What Rape Is Actually Like—Unfiltered

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I've debated for the last five years whether I should share this story, simply in the wake of President Donald Trump excusing his statements of sexual assault every bit "locker room talk," Brock Turner's ridiculously fluffy rape instance sentence, the sexual entitlement that played a huge role in the Elliot Rodger Isla Vista murders back in 2014, the Beak Cosby trial, and endless other terrifying examples, I finally realized that my story can't just be mine anymore—and that my silence was actually contributing to the problem. A problem that has been hushed and scoffed and made light of with a "Well, boys will be boys" attitude and a cute shrug. A problem that has become and so ingrained in our guild that many people deny information technology even exists. Well, I'm here to tell you that this problem does, in fact, exist. It'southward called Rape Culture.

Rape civilization is pervasive. Rape culture is normalized. Rape cultural behavior includes victim blaming, sexual objectification, trivializing rape, deprival of widespread rape, amid other things.

I could list countless examples of how rape civilization exists in our lodge through reports shared by the media (e.g. the upshot of People 5. Turner, the objectification of women in television and film, the viral video "10 Hours of Walking in NYC as a Woman," the blame Jennifer Lawrence received when hackers leaked her personal nude photos, etc.), just that distances you from the reality of it. It is too impersonal. So that's why I want y'all to know that I, personally, have been affected by rape culture in many ways, but I will focus on one story in item to highlight several components of rape culture's definition.


I'm shaking every bit I begin to write this story—out of anger, out of shame, out of fright of judgment, out of sadness, out of reliving the memory—but it's finally time for me to step up and share. I do and then in hopes that it will enlighten some of you to the omnipresent rape civilization realities that women (and men) are faced with daily because, in gild to gear up a problem, nosotros must be assuming plenty to acknowledge information technology first. Here goes:


My inferior twelvemonth of higher at USC, I had broken upward with my long-altitude boyfriend and was single for the start time in ii years. Afterwards the breakup, I wanted to take some time to focus on myself, my classes, my career, and my friends, and I didn't want to be in a relationship for a while. I as well had this personal rule that I wouldn't take sex with anyone that I wasn't in a relationship with or heading towards a relationship with.

And so, when Jason* asked me out, I was very upfront with him virtually my intentions: that I didn't want us to be anything serious and, therefore, that I wasn't going to take sexual practice with him. If he was okay with just hanging out, making out, and watching movies together, we could do that, but that's all information technology would ever be. He said he understood, and nosotros started doing only that. But with each hangout, he became more than and more sexually aggressive with me. I had to repeatedly tell him "no" and "nosotros're not going to take sex." He even started calling me "Nikias," (a nickname he created for me in reference to the President of USC at the time, Max Nikias, who had imposed sanctions on parties thrown by the fraternities, which Jason related to me imposing "sanctions" on sex), and so he was very enlightened of my position on the matter.

One night, I went to his fraternity'south engagement political party with him and got a lilliputian boozer (at the fourth dimension I did non drinkable often, but he kept buying me drinks and information technology was a special occasion, so I accepted them). I remember us kissing on the coach ride abode, awfully stumbling off of the jitney and and so somehow winding upwardly at the door of his room. We were kissing in the doorway when he picked me up, closed the door, and threw me onto his couch, where he began kissing me and grabbing me more aggressively. I tried to push button him abroad to ho-hum him downwards a scrap, but he pinned my artillery downwardly with 1 hand and put his body weight on me (he was a 6'4" collegiate athlete and I am five'3" and petite) and continued kissing me.

He was pressing into my arms pretty hard, and it began to hurt so I said, "Ow, Jason, my artillery," to bring his attention to the matter, but he ignored me and continued kissing me. He then reached his manus up my dress and I clenched my legs together and said "no, no, no" playfully, to ease the tension a bit. He tried to open my legs anyway and, in my head, I wondered if he didn't realize that I was beingness serious, so I said, "Jason, no," more firmly. But he was unfazed. He continued to pry into my clenched legs with his manus and, as I tried to free my artillery, he pressed down on them harder and harder, while I exclaimed "ow" and "no" and "don't" and tried to wiggle free from his grip. I was becoming more nervous nigh the situation so I began to giggle; laughing made me feel like I actually had a part in the situation and that I had more command than I did, and I likewise hoped information technology would lighten the mood and lessen the blow of my sexual rejections for him. I was nonetheless thinking almost how this was making him feel instead of the implications of what he was doing to me—until he finally pried my legs open up aggressively, kneeled between them, keeping them apart, pulled my underwear aside, and inserted his fingers into me. I was shocked. I couldn't believe he really did information technology.

He began fingering me and, as I was physically restrained and mentally weakened by the booze, and I just stopped fighting it.

