What I Learned from the Boy Who Accidentally Raped Me (WARNING: Some Explicit Content)

I was date-raped by my first boyfriend at 14. He'd do things like pin me down with his knees and force me to kiss it. The fucked up thing was the manner which he did it: it was in a way that wasn't malicious, but clumsy and whiny -- practically begging. He was such a sweet kid. Not a villainous type. So, at the time, this didn't register as a severe transgression even though none of me wanted any part of what was going on.

At that age I was still severely sheltered and naive; I didn't know what a penis even looked like let alone what to do with one. I'd say no, and that it was icky but hell, I was pinned and he seemed so miserable that I'd finally give in and give it a peck. Eventually, though, things escalated until despite my refusal, he pushed his needs onto me.

I still recall the terrible poetry of the moment... The End of Evangelion was playing in the background and Shinji Ikari was having one of his meltdowns as he beheaded his best friend (a traitor). Meanwhile, my eyes had just become focused and blurry on one of the dimmed recessed light fixtures. Everything was numb and distant. There was no physical pain. I just kept seeing images of white wedding dresses, symbols of my virgin purity, burning in the back of my mind. I’d see close ups of the disappointed look in my parents' eyes. I realized suddenly that the blur in my vision was partially due to some tears that had welled up. I could only turn to look at the boy I cared about, broken, and whimper "[Name omitted], I'm not innocent anymore."

I think I broke him then. He started crying. He kept going, though, blubbering and sobbing all the while. He promised he'd make it right, marry me so it was okay. We were Christian kids and whatnot.

What a fucked up scene, in retrospect.

As was expected, I was dumped soon afterward. I kept that secret for a month before confiding to my closest friends what happened. Before that, I’d coped by writing in my journal an alternate version of the events. It was a much more pleasant fiction, full of appropriate giggles and blushing. When I finally approached my friends with the reality of the circumstance, I was met with incredulity and suspicion. 
"Why didn't you resist? Why didn't you fight him?"

I was a tiny wimp of a dweeb, he was a shy nerd who played football. He was physically way stronger than me, but an emotional wreck. I couldn't break out of the pegs. There were also a myriad of psychological factors at play here.

But at the time I had no good answers; I was also busy beating myself up for what had happened. Why HADN'T I just hit him in the nuts and run? Because he wasn't attacking me. He was someone who was supposed to be safe, comfortable. He was supposed to be my love. I had tried to say no. I had resisted, refuted and refused. When that didn't work, my mind had retreated somewhere safe while the storm passed.

I couldn't articulate that back then. It's still strange to articulate it now.

There were always suspicions. These things are common for anyone who steps up and says they were raped -- male or female. Always questions raised. When I finally confessed what happened to my mother she told me she was disappointed in me, and I got to see that night’s vision realized in her eyes. My father just held me for a moment before taking a drive to the boy’s house to confront him.

He came back as defeated as I had been. The boy’s parents had brushed it off as something that happens between young kids. The boy himself was the pinnacle of earnest remorse and worry. There was never a doubt in my mind that he hadn’t understood the gravity of his actions. To him, this was probably alright. I had cried, I was sad, and that had made him uneasy and unwell. But ultimately, his intention certainly hadn’t been to shatter his young girlfriend’s life. How was he to know what exactly my virginity meant to me at the time? He was raised differently than I had been and that conversation was never brought up in depth. I believe Dad had understood his ignorance, so he did what he could, came back home and let me cry in his arms. More importantly, he looked at me with the same, sympathetic eyes he always did.

However, the attacks didn’t stop. Four years later, when I dated again and willfully became sexually active, this new partner (a boy prone to jealous fits) would ask me about that day insistently, usually right before we engaged in sex, only to become disgusted at me and walk away. This happened repeatedly. That does some damage to a soul, let me tell you.

I thought long about this situation throughout the years that followed. I had time to plot revenge. While initially I had harbored no resentment towards my rapist, people’s persecutions had colored over the realities with a perfect portrait of an antagonist. Because of that dumb bastard, I was being shunned. I continued to be sexually active, molding my sexuality into a source of power and pride. Now that there was no fear of hell, I felt immune. I was the master of my own body and people yielded to my desires and MY whims (willingly, mind you).

One evening, I encountered that boy again by chance. I remember the feeling of wicked glee that sank into me as his name appeared on my Instant Messenger screen. My mind quickly created a skewed plan of retribution. I would rewrite this story with me as the master of our circumstance. I would “hit it and quit it” and be rid of this vulnerable rut that lingered. However, when I hopped in the car, my first crush’s head was hung low. His weary eyes slowly raised at me, sidelong, and he asked me,
"Angie…Did I ruin your life?"

I had harbored such a violent resentment before then towards him. But at that moment I realized that he wasn't necessarily to blame, and neither was I. We were ignorant, never educated about sexuality and responsibility. We weren't made to understand the concepts of consent and patience. Techniques for dealing with hormones, or dealing with severe pressure in the presence of "someone you love's" contrary impulses were foreign concepts at the time. We were kids.

No, HE hadn't ruined my life: it was everyone who rejected me, judged me, and put me down for what happened that had torn in to me the most. They had made me bitter.

See, rape isn't always an easily-identified, ethically dichotomous case of victim and attacker. Sometimes the lines are blurred by circumstance. Was it rape? Yes. Was it intentional? I still don’t think so.

We are told that we are more likely to be raped by someone we know. And when we view the numbers, we see that rape is disturbingly more common than we'd like to recognize. From there, we are forced to ask why.

These dialogues need to happen. And though we can speculate about who was truly to blame in these situations, the bottom line is this: we should stop trying to find someone to blame and start looking at the base-line causes in our perspectives and approaches with one another. Moreover, perhaps we should examine ourselves for holes in our logic and reasoning when it comes to the things we do and what their consequences are for those near us.

Recently, I came to find that I technically raped a guy in college through a similar avenue of sheer pressure and insistence. I was doing a mandatory social exercise my college now requires that deals with topics like gender identity, responsible drinking, and rape. I was deeply upset by this; it hadn't been my intention at the time. To me, it was just a haughty attempt at conquest over someone who chose to view me with disdain. It was a competition for my pride’s sake. Though I understand these days how twisted of an approach that was, I hadn't identified what I'd done as rape until now, when the dialogue was initiated in my mind with myself. I had never really considered male rape in depth beforehand. I mean, I knew it was occurred but the particulars were unknown, glossed-over concepts I’d held. But I looked back at what I’d done and pin-pointed the signs of offence on my part. Because of this new information and my ability to apply it to myself without bias, I was able to reflect and see my transgression. 
Immediately, I attempted to find the guy via Facebook and apologize to try and right the wrong I'd done to him, like my first boyfriend eventually did for me. Now I was an accidental rapist, and I had to make it right.

I don't know how to end this. I guess what I'm trying to say is that there are many aspects to these rape stories that we as outside observers may never be able to fully understand. Some cases make it easier to see what went wrong. Others are vague and complex. We may offer advice and guidelines that sound correct, but there are always circumstances to consider. Things seem different when they’re so close and in the moment, when the sway of rationality is either absent or offers up a half-assed alibi for our use.

Ultimately, I believe the best thing we can do is to truly and objectively examine ourselves and what reasoning we use for our own actions and how they will impact others: How is this, in the moment, going to affect this person I'm engaging with and myself? At the heart of many of these preventative measures or mindsets that I see pitched from those discussing rape, I feel that this question stands. I'm sure if either party made it their mission to actively consider this thought, then we can live in a world where rape rates hopefully decrease, or the people that are affected by it can bring themselves to remedy the wrongs they’ve done.