No, It’s Not Fine

Written by Sydney, 24     (CW: sexual assault)

I have known Evan since the sixth grade. All of the elementary schools came together in middle school, and he became best friends with my neighbor, so we became friends right away. He was a very friendly, likable guy: in the seventh grade I was in a special volunteer gym class with him and two other students who didn’t like me, so he was my only friend during those 55 minutes every day.

Evan really got around in high school. He hooked up with most of my friends, which was normal for hormone-filled teenagers. I, on the other hand, did not. I’ve always been just “the friend,” and, even now, haven’t gotten around too much. However, when I did, I was excited: I felt special, and subconsciously, I think it was because it made me feel pretty. Because, guys wouldn’t make out with me if they didn’t think I was pretty, right? 

Evan and I made out for the first time around our junior year of high school. I had just started to drink alcohol, even though my friends had been doing it for years. I’m sure it happened drunk on a party bus or at someone’s house, but regardless, it was a harmless, drunk makeout. It never made anything awkward between us, so we were still great friends. 

Junior year my friends and I spent most of our time at our other friend, Charlie’s, house. We would hang out in his basement and a big group of us would get drunk and smoke weed and hookah. On the drunker and crazier nights, some “couples for the evening” would end up in the laundry room or bathroom, making out or having sex by the end of the evening. For us, it was normal, and again, harmless. We were all good friends and just wanted to have fun. At least, everyone said they were having fun.

It was the summer before senior year, right before I went to camp. We went to Charlie’s for a normal night of drinking and hanging out. I got drunk. I don’t remember what led up to it, but I ended up making out with Evan on the bathroom floor of Charlie’s basement. I was okay with that part. Then, one thing led to another, and he asked if I wanted to have sex. As an innocent teenager who had never had sex before, I replied with: “Ahhh, I don’t know.” I had always thought about when I would lose my virginity, but this is not the location, nor the situation in which I wanted it to happen. He simply replied: “Oh it’s fine let’s do it.” I, knowing I was unsure, said again: “I don’t know.” He repeated with the same phrase: “Oh it’s fine let’s do it.” I don’t remember replying to that. Then before I knew it, he had taken my virginity. I got back to my friend’s house where I was staying that night and I cried myself to sleep.

I always thought I would lose my virginity at camp during my summer as a counselor in training. A lot of older kids I knew had lost theirs then, and after having a fling with a boy as a camper two summers prior, it sounded like the best way for it to happen. However, after a year off of camp, I was back as a counselor in training and not a virgin. Even though I wanted to, I couldn’t have sex with the guy I was hooking up with that summer because of what had happened to me the month prior.

At first, I did not think of that night with Evan as any kind of sexual assault or rape. I told myself that I must have said “sure”, or given him a slight nod that he took as an indication to start inserting his dick inside of me. I was drunk, I couldn’t remember everything. I knew I was upset afterwards that night, but this was Evan, my friend for so many years, he definitely couldn’t have meant to do it. 

Summer quickly ended and we were back at school. The moment I saw him for the first time since that night, my chest tightened. Deep down, I knew he violated me that night - something just wasn’t right. Then, after a year of reflecting, I realized what had truly happened. My way of working through it was trying to delete it from my past. Most of the time when people asked I would say I lost it at camp - the second place I had sex, a year after what happened with Evan. If it was ever brought up, I would turn it into a joke so others wouldn’t feel awkward. I didn’t even count it.

I eventually told a few of my friends, but no one encouraged me to do anything, so I didn’t tell my parents or try to get him in trouble. However, recently it came up with my mom. I told her the story and it felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders - I was finally accepting and acknowledging it. The second step of acknowledging it was writing this.

I don’t think I will ever report him. I don’t think I have the courage to. But I felt it was important to share my story because I know that many other women struggle with the same memories of their past every day. It is important to acknowledge these struggles because they make us stronger. Even though I don’t think I will ever come forward publicly, it has been greatly therapeutic to write about it.