She was thirteen years old and had never been touched.
They spoke for hours. He laughed at all her jokes. He seemed so nice. She just didn't know enough about life and love to know that he was flirting, not being friendly. She was flirting too, whether or not she could admit to it or was even conscious of it.
They had a day off school coming up. He said she should come over to his place, they could play video games with his brother. He said his dad would be around because he wasn't working that day.
Again, too naive, too dumb to realize that this was a bad idea, she agreed readily, and when the day came, she was there as planned. When she'd arrived, he'd said his father had gone out. The brother was there, but left within five minutes of her arrival.
They were alone.
He brought her to his bedroom, which wasn't that unusual, given that most teenager's only personal space is their bedroom. At least that's what she though at the time.
He showed her all the various holes in his walls, telling her stories of who or what had enraged him, causing his violent outbursts. Kind of emphasizing on how he couldn't really control himself when he was angry.
She had begun to grow uneasy.
He'd stopped one of his stories short, his attention suddenly directed at her. He'd whispered: you're beautiful.
Her heart sank. The reality of the situation dawned on her. He had been flirting and he expected something to happen today.
She wasn't ready for this. Not here, not now, not with him.
He licked his lips and moved towards her. She tensed. She wanted to say no, but didn't feel like she could. He leaned in and kissed her. The kiss was okay, so she thought maybe she could do this, it wouldn't be so bad. Within seconds though, he was reaching for her belt. She froze, still unable to utter the word "no".
He popped the button on her jeans, pulled down the zipper, and put his hand down her panties, roughly. She jerked, startled. She was terrified. She wanted desperately wanted him to stop, but her eyes were fixed on a hole in the wall that was close to her face and the stories about his anger issues. She couldn't move, or speak: she was paralyzed.
He pulled down her torn jeans, tights and panties in one sweep. Stuck around her ankles, she was bound by her own clothing.
She was exposed and embarrassed. She wondered why she'd worn the ugly beige granny panties her mom had bought her. Then again, she had not been expecting to show them to anyone.
He spread her legs with his hands, slamming his fingers into her, pounding her hard, his fist punching her with every thrust. The pain was unbearable, and she wanted to scream, but she couldn't even do that.
What would happen if she angered him?
She gritted her teeth and kept her eyes fixed on that hole in the wall, enduring the pain, unable to tell him to stop. After several minutes, he lay himself down on top of her. She could feel "it"', hard against her thigh.
Her mind raced. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be the way she would lose her virginity. Her legs clamped shut, and he tried to pry them apart with his. She didn't budge though, her knees seemed to be cemented together.
After what seemed like an eternity of him trying to pry her legs open, she finally mustered the courage to speak:
And that was it. He pulled off her, slowly. She lay there, still frozen. He got up, pulled up his pants, and lit a cigarette. When he turned around and saw her still lying there, he barked "well get dressed already!"
She quickly got her pants up, her tights bunching in all the wrong places. It didn't matter though, she was still a million times more comfortable than she had been a minute ago. He was distant now.
They chatted for a few more minutes, but the joy had left the conversation, and she could feel that he was tense, and despite what had just transpired, she still wanted his approval.
She left, relieved that she'd been able to say no, and that he had stopped. She walked home feeling shamed. She'd just been with another girl's boyfriend, even if it had been horrible. She could still feel him, "down there", she could still feel the pain of his punches. She knew she'd been stupid. She knew she shouldn't have gone. She knew she should have spoken up.
Still, she felt like she'd just been violated.
She didn't call anyone that weekend. She curled up in bed and watched TV. She was sad, and felt dirty, used, dumb. Then the phone rang on Sunday night. It was his girlfriend.
He'd told her about their "date". Told her she'd come on to him, that he'd said no.
Her heart sank. She couldn't even tell the truth, he hadn't really done anything wrong, she had let him do all those things. She had kissed him back. She had gone to his house.
How could she explain how stupid she'd been? How could she explain the irrational fear that had paralyzed her?
She was shunned by her friends that Monday, and had never felt so alone in her life. Her innocence had died, and she would never view boys the same way again. While it was clear to her that she was at blame for not speaking up, she also wondered how he hadn't sensed that there'd been a problem. When he'd laid on top of her, her legs clamped shut, why had he tried to pry them apart with this own? Shouldn't he have know she didn't want him to? Shouldn't that have sent a clear message?
Deep down, she knew the answer was yes. He was older, and experienced, and took advantage of her.
That never changed the fact that she hated herself for going there that day, hated herself for not speaking up, and hated that this had been her first sexual encounter.