To find some sort of peace in this invasion that wasn't going to finish, I convinced myself that, since I was no longer virgin to his fingers, it didn't matter if he kept doing it, so I might as well try to savour it. Later some time, he began kissing downward my tum to give me oral. I tried to gain control over the state of affairs again and said "no" and pulled his head support, but he got hold of my hands again and pinned them back downward by my side. He lifted my dress so my underwear and breadbasket were exposed, and I tried to clench my legs together again to physically say "no" forth with my verbal "no'south." He didn't care, though.

He yanked my underwear down to my ankles and pried my legs open up again. He put his unwanted oral fissure on my most personal, private, exposed part and, finally, I was tainted by his natural language. I tried to force myself to savor this role also, merely it didn't feel good. Information technology wasn't sweetness or hot or sensual. I didn't feel comforted or wanted or sexy, or like he was doing something dainty for me. It wasn't even for me at all — it was for him. I didn't matter. I was just a body.

He began "talking dingy" to me (even though I had previously told him that I didn't like that), calling me a "tease" and "you little bitch." He'd say, "you lot similar that, don't you, you trivial slut" every bit he flake and sucked on me hard and slapped my vagina. It was unpleasant and, at times, painful, only mostly, information technology was humiliating.

After that, I reached out to encounter him a few more times. So crazy of me, correct? I didn't fifty-fifty like him much, but I didn't want to end our fling considering of what had happened that night, because that would mean actually albeit that something incorrect did happen and that something was taken away from me without my consent, which would entail that I was a victim of sorts. That something had happened to me. My whole life, I had always prided myself on existence an empowered, strong woman. I was active, not passive. Nothing happened to me; I made things happen. Therefore, in my caput, an acknowledgment of being a victim would rattle the core of what I founded myself on and shatter my whole identity. I wanted to be in charge of myself, and then I ignored what happened and just continued hanging out with him similar it wasn't a large bargain.

He invited me to another of his fraternity'southward parties one nighttime, and I drank again at this i. He took me back to his room and, at that point, I was used to him doing what he wanted to me, so I endured him fingering and eating me out once more. I wouldn't practice annihilation sexual dorsum to him though. That was the only control I had left; I would never actively give him what he wanted. We were on his bed and he kept trying to force my head downwards onto his penis so that I would give him oral, merely I refused to exercise it and wouldn't open up my mouth. He was annoyed, but he let it go. Or so I idea.

Nosotros made out a niggling more, and so I either passed out due to the alcohol, or legitimately brutal asleep because it was late (I forget which one, and truthfully, whether alcohol was involved or non is irrelevant). Either way, I was asleep and then was awoken by a force per unit area within of and on acme of me. I opened my eyes disconcertedly and came to recognize that Jason was on tiptop of me, thrusting his penis in and out of me, repeatedly, and without a rubber. I was confused but instinctively pushed him off of me while yelling, "Were you just inside of me!?" He replied, "Jeez, give me more credit than that,"which wasn't an apology or an explanation; information technology was a joke nearly his penis size.

I was disoriented and annoyed and in shock, simply I felt bad for yelling at him. I also felt bad since I knew at that point that he liked me more than than I liked him, so I made an excuse for him in my caput. "I'chiliad sure he was merely confused," I thought. I remember going to him and giving him picayune kisses on his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks, and his eyelids. Each kiss was an amends from me on his behalf and an "Information technology's okay" in my head and a vain endeavor to erase with my lips what he had done.

I had always been a potent, intelligent, self-bodacious, and empowered feminist with a good caput on her shoulders—someone who was confident and loved herself and knew what she deserved. Yet I kissed my ain rapist. Multiple times. I kissed my rapist as a means to condolement him so that he'd think, "Don't worry, it's okay." Or maybe so I'd think, "Don't worry, I'chiliad okay?" I don't know. All I know is that it was the near pathetic affair I accept e'er done in my life, and my identity and self-esteem has suffered immensely because of that seemingly pocket-sized action.

I've retrospectively realized that, for the last five years, I've just romantically pursued douchebag guys who have treated me clumsily, and I have pushed away any of the good guys who I'd actually take a chance of real beloved with, as a way to punish myself for existence and then utterly pathetic that nighttime. Because I didn't deserve honey anymore. I was tainted, I was stupid, I was a hypocrite, I was ugly within. My core that I had been trying and so hard to protect was shattered; each osculation had pierced information technology until I broke myself and my pieces fell to the footing all effectually me. I lost myself. Give thanks goodness for my best friends who knew me so well; they reminded me of who I was and how stiff I was and, in time, helped me notice the strength to put the pieces of my shattered identity back together over again.

I remember walking dorsum home by myself the morn after my rape feeling confused, sullied, and hollow. Heavy, but like something was missing. I tried to tell myself that I was just annoyed at Jason and that this feeling wasn't anything significant. That last night didn't change me or annihilation. I didn't fifty-fifty utilise the word rape to draw what had happened for nigh a year or 2.

