That Morning on The Bathroom Floor

I’ll be the first to admit it — I was a real slut in high school. Heck, I was a slut after high school and continue to be a slut to this day. I’m damn proud of it too. I can give a blowjob that’ll have you gushing in mere minutes. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. Or rather, write about.

No one could miss the current movement of empowered women and men speaking out against our society's enabling and stifling of sexually charged crimes. Not unless you live on the dark side of the moon or chalk it up to Trump’s abhorred “fake news.” But we’re not here to discuss him either. Although his presence is certainly not helping matters any.

No, I sat down to write my story out for you guys because I know it’s your story too. I know that you have felt the very same feelings as me and I know that maybe you put the blame on yourself and let your perpetrator get away with it. I know I did. I’ll tell you how.

It was my eleventh year of high school and at that point I was already considered the girl you’d want to be with at the end of the party. Up until then I suppose I’d sort of been regarded as the "good girl" or the "nerd" so guys felt somewhat as if they were corrupting me. We only have to look at the abundance of Catholic schoolgirl porn to realize what a turn on that is. And let me tell ya, I certainly used it to my advantage. I fuckin’ loved it — a different guy every night. No string attached sex thrown in with a plethora of different drugs and loads of alcohol. As maybe degenerating as that time may have been for me I still look back on it fondly… Up until the sexual assault that is.

Just like most every high school girl, I had my few exclusive friends who I did most everything with. I still remember that wretched day. We had made a special trip to go into the city and get some new clothes for a party that we were attending that night. We had all been looking forward to it as we live in a small town and this particular party had been advertised to all the other towns around us so it was sure to be a great turn out. I was especially looking forward to having some fresh meat to show off the new panties I’d bought myself that day. Maybe for that reason I thought it might be nice to break from my traditional straight JD and choose instead some Fireball Whiskey — big change I know. I still get nauseous from the scent of it even to this day.

We showed up at the party when it was already in full swing. Walking to the backyard I encountered many faces I did know but plenty I didn’t either; I was real revved up. In the year since I was that quiet studio's little girl, I had acquired a real knack for mingling and isolating my chosen consort for that night. Not that they ever really made it all that difficult. I was probably halfway through my mickey when I decided it was time to head in to the bathroom before I seriously started pursuing my chosen mate. It was inside that I ran into Him — quite literally too. I was just stumbling around the corner from the bathroom when suddenly I was face to face with the only boy –—I will never classify that depraved individual as a man, not ever — I ever truly detested at my school. And this loathing started way before the assault too. He was obnoxious, narcissistic, racist and a misogynist. But I still retained a semblance of my good girl nature so he didn’t know any of this. It also somehow landed me in the situation of taking a shot with him. And that’s the last thing I remember.

The next thing I know I’m waking up, absolutely overwhelmed with confusion and nausea. My instincts took over and I bolted to the bathroom before my mind could catch up and realize that somehow I was back at my friend’s house. And in clothes that were definitely not mine. Upon hearing me retching, my friends came in and sitting there on the floor of her bathroom they proceeded to tell me about the worst night of my life. A night that is still a pit of blackness for me… I’m not sure if that makes the whole thing better or worse, it just depends on the day I guess.

Sometime after I’d taken that final shot of my whiskey that night that cops showed up at the house and ordered everyone to starting heading home. This is when my friends realized that they couldn’t find me. After questioning all of my frequent playmates with no luck, they headed inside and that’s when they saw the only closed door in the place. After busting it down they found me naked and unconscious on the bed with Him moving on top of me, inside of me. They told me later that if they hadn’t been so exceedingly worried about me they would have beaten the living shit out of him. But as it was they couldn’t quite tell if I was breathing and multitudes of people were already starting to swarm so they focused all their energy and attention upon me. Bundled me up, took me home and gave me a bath. And that was that. We never talked about it again after that morning on the bathroom floor.

It would be so easy for me to blame them. I mean the cops were literally at the door, it would have been so easy to do something. And yet I recognize that I never did anything either. Not the day of the bathroom floor, not the day after or even the first day I had to see Him again. In all honesty I just thought it was the hazards of the game. I figured that if I wanted to drink like a fish and fuck around with any guy I stumbled upon, something like that was bound to happen. I actually felt blessed that it hadn’t happened earlier or more violently. And so I let him get away with it. I put the blame on me. Told myself it was my fault; that I couldn’t ever lose control like that again. And I haven’t.

It’s been five years since then and only now am I beginning to come to terms with how severely I let myself down. But more than that, how society let me down. For it is society that led me to regard such an occurrence as my fault, led my friends to hiding it from the police, that led Him to think it was okay to do that to me. It fucking sucks and it always will.

I know that my story isn’t the only one like this, goodness knows I’ve heard countless others this past year. And even though it breaks my heart each and every time to hear another one. I’m so damn proud of us. Finally, FINALLY we are making our voices heard. Finally we are screaming that this is enough. We won’t take it anymore. We’re holding our perpetrators accountable and we are holding society accountable. I have no illusions that change will happen over night, but I feel certain that we are finally on the right path. Maybe the next generation of women won’t have to carry a rape whistle with her everywhere she goes, and maybe the next generation of men won’t have to fight for the recognition that they can, in fact, be raped too. Change was too late to save me, but maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to save the next generation.