It was a Friday night. I was flitting around a good friend of mine’s pregame, having tipsy conversations with the other guests (and the house dog) as I sipped on my favorite mixed drink.
I liked my outfit, my hair, and my makeup, and I was spending time with some of my favorite people. Once we made a mass exodus onto the North Philly streets en route to the actual party, I had already snapped my usual hook-up three times.
I’m the type of person that always has more fun at the pregame (admit it, you are too). They’re more intimate, you know the people you’re drinking with, the music is better because you probably have the aux, there’s always toilet paper, there’s less competition in flip cup, and you can likely act a fool without *too* many people judging you. So, I typically expel most of my energy there (I am an introvert by nature, after all) and dip from the actual party within 20 minutes of arrival.
This Friday night was no exception. I walked into the party, was immediately overwhelmed by a sea of drunken students and overcome by a thick fog of potent marijuana smoke. I made a beeline for the bathroom (I have a sixth-sense for somehow knowing where the bathroom is in any given North Philadelphia home) and decided it was time to bail.
At this point, both the boy I was snapping and myself had established that I looked hot and should go to his house. I texted my friends who had already been sucked into the mass of partygoers that I was leaving, and shoved my way out the front door.
To say I had no idea where I was is an understatement. I walked around for 10 minutes or so, until I realized that I was getting closer to the city and farther away from my destination. (You see, readers, when I’m drunk I like to tell myself that 1) I’m not drunk, and 2) I have an excellent skill set for navigation. Neither of which are true.) So, to my chagrin, I fumbled around in my pocket and fished out my phone, queuing up the boy’s address on Maps.
I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you about this boy. We shared one class together during freshman year but didn’t actually speak until the night of my 21st birthday. I threw a birthday party and then my friend convinced me to leave my own party and go to another across the street, which happened to be at his house. Him and I made small talk, and he ended up texting my friend about me later that night. From then on, we started talking and hung out a few more times, either studying at the Tech or ending up together after nights of partying.
He is, by definition, the standard f*ckboy. He didn’t ever inquire about my life, interests, passions, or hobbies. We hardly texted –– our main mode of communication was through Snapchat. (We still have a streak, if you were wondering.) I had never found myself in this kind of situation before, and I actually enjoyed it. Having someone to spend time with casually with no strings attached was what I needed after the slew of relationships I’d ruined over the past few years.
I guess now is also a good time to tell you that I’m a virgin. I don’t have sex. Weird, right? Maybe. It’s mostly because of my faith, but also for health and safety reasons. So, when I say “hook-up”, just remember that.
Okay, back to the story.
I ended up at his house after 30 minutes of running around North Philadelphia, and we made our way into the living room, where his roommates and a few others were hanging out.
We all chatted for a while, making jokes and smalltalk, until he gave me “the look” and I knew that we were heading upstairs.
Now I should tell you, dear readers, that I was certainly not sober, but also not blackout drunk at this point in the evening. I knew precisely what I was getting myself into.
We share a similar taste in music, so we spent some time listening to our favorite artists and gushing about a concert we’d both be attending (but not together) in a few weeks. And then he kissed me. I had been waiting for it, because, well, why else would I go to his house on a Friday night at 11:30? We have a good amount of physical chemistry, and probably emotional too, but we never get deep enough with each other to figure that out. It’s probably for the best.
Things continued to escalate. We were already on his bed, because his couch is a glorified cinder block, making hooking up that much easier. He complimented me more than usual that night. “You’re way too hot for me,” he said, merely 30-seconds in, as he pulled me on top of him and began to push and pull my hips to dry hump him. It didn’t feel good, but I thought it was okay because I liked him. “C’mon, relax. You don’t seem like you’re enjoying this,” he said as he continued to assist me in dry humping (but, readers, I’ll have you know that I possess the skills to do it myself).
“You’re beautiful; you don’t give yourself enough credit,” he said as he pulled down my pants without asking.
“You’re amazing,” he said as he kissed down my stomach and onto my vagina without a word from me.
My breathing quickened. I clutched his hand. I was attracted to him, after all. It’s a good sign that he wants to pleasure me…right? I had been waiting for this…right?
He started attempting to unhook my bra. I wasn’t ready for it, but I didn’t say no. I actually helped him, despite my discomfort. He began to undress too, and soon we were both naked.
“I’m not going to have sex with you…I know what you believe,” he said as he rolled on top of me, penis pressing against my vagina.
I thought he was going to rape me.
“Stop. It really feels like you’re about to,” I uttered, finally saying something.
“I’m not in you though, so it’s fine,” he replied. He didn’t move.
But he wasn’t lying. So I kept kissing him, partially faking it, but partially enjoying it. I was attracted to him, after all.
After hooking up for a while longer, we got dressed and went to sleep. I woke up early and Ubered myself home. I was feeling good…until I wasn’t. I got in the shower and realized how sore I was. He was so rough with the most delicate part of me. But I kept reminding myself of the pleasure he gave me and of the physical chemistry we shared.
He made me come, for crying out loud. Everything was fine…right?
No.
Because not once did this boy ask if what he was doing was okay. And by not asking, I felt uncomfortable saying “no.” Maybe I should have been bolder, but then again, maybe I shouldn’t have to worry about that in the first place. I shouldn’t fear being raped, especially by someone who knows my views on sex. I shouldn’t have to figure out when to say “stop,” because everything that happens with a partner that doesn’t explicitly know your limits should be inquired about before it occurs.
So yes, this happened with a boy that I’m attracted to. Yeah, he even made me come. And no, he didn’t ‘force’ me to do anything. But that doesn’t make it okay.
Time’s up, boys.