Despite the Fact That He Raped Me, I Went Out With Him Again; Here’s Why

Luke was the name of my rap artist.
Luke is a lovely young man with emerald eyes. All the adoring college girls who hung on his every word dubbed him that.

When he spoke in his mild seaside town twang, his long, beautifully groomed dark locks juggled around his head.

I met him in my final year of college, at the senior ball, of course. He was the only one dancing on an empty floor, and he swung his curls from side to side as he inched closer and closer to me, until I realized I had a new dance partner.

I believe I gave him my phone number. We could barely hear each other over the pounding music. I’m not sure if he bought me a beer or not.

He wasn’t remembered for his dazzling personality, smart phrasing, or alluring charisma. Other, more sinister causes sprang to mind when I thought of him.

We went on our first date, which was with a college boy. I hadn’t had many boyfriends or dates before to him, so I wasn’t familiar with dating: what one wore, drank, said, and did.

Despite having lived in London for two years at the time, I was still the hick girl from Belfast in my brain.

We met in Covent Garden, a sad London tourist attraction for individuals who lack imagination. I remember thinking he’d never see me because it was so crowded. Yes, he did.

He led me to Freud’s, an underground pub that I assumed was cool and sophisticated because he said so.

He was dressed in leather braids on his wrists, jingling chains around his neck, and a hideous denim shirt tucked into his denim shorts. Because I was nervous, I began babbling to fill the silences in the conversation.

He kept asking me to repeat sentences and then laughing at my British accent because he believed I looked like a TV actress.

I played his game like some stupid puppet, repeating my phrases and then soaking up his laughter, overjoyed that this attractive boy was impressed by me.

He suggested we go to his apartment, which he described as a shared student flat on the Bakerloo Line. I was living in a godawful flatshare above a kebab shop at the time, and I was secretly terrified of the trip home from the subway.

A taxi was out of the question (much too expensive) on my student stipend, and I usually stayed at friends’ places if we all went out because I was afraid of walking home alone. So his invitation that I sleep over seemed safe — and I know that sounds strange.

I’m not sure when he kissed me for the first time. He kissed me more after telling me I had sexy breath.

I wasn’t inebriated, but I wasn’t completely sober either. Except for the fact that his mattress was on the floor and there were images of him and some bikini-clad woman on a camping trip all throughout the room, I don’t remember much about his room.

We started kissing, and he quickly and deftly removed my clothes.

I recall clutching my underwear with both hands as if it were my own personal security blanket.

But it would be alright because we had discussed not having sex. When I told him I didn’t want to, he said it was fine if we simply played about for a while. I had only kissed him up to that moment… I hadn’t touched anything.

But it would be alright because we had discussed not having sex. When I told him I didn’t want to, he said it was fine if we simply played about for a while. I had only kissed him up to that moment… I hadn’t touched him, hadn’t removed his clothes, hadn’t done anything.

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He decided to go with it. He didn’t until he didn’t.

He became more aroused as he tugged at my underwear, kissed me harder, and tugged at my underwear. No, I recall saying. No, I said.

I tried, but he wouldn’t stop kissing me. My legs were squished together. I was aware that he shared a room. I could have screamed or gone away, but I was embarrassed. I was present at the time. He was sleeping in his bed. Almost unclothed. What would I say and where would I say it?

Finally, he flattened one of my legs against the bed with his knee, then rested his entire weight on me. He was more powerful than he appeared. After that, he was inside of me. ‘But I said no… we agreed,’ I thought as I lay there stunned. He was talking about how he knew I wanted to do it deep down while he was doing it.

I felt so foolish. How could I expect to strip down and then refuse? Was I one of those jerks who teased people? Is that what I meant?

I, on the other hand, did not… I’m sure I didn’t mean yes when I said yes.
I snuggled up on my side and slept the entire night away. I was bruised and in a lot of pain. He tried to kiss me in the morning, but I sealed my mouth.

I dressed and dashed out the door, embarrassed.

I needed to rush home and pack; I was going to Cambridge to celebrate a classmate’s 21st birthday. I cried there, surrounded by two female pals.

He made a phone call. Yes, I did see him again. The oddest element of my narrative is that. I needed to make sense of what had transpired in my head. Luke, the lovely green-eyed boy who everyone admired, couldn’t possibly be a rapist, could he? No, that was entirely my fault. It has to be that way.

“The part of me that wanted sex to be a meaningful experience had ‘repurposed’ my rape into an act of love,” blogger Tucker Reed said in this post.

I didn’t have any more intercourse with him after that. On this, I am unmistakable. I was determined to make this situation normal when he showed up for a house party my roommates had thrown. I was adamant about turning “us” into something more than we had been.

I decided I had acted inappropriately on dates, that I hadn’t done what you should do on dates, and I was confident that in my own space, in my own room, I could right the wrong. He slept next to me because I was on my period. He made no attempt to have sex with me.

We spoke on the phone once more, and then I ran into him at a gathering about 6 months later. He was flirting and dancing with every girl in the room.

Luke is a lovely young man with emerald eyes. It’s every girl’s fantasy.

Stress caused my periods to stop, and I ended up in the doctor’s office, anxious.

But it took three years for me to accept what had happened to me.

I was with another boy, a nice boy who knew a lot about me. We’d begun sleeping together, and something he did, a simple inane gesture, jolted me back.

My rape resurfaced in the darkness, along with my fear. As I screamed and sobbed, he held me in his arms. He informed me that what had occurred was incorrect. That it wasn’t my fault. IT WASN’T MY FAULT. I said no. NO.

The hardest part of my story was telling it to others and discovering that many other women had similar experiences. One of the hazy evenings, protestations, ‘I tried to say no,’ and terror, followed by the absurdity of it all, for who dates their rapist?

Any woman who is bold enough to share her story and refuse to accept what happened, no matter how hard or long we’ve blamed ourselves, inspires me.

My rapist was Luke — I don’t know his last name. It’s just the way it is. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no No is the answer.

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