Skylit Lucy

Sexual assault has been front and center in mainstream media lately. Hell, it’s been front and center since the United States elected a man who openly admitted to sexual assault to the highest office in the country. As a survivor of sexual assault, this has been gut-wrenching. Every morning, when I wake up, I brace myself for the news. Each new revelation, each news story, each fallen hero, each time a woman tells her story over and over to the same horrendous reaction. “Why did she wait to come forward?” “Was she drunk? What was she wearing?” “Boys will be boys.” I think that last reaction hurts most of all. Because, perhaps, in some of these allegations, they were boys. Dumb, impressionable youths who take action before considering the consequences. But so much more often, these are not just boys. These are men. Adults. Men who absolutely understand the difference between right and wrong, and somehow, in their minds, the list of things that are wrong consist of things like: not stealing, not murdering, not beating anyone up. Someone, they fail to comprehend that rape, the forcible act of sex upon someone who does not, or CAN NOT consent, does not fall into the “wrong” category. I know this because I was raped by a man, an adult male, well into this 40s, who had and continues to have a distinguished job in the government. He was an adult. Not only did he know that what he was doing was wrong, but our mutual friend literally called him out on his sleazy behavior. We were both at our friend’s party, and he was flirting with me. The flirting was fine, but as his hand crept around my side and slithered down to cup my ass, I was very clearly uncomfortable. I pulled away, I scooted away, I started conversations with strangers to avoid him. Our mutual friend noticed his behavior and called him out on it. I believe his exact words were, “Not this one.” As if it would be fine with some other unsuspecting girl. A little background here: at the time, I had been living and working in DC for about three years, and my life had basically imploded. The Saudi company I was working for had stopped paying me (don’t get me started on the lack of rights for contract workers), my roommate had skipped town leaving me with about four months’ worth of back rent in my name, and I was done. I had officially called it quits. I packed up my apartment, my dog, and prepared to move from DC back home to Seattle. The night he raped me was literally two days before my flight back to Seattle. At the end of the party, our friend asked if anyone needed a ride home. I raised my hand, grateful for the ride back. I could have walked it, but it was December and cold, and I gladly accepted the ride. But when we got to my apartment, my rapist jumped out of the car and started walking towards my apartment. I panicked. What was I supposed to do? I went to the driver’s side window and pleaded with my friend, begging him for assistance. He scoffed “Ugh. I tried.” And then he drove away. I know that I should have refused to let him in. Forced him to take a cab home. Yelled at him to leave me alone. Ignored him, maybe? But politeness is ingrained into me (thanks, society). So instead of making a scene, yelling at him or, in my mind, being rude, I allowed him to follow me up to my apartment. We sat awkwardly in my living room, and I put on an episode of ‘Family Guy.’ I made a drink for both of us to share and it was absolutely disgusting. Because I was preparing to move, the only booze I had was whipped cream vodka, which I mixed with Sprite. It was hardly drinkable. After the Family Guy episode was over, I gave him a pillow and a blanket, showed him our ample L-shaped couch, and said, “I’m going to bed.” I went to bed. I had been drinking, definitely, but I was not drunk. It was about 3am by the time I went to sleep. When I awoke, I was confused. I became aware that it was morning, and the sun was shining through my corner windows, which means it must have been around 6am. My comforter was pushed up over my head and my tights were pulled down around my ankles. I remember being surprised about my tights, as they were very tight, the kind of tights you have to jump up to get all the way up around your waist. He was having sex with me. Which is to say, he was raping me. A million thoughts raced through my brain. Scream, fight, kick, cry, DO SOMETHING. But another, deeper part of me, my survival instincts maybe, stopped me. If this person is willing to rape you outright while you are unconscious…who’s to say if they are willing to punch you in the face? Strangle you? Kill you? And so I did nothing. I laid there and waited for it to be over. It lasted so much longer than I could have imagined. He raped me vaginally and eventually switched to raping me anally. At some point, I thought “Wow, he must not have a very big dick because him raping me anally doesn’t hurt at all.” He did not ejaculate. Instead, he stopped raping me, pulled up my stupid tights, and then he patted me on the ass. Like “Good game!” It was not a good game. When I finally pushed my comforter off of my head, I found my bottle of hair conditioner on the window sill at the foot of my bed. I knew it was mine because the top was broken and couldn’t close. He had used that conditioner as lubricant. Our mutual friend was the one to drive me to the airport. As we waited to make sure my dog made her flight, I told him what had happened. He was horrified. Anyone who defends or enables these rapists and sexual predators is not an ally. And if that is you, my man, I urge you to take a long, hard look at your friends and your actions. And I urge women not to trust men who defend sexual predators. They might as well be defending themselves.