Once I finally came to terms with it, I decided to confide in some family members and shut friends, and the reactions of a few of them were surprisingly disappointing. The majority of my family and friends were supportive and idea that what he did was incorrect; that it was a black and white scenario since I had said "no."

But some of them idea differently, and believed that there were "shades of gray" in what defines rape (every bit I'm sure some of y'all do, too). One of my guy friends told me that, no, I wasn't raped, because A. I had chosen to become back to Jason's room that dark, B. I had hooked up with him earlier, C. I was giggling and that must've confused him, D. I shouldn't have gotten drunk anyhow, E. I kissed him afterwards and F. because "Alina, what else do you await would've happened? Yous were an idiot."

Some other shut family member was aiming to be sympathetic only said, "That kind of stuff happens all of the fourth dimension, sweetie. Information technology's happened to me before, too. You're fine. You lot just have to exist more careful next time." That statement was meant to be comforting but merely put the blame back on me and dismissed the severity of his actions and the touch on they had on me, and used the "boys volition exist boys" mentality that attempts to excuse men of all consequences of their actions.

Those negative reactions from my family and friends are textbook examples of the pervasive influence of rape culture, along with my very own denial of being raped at get-go, my minimization of what had happened and its consequence on me, how I victim-blamed myself, my excuse-making for Jason, and even the justification of my normal drinking patterns and sexual habits while sharing my story. And those reactions are in response to only ane story of how I've been affected by rape civilization. We'd be here all solar day if I analyzed my countless other examples (e.g. inappropriate grabbing in clubs, catcalls, sexual coercion past dates, sexual harassment at piece of work, etc.).

Because of the fact that those responses came from some of the people closest to me, and myself included initially, you can only imagine why I take been, and notwithstanding am, very nervous to share this story on the Internet. Just these reactions are precisely the reason why I must speak out. Similar I said, the first step toward fixing rape civilization is acknowledging what it is, which includes educating people on what constitutes rape.

Consent is the cardinal discussion when it comes to rape, and seems to be the word located in the "gray area," which many people feel exists. To eliminate that gray area, allow me put consent in uncomplicated terms:

• Information technology doesn't affair if you are a prostitute or a preacher, "no" e'er means "no."
• Even if you say "yeah" initially, you lot are allowed to change your mind at Whatever time and say "no."
• If you are drunk, sleeping, underage or incapacitated in any way, it is always a "no."

At present that we understand what rape is, and what consent is, let'south eliminate the rape civilization surrounding it. How do we do this? BY SPEAKING UP.

According to the "Statistics About Sexual Violence" from the National Sexual Violence Resource Center, 1 in v women and one in 71 men will be raped at some point in their lives." It also reports that rape is the well-nigh under-reported crime, with 63 pct of sexual assaults non reported to police.

How are people supposed to believe in and combat rape culture, when rape isn't even acknowledged as a public health crisis? How are we supposed to fight in the dark confronting something that people are as well afraid to admit exists?

Information technology's time to plow on the lights and acknowledge that there is a trouble here. It's time to speak up virtually it. Speak up and seek aid if you've been sexually assaulted. Speak upward if y'all come across a adult female slurring her words and stumbling off of a bus with a man; check on her and ask her if she is okay. Speak upward if your "hilarious" friend catcalls a woman on the street; just call him out. If you see something incorrect, say something. If your friend confides in you that she or he was raped, believe that person. Give your friend support, not blame. And, near importantly, let'south educate our children on what consent means, then that there's never a question or "gray" area in the future once again.

As I reverberate on how strongly I was shaking when I get-go started writing, I felt so much self-doubtfulness and embarrassment and fear. But now, even after how pathetic my rape experience left me feeling for the concluding five years, writing this has given me more ability over it than always earlier. Because I've finally found the courage to say something about it and I know that, although he may have taken a certain part of me, he will never have the power to take away my vox. My vox empowers me, and it is mine, always.

I recollect back in high schoolhouse, someone had vandalized my auto with penises and wrote in marker "Women's Rights" with a big X through it. I came domicile, broken-hearted that my dad would be mad at me for my actions being the goad for someone ruining the car he had lent me. I showed it to him nervously, not sure of what my penalty was going to be, but he came outside, saw the auto, and gave me the biggest hug ever. Dislocated, I asked him, "Papa, y'all're not mad at me?" He grabbed me past the shoulders and said, "Ali, yous took a stand on something y'all believe in. And you didn't let anyone else's opinions silence you. I take never been more proud of you in my life. Never stop fighting for what you believe in."

Then, ladies and gentleman, here I am, taking a stand and fighting for what I believe in, whatsoever backlash may occur. I stand up past this essay, I fight for y'all with my story, and I urge you to SPEAK Up. Nosotros need your voices at present more always.

(*Name has been changed)

Anyone affected by sexual assault, whether it happened to you or someone you care about, can discover support on the National Sexual Assault Hotline: 800.656.Hope (4673). Y'all tin likewise visit online.rainn.org  to receive support via confidential online chat.