I hesitated to write this post because of the terrible memories that it brought surging forth and the ridicule it will no doubt generate. Whenever a man says he was raped, everyone always tells him that he was “asking for it” or that he made a bad decision: pure victim blaming. Well, I’m standing tall to say FUCK YOU to the assholes because I will not be silenced. No victim is ever at fault for rape and anyone who says otherwise is a MISANDRIC SHITHEAD.

Trigger Warning: Rape, alcoholism, suicide, OCD.

Like too many men I know, I was wounded in my dorm room. I remember the Little Dipper. It twinkled over Lake Champlain as my manhood was savagely torn away. Staring at the North Star out of the corner of my eye, I wondered if God was mocking me.

It all started that Saturday evening. I went out drinking with my girlfriend Molly. She was a five foot two redhead, perky and energetic with an insatiable libido. After a rousing game of beer pong, we were both drunk and I was tired. Stumbling up towards my dorm (my roommate was in Boston that weekend, so we had the place to ourselves), she kept rubbing herself all over me, like a cat expecting to be petted.

I told her clearly that I was exhausted and that she could go down on me, but no more.

When we got back to my place, we made out for a little bit before I fell upon my bed and she got to work. As Molly took me into her mouth, the combined effects of inebriation and fatigue hit me like a sack of bricks, and I passed out.

That night I dreamt of meat. Meat flapping in the wind, slapping together making squishy thrusting noises. Suddenly, I was aware of something heavy on top of my pelvis. As I slowly came to, I saw a naked Molly hopping up and down on my penis like it was a pogo stick. Shakespeare’s line about drink “tak[ing] away the performance” doesn’t apply to me; my dick was engorged to the size of a hot dog, the tip ramming against her cervix with machine-like timing.

“No, mmmmmm…” I struggled.

Molly just moaned, throwing her head back in ecstasy. The shades were up and the night sky was as clear as the pussy juice running down my battered cock.

“MMMMMMMMM!” I grunted, still too fatigued to form proper sentences.

This snapped Molly out of her reverie. She leaned downward and shoved her tongue into my mouth, grinding my cock like she was trying to tear it off. Like I was possessed by the God of Rape, I slowly wrapped my arms around her like I’d done a million times before. My forced violation turned tender as her moans intensified. I felt my lifeforce being sucked out of me.

“MmmmmmmmAAAAAAAAH!” she screamed as I blacked out.

I awoke in the morning to the smell of cheap coffee. Molly nudged me awake, as she was wont to do. The events of last night were hazy. She had lacrosse practice later, so I pulled my pants back on and kissed her goodbye. As my mind slowly creaked into full operating capacity, it suddenly hit me.

I had been raped.

Someone who I trusted, whom I loved, took advantage of me in a moment of weakness. I had explicitly told Molly that I didn’t want to have sex, but she went and violated me anyway. She didn’t care about my feelings, what I wanted. She used me, treated me like a piece of meat.

I felt sick and filthy. I stumbled into the suite shower and turned up the hot water, furiously scrubbing my dick, my balls, my ass like I was trying to slough my skin off. I spent what seemed like hours just lying on the disgusting tile floor of that shower, staring into space. I thought about the North Star, twinkling at me from the heavens.

After I finally rolled out, dried myself off and got dressed, I thought about telling someone. But no, no one would take me seriously. My suitemates were already annoyed by Molly’s screaming when we had sex; no way they would believe me when I said I was raped. Besides, out of my seven suitemates, I was only one of two who was getting laid to begin with.

“Shut the fuck up Matt, we’d kill to have your ‘problems.'”

And I couldn’t say anything to Molly. She had forced herself on me without my consent, and even made me coffee when I woke up that morning. She had never done anything like this to me before. Maybe she didn’t realize that she was raping me. Maybe I was just afflicted with Stockholm syndrome. I didn’t know.

I crawled into bed and pulled the sheets over my head. I didn’t want to talk to any of my friends or leave my room. I wanted to commit suicide. I thought of walking down to Lowe’s, buying some rope for a noose and hanging myself. I couldn’t live with the shame of being raped and the idea that no one would support me. Day faded into night and I dozed off.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I came to again, in my filthy, cum-encrusted bedsheets. I had class in half-an-hour, so I haphazardly sprayed on deodorant and put on some fresh clothes. I must have looked like hell; disheveled hair, unshaved and poleaxed. I didn’t care.

That was six years ago.

For six years, I’ve carried this scar on my soul. For six years, I’ve woken up at least once a week screaming and crying. For six years, I’ve been unable to fully trust my sexual partners out of fear that they will abuse that trust. For six years, looking at the Little Dipper would send me into a hysterical screaming fit, which is why I don’t leave the house at night unless it’s overcast.

But I’m not staying quiet anymore.

I’m breaking my silence because by not talking about my rape, I’m letting rape culture win. I’m letting myself become another statistic. It’s my hope that my story will encourage other victims to speak up and start a dialogue about rape in America. I also hope that these victims realize that it isn’t your fault that you got raped. No one is responsible for rape but the rapist herself, and the rape culture that taught her that getting consent isn’t a big deal.

Thank you.

Read Next: To the Fat Hipster Girl Who Felt Me Up at the Holocene the Other Night

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