He had been trying to kiss me all night. I had been pushing him away. It’s hard to push a man that is ten years older, and a good hundred pounds heavier then you but I tried. My boyfriend was at home. Studying.
I tried to tell my friends I didn’t want to come here, didn’t care about impressing the older guys. I had snuck out, my parents don’t know where I was or that I was even gone. We had gone to the bar, my friend had run into these guys her sister knew and now here we were at their house.
My friends conveniently disappeared with two guys, leaving me with the ex-bouncer. We played pool, I tried to be standoffish. I tried to tell him about my boyfriend. He didn’t care, he thought it was all a game.
Now here I am in his room. I feebly ask if he’s found me a sweater. The lights go out. I remember the bay window, the wooden slats letting in the faintest light. I remember wondering how it had ended up like this. I stood up. I tried to walk away.
He was too fast, he was too strong. I was nothing against him. Trying to pull my jeans up, trying to fend him off, tears rolling down my face but I couldn’t bring myself to yell, to scream and hit him. He could have killed me with one hand.
Finally a knock at the door. I grabbed my clothes and wiped my eyes. I calmly went to the living room. I didn’t say a word. I hated him. I hated them. I hated myself.
I was seventeen years old.