Me Too
Or how it happened to me.
If you’ve been with ATF all along, or you’ve perused our delightful back catalog, you’ve probably read the stories of how Shelby and Sydney lost their virginities (and if you haven’t, I recommend you do). Kayla’s also been saying lately how she can’t wait to tell her virginity loss story in an ATF piece. Sadly, the story of how I lost my virginity is not really one I’m fond of sharing. But I realized that if I’m going to share it, I need to do so during our Me Too week.
Because it happened to me too.
It was December 14, 2011. I had recently turned 17, and I had even more recently been dumped by my first “real” boyfriend, Conner. Three months before, I had my very first kiss with Conner. Two weeks after that kiss, he told me he loved me, and I didn’t say anything back. A friend told me he used that tactic to get girls to sleep with him; I wanted to believe his feelings for me were purer than that. Two months later, my “birthday present” was him painfully (and poorly) fingering me on his living room couch. And then a few weeks later, he dumped me with little to no explanation. So ended my first “relationship”…officially.
After a short period of not really talking, we kind of started messaging again. I made it clear I still wanted to be together — not so much because I had legitimate feelings for him, but really because I had so badly wanted to have a boyfriend. Even though I wasn’t really comfortable pursuing a sexual relationship with him (or anyone else, for that matter), I was convincing myself that that might be the way to win him back. We made plans for me to go over to his house one Wednesday evening to drop off some of his things I still had and to “talk.” However, I think we both understood that more would happen. The problem was we had differing ideas on the specifics of what that “more” would look like.
And this is where the lines get blurred. It took me years to really come to grips with all this, but I feel more confident about it now. Of this I am certain: my intentions that night were to do no more than make out, remove some/most clothing, and maybe give him a hand job. I can clearly remember mentally determining those boundaries before I went over to his house. I did not want him to finger me again; it hurt the first time, and my period was also just starting this night. (Sorry if that’s TMI, but you can deal). Bottom line — I really did not want him touching my lady parts. That being said, I certainly did not want to have P in V intercourse. I had been clear with myself, with Conner, and with friends that that was something I planned to save for after high school. But some will say that since I went over there, since I was willing to engage in making out and taking off clothes, that I wanted it. Or that I was asking for it. Or even that I consented to it.
But I didn’t. I remember pushing his hands away from my vagina multiple times. I remember repositioning myself so he wouldn’t be able to touch me there, even though we were kissing. I’m not sure if I verbalized the word “no” — I may have? — but that shouldn’t really matter. I remember being on top of him, thinking I was in the clear, but then feeling him messing around down there. With the way I was holding myself up, I couldn’t readily reach back/down to stop him, and I was honestly mentally and emotionally exhausted by that point. I thought it was his finger in me at first (yes, that’s definitely a dig at his penis size, sorry not sorry), but then my eyes went wide with realization. It breaks my heart to think about, but my little teenage self just thought, “Oh, I guess it’s too late now.” It was gone. My virginity was gone.
I let him proceed with the slow, awkward, horrible act (you’ll recall that I was on top and knew NOTHING about how to have sex) until he pulled out and came into a paper towel he had at the ready. I was stunned, but I tried to play it cool. He asked me if I had to go to the bathroom, which still confuses me to this day. I did, though, and once I was done, he swiftly and promptly bade me good night and ushered me out the door. I’m pretty sure I was still in my car outside his house when I thought to text him, “Did you wear a condom?” I kind of knew he didn’t, but again — I was young, inexperienced, shocked, and scared.
I went home and tried to act normal around my family. The next morning, I left early for school to go to Walgreens to get Plan B, but of course, that Walgreens didn’t have Plan B. So I went through the entire school day, tortured inside, until I could finally go to a different Walgreens with a friend after school. We were successful (even though I really don’t think I needed the Plan B…but I also don’t fault myself for being paranoid). Eventually, I started telling more friends what had happened, although I framed it in a way that more or less sounded like I was okay with the whole situation. It all kind of became a running joke (although in retrospect, I suspect many of them felt as uneasy hearing the story as I did telling the story).
The saddest part is the way I became attached to Conner afterward. He literally wanted nothing to do with me, but I begged him to see me again. I was always told that you should have sex with someone who really cares about you and who you’re committed to, so I just couldn’t accept that the one time we had sex was the end of our story together. Again, I don’t think I really cared about him either, but I was desperate. Eventually, though, I moved on and carried on, as we all do.
I hate that I still doubt my feelings about this situation — the way I lost my virginity — but I do. I’ve gotten to a point where I can pretty easily call it a “non-consensual situation,” but calling it…rape? It just seems so extreme. We’ve been conditioned to think of rape as something outwardly violent, with fighting, scratching, screaming, and the works. But I pushed him away. I did NOT want to have sex that night. I was not ready, and he knew that. He forced himself into me. He didn’t give me any bruises, and I didn’t jump off of him after that, but it was rape. Rape. As I’m typing this, I’m going back and forth from tearing up to doubting myself all over again. The faces of different friends who read this newsletter flash through my mind. Will they doubt me? Will they think I’m overreacting? Will they be too uncomfortable to even read this far? I really don’t know. What I do know is that I did NOT lose my virginity on my own terms.
Fortunately, the second time I had sex very much was on my own terms, but I was still in high school. I can’t help but wonder that if Conner hadn’t stripped me of my desire to “wait ’til I graduate,” would I still have done it with my second boyfriend? It’s impossible to know, and probably not really worth thinking about. Whether I like it or not, my rapist shaped my life in a big way. I guess if there’s one good thing to come from it, it’s that I can share my story with our readers now.
If you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt unsure about a “blurred lines” situation of your own, just know that I hear you. I believe you. I understand you. Because it happened to me too.
Originally published on July 30, 2020
