#MeToo ... That Night, According to His Memory

A Confession

(Caution: This article contains a description of a sexual assault. While I have made an effort to handle the subject with care, some might call parts of this story graphic. A direct approach to details was best for providing a truthful account of the story. If you feel uncomfortable with this subject matter, please consider whether you wish to continue reading or listening.

Here are some things you may find triggering:

• The story is written from the perspective of a 19-year-old male who is unaware or uncaring as to how his actions will affect his girlfriend.

• A description of repeated, unwanted sexual activity.

• A description of sexual intercourse without consent.

• A young man’s failure to take accountability for his action.)

This week there will not be any commentary leading up to the story. We’ll simply pick up where we left off last time.

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When I returned to school in early January for a short, month-long class we referred to as J-term, I was elated to see Joy had decided to return. Even better, she was now rooming with my friend, Katrina, someone with whom I had been good friends for a few years. It didn’t take me long to share my feelings with Katrina. You know, to kind of throw a feeler out there to see if there was anything reciprocating from Joy. Turned out there was, even if it was more of a curiosity than the romantic longings I was experiencing.

We were in the same class and I found my way to the seat next to her morning after morning. We found ourselves spending more time together — meals, chapels, dates, college basketball games, phone calls in between. Soon we became an exclusive couple. We decided January 14th would be our official “going out” date so we could celebrate our one-month anniversary on Valentine’s Day. We were young, head-over-heels for each other, and did silly little things lovestruck couples do. 

As much as I liked being with Joy, I found a great amount of enjoyment just looking at her. My physical attraction to her was intense, and my imagination did its thing. Her eyes were the deepest blue and were set off by her flowing, blond hair. When she smiled her cheeks puffed up in such a way that made her eyes squint and sparkle. If I was close enough to her, I could sometimes hear her cheeks crackle as she smiled just like that night back in the fall. I started calling her crackle-cheeks. She pretended not to like it. 

Her body was exactly what I liked. She was slender and wore jeans that weren’t skin tight, but were tight enough that I enjoyed the view when I was walking behind her. She dressed classy-preppy with clothes that told the world she cared about how she looked. As much as I liked looking into her eyes, I also looked at her chest whenever I could sneak a glance.

From time to time we would play billiards in the campus game room. I was as bad at billiards as I was good at foosball. This was fortunate as it gave her the opportunity to take more shots and me the opportunity to try and see down her shirt as she did.

I couldn’t help myself. Her body captivated me, even clothed for the cold, New England winter months. I looked at it, liked it, and appreciated any opportunity I had to experience more of it.

There wasn’t anything “Hallmark Christmas” about our first kiss. It was on the steps of her girls-only dormitory after a basketball game against our school’s rival. And, while I do remember it, it would be an error to call it memorable.

I’m afraid I wasn’t good at kissing. After about our third kiss Joy stopped and said, “no, do it like this,” and provided some instruction on how to kiss…well, less sloppily. It was a humbling moment for me, as most on-the-fly learning experiences are. Hey, she was good at it, and had a little more experience than I did. I listened to her advice, and she quickly reported I was getting better. Joy liked kissing, and I was glad to oblige.

On a campus like the college where we were attending, displays of affection were usually public displays of affection. This was primarily due to the fact that the school did all it could to keep students from being alone together. Men and women were housed in separate dorms with firm visitation hours and strict rules about behavior during said visiting hours. For instance, doors to the dorm rooms must remain open when occupied. If you wanted to engage in displays of affection that weren’t public, then you had to leave campus to find a more private place.

Like, a local public park after dark, for instance.

At some point, as I became more comfortable in our relationship, I began to move things forward physically. We had driven to a park not too far away and were sitting in one of the pretend train cars that were part of the children’s play things. As usual we started making out, both of us enjoying the time together. As the activity went on, I heated up. I assumed she was as well. I assumed she’d be just as interested in increasing the amount of physical activity I was. So, I reached under her clothes, under her bra, and began to touch her in the places only my imagination had gone in the weeks since we’d begun dating. I didn’t ask for her permission. I didn’t think I needed to. I mean, I wanted to because I was really enjoying the physical interaction we were having at the moment. I was just touching her, right? No big deal. It wasn’t like we were having sex.

But then, the kissing stopped. So did her caressing, her eye contact, her vocalization, and any sense that she was happy to be with me. 

I looked at her. Her refusal to look back at me said it all.

“Hey… it’s ok!” I tried to convince her. “I’m sorry. I just thought you’d be good with this. I thought you’d like it. I’m sorry.”

I was sorry. I didn’t want to upset her. I didn’t mean to make her cry and felt like a complete jerk for making her cry. I reassured her that she didn’t do anything wrong, that it was just touching and it wasn’t really a big deal. I was sure she was afraid we’d sinned. That we’d gone past the line of appropriate behavior, so God was probably mad with us. I was sure that’s what the tears were about. I apologized, comforted, and reassured her everything was ok.

This became a pattern of behavior.

Kissing.

Assumptions of consent from her and escalation by me.

Tears from her.

Apologies followed by comfort and reassurance from me.

It’s like I got amnesia, forgetting how she got upset the last time.

Eventually, the tears stopped coming. And, eventually, she became a willing participant and enjoyed some of the activity as much as I did. But then I’d push for more. And the pattern would continue, but in more significant and substantial ways. Touching beneath clothes gave way to moving clothes out of the way or taking them off for easier access. This allowed for more intimate exploration by me, and each