oh look, there’s the guy who assaulted me.” Can I?