[CONTENT WARNING: This post contains graphic sexual descriptions that may be triggering to survivors of sexual assault.]

Following several months of disappointing Tinder dates, it felt good to be excited about someone. A few days earlier, Mark (name changed) and I had a serendipitous encounter on the dance floor. We locked eyes, and in a scene that felt straight out of Before Sunrise, we became inseparable for the next 12 hours. Our conversation meandered from philosophy to politics to religion. His room was filled with some of my favorite books. He pulled out art he had purchased from a recent trip to Peru. I was smitten.

While it was somewhat exhilarating to skip the small talk and dive straight into the deep end, this evening on our second date, I craved small talk — details about his day-to-day life, his work, his family. As soon as the conversation slowed down, he leaned in to kiss me, scooping me up.

I enjoyed the heavy weight of his body atop mine. It had been a long time since I was last held. I let him unbutton my top and I unbuttoned his. Then he slid his hand under my skirt’s waistband and inside me. I wriggled away at first but then relaxed into it. Before I even had time to think, he grabbed his erection and made motions to enter me, but suddenly frustrated by the confinements of his clothing, he stood up. His belt clanged against the floor, startling me awake. Standing there in front of me fully naked, his erection pointed directly at me like an arrow drawn against the bow of his body. I rolled away and started to cry.

I had told Mark multiple times that I wanted to go slow. The first time we met, I had told him that I was sexually assaulted. That I didn’t want to have sex and that I hadn’t slept with anyone new since the incident. That I was worried about suddenly freezing up and making things weird. Both this time and the last time we made out, I had purposefully never made any motion to touch Mark below the belt or to remove his pants. And now, I didn’t understand what had just happened and obviously, neither did he.

I apologized profusely. I didn’t want to be one of “those women” — overly sensitive and emotional, projecting a mixture of fear, shame, anxiety, and anger of past trauma onto him. I liked him after all, and I liked sex. We had had a fun evening up until this point.

Mark held me as I cried softly for a couple minutes, but he didn’t say anything. Suddenly conscious of our mismatched levels of nudity, he put his clothes back on and then announced that he had an early start to the morning and would have to leave in 10 minutes. I was deeply embarrassed, angry at myself and at the men in my life who had made me unable to enjoy something that I had, at one point, enjoyed so much.

I missed being touched. I just wanted to feel safe in another man’s arms again. And now I was pushing away someone I actually liked. Did I make Mark feel bad? Did he feel like I had somehow insulted him or his body? Would he ever reach out to me again? What would he say to his friends about my reaction? I forced back the tears and tried to resume some chitchat and then kissed him again. I really did want to make out after all; I had been looking forward to that all evening. Mark asked me if I wanted to have sex. “Maybe,” I replied.

And “maybe” was the truth. I didn’t feel ready to have sex, but as uncertain as I felt about having sex with Mark, I felt more ashamed about making him feel bad about wanting to have sex with me, for freezing up and making things awkward. I told myself to toughen up and stop being so sensitive, so later when he reached into his backpack and started to fumble for a condom, I obediently handed him a nearby one.

He commented throughout on how amazing the sex felt for him and how beautiful my body was. I said nothing. Moving me from position to position, he didn’t really seem to notice that I wasn’t there, wasn’t fully present. I kept watching him wondering how he could get so much pleasure out of something that I wasn’t particularly enjoying. Could he even tell? I tried to get myself into the sex — it was happening after all, but it just seemed to drag on and on. I kept wishing that he would just finish faster so it could all be over with.

Mark came and collapsed next to me. I was relieved when he announced he had to leave. I definitely did not want to share a bed with him, never mind ever see or touch him again. As he was getting dressed, he reiterated how amazing the sex was. I forced a smile and escorted him out the door. I felt dirty and ashamed. I suddenly understood the desire to shower after sex, to wash everything away. Was this what it would be like with every man from now on?

I walked into the shower, sat down on the floor, and turned on the faucet. I hugged my knees and began to sob, letting my thoughts pummel my insides in the same way that the stream of water pummeled my outsides.

Is this what many women feel like after sex? What is wrong with me? Why am I making such a big deal of this? Why didn’t I better advocate for myself? Why wasn’t I more on guard? How did I let my embarrassment and self-consciousness translate into consent? Why was I so afraid of making Mark feel like he had made me uncomfortable? Should I not have invited him up to my place? Did I let him use me? Was he ever interested in anything more than sleeping with me? Why do I feel the need to please men? Why did I trust Mark? Why do I confuse intellect with conscientiousness? Should I have not let him finger me? Did that give him the wrong idea? Did I not make it clear that sex was something I was newly struggling with? Why did I apologize? Can I still call myself a feminist? How did I get here? Am I making a big deal out of nothing? Am I the problem? Am I too sensitive? Why didn’t I say anything to him?

I let these questions pummel me over and over again until, like the stream of hot water on my back, they started to sting less.