The Inciting Incident

There’s still time to stop reading this if you don’t want to hear a story about another college student being raped at a frat party.

I started to write that this was the worst thing I’d ever been through, but that unfortunately isn’t even close to true. It feels more like an inciting incident. The careless elbow that knocked the car into neutral on a hill, starting it rolling down, down, gaining momentum every second.

Any negative sexual encounter can, of course, be traumatic and have long-lasting effects, but a traumatic first experience can set the tone for what a person believes relationships and sex are supposed to look like. This is especially true in a society where children aren’t properly educated on sex, consent, and healthy relationships.

My only prior experience with the opposite sex had been with one of my best friends, S. I was head over heels for years, but he didn’t reciprocate. While our hookups were steamy by my naive standards, they were also beautifully innocent. I wasn’t ready to have sex, especially not with someone with whom I wasn’t in a relationship. He knew this and never pressured me. We’d spend all night kissing and holding each other, but that was as far as it went.

Near the end of high school, S started dating a girl from another school. By the time he and I began attending the same college, we’d had a pretty solid run of being “just friends”. The feelings were still there for me, but I was doing my best to be happy for him while taking the opportunity to meet new people.

Formal

It was the formal party for S’s fraternity (or whatever they’d decided to call it. Something sexist, probably). His girlfriend couldn’t make it, so he asked if I wanted to go with him. I deflated a bit when I found out he’d also invited two of our other friends, Andrea (also my roommate) and Lauren.

All as friends, of course. Of course.

Despite my pining, we were all having a really fun time. Three dates meant we all got to play beer pong at the same time, and we were all joking and talking smack over free mixed drinks.

I went to the bar for another round, where I got talking to C, a handsome senior with a sob story about his date standing him up. He perked up at the mention of S’s multiple dates and us being there as friends.

C asked if he could be my teammate for the next game of beer pong, which we won. I remember him wanting to “cheers” after each cup we made. I was relishing the attention of a cute older boy while secretly wondering if it was making S jealous. This was college, BABY!

At one point, C brought me a strong whiskey Coke, then goaded me into chugging it. Enjoying the attention, I obliged. He made us both another, then asked if I wanted to watch a show in his room upstairs.

Knowing what I know now, it’s ironic that he picked Louis CK’s standup.

The Futon

His room was pretty typical of what you’d imagine of a fraternity house: lofted bunk beds, cheap wooden dressers, empty alcohol bottles as decor, big TV. C and I sat on his futon (of course), and soon we were kissing.

I’d never kissed someone I’d just met, but at first, it was nice. After a few minutes, he started trying to take my dress off, but I didn’t want to. He quickly relented in a disarming way that made me feel like I could trust him.

He asked me to take off the spandex shorts I had under my dress instead. I stumbled as I stood to do so, realizing at that moment I was too drunk. I was also highly embarrassed because he compared my shorts to the restrictive shapewear his running coach made him wear.

I don't know why that negging stands out to me so much. At that point, I still wasn't comfortable with my recently-developed curves. Pointing out my attempts to smooth them made me feel even more vulnerable and inexperienced.

His eyes watching me from the futon made me feel on display in a way that made me itch.

He became more aggressive as he lay me down on the futon. He put his full weight on me, kissing too deeply with too much tongue. I felt like I was drowning, but trying to push his tongue out of my mouth with my own was being treated as a challenge.

Uninvited

I was a virgin, and the idea that he’d want to have sex minutes after meeting didn’t really enter my mind. I’d made out and messed around, but there had always been a line that needed permission to be crossed.

Any kind of permission.

A word.

A pause.

A nod.

Down.

Down.

He was still kissing too hard while fumbling to (I thought) play with me with one hand. I couldn't see what he was doing, but it didn't really feel like anything at first. Then suddenly I saw stars as he shoved painfully inside of me without warning.

When had he taken his pants off? I’m sure to him my protests came out like moans as he continued to force-feed me his tongue. When he finally broke away after a few painful thrusts it was to ask if I’d “ever done anal”.

I whispered that I’d never done anything, failing to blink away tears caused by shame and pain. Why was I so embarrassed?

What had even just happened?

Was that sex?

When he registered what I meant he was suddenly angry, but he didn’t look panicked or sorry. He looked... calm. Like he was nervous I’d scream, but had already decided how he’d react if I did.

He sat back to free my limbs and I stood quickly, pulling my dress back down over my hips.

Frat House Toilet Paper

There was blood on the futon. It ran down my legs and onto the floor. I wanted to disappear.

So naturally, it was at that moment that S knocked on the door.

C told me to get cleaned up and threw me my shorts, but opened the door a second too soon. S’s eyes were on me, but I was too ashamed to meet them as I rushed into the bathroom to clean the blood off.

I still don't know what he saw.

The giant, 1-ply (I’d guess 1/2-ply if that was a thing) toilet paper roll didn’t fit on the holder and had clearly been stolen from campus. Trying to wet it with water from the sink only created a hopelessly soggy, dissolving mess, so I got a corner of my white shorts wet to clean up the blood. I then had to put them back on, ruined, in the hopes they'd keep the blood from leaking down my legs until I could get back to my dorm.

I overheard S through the door telling C that one of our friends had too much to drink and that they were going back to our dorm. I texted him that I’d meet them out in the parking lot, hoping the darkness would hide my disheveled appearance. When I reentered the bedroom it was empty, so I gathered my things and rushed out.

Elastic

I put my friend’s hair up using my ponytail as we got into the sober driver’s car. I was thankful for any task that didn’t require meeting S’s eyes, which were worried, boring into me from the rearview mirror. I’d always found it easier to stay calm when I could focus on someone else who needed help.

I lay in bed the whole next day, and the one after that. I pretended I was hungover or sick. I was still bleeding heavily and had horrible stomach cramps.

S texted to check in on me, worried. I reassured him that I was fine. Wasn't I, after all? I'd gotten drunk and gone to a guy's room alone, what did I think would happen?

I was too embarrassed and uncertain of what happened to even put it into words. It would be years before I could look at that night and call it what it was.

I saw C at a party a few weeks later with a group of his frat brothers. Tongue thick and slurring from booze, he said he had a great time with me and gave me a kiss before disappearing into the crowd. His friends laughed and cheered in approval.

Then we never spoke of it again.

Because we never spoke again.

And I never spoke of it again.

Not to anyone who believed me, anyway.

The Catalyst

How can we break the cycle if we don’t know we’re stuck in it?

Research suggests that abuse survivors are at risk for future re-victimization. Since this incident, I've survived two long-term abusive relationships featuring abuses of all categories. Each abuser has been more violent and extreme in nature than the last. Why does this happen so often to survivors?

One common explanation is that previous experiences and knowledge can affect one’s ability to recognize and avoid abusive behaviors. Additionally, survivors may have a distorted sense of what constitutes a healthy relationship. There may be other underlying factors such as unresolved trauma that make a person more vulnerable to being victimized further.

This cycle of revictimization is not inevitable, however. Seeking support from a therapist or counselor, joining a support group, and learning about healthy relationships and boundaries are all ways to empower oneself and increase the likelihood of forming healthy relationships in the future. I truly believe teaching the next generation these tools can help potential victims of sexual assault and domestic abuse.

I may not have been able to speak out for myself, but I can do it for them.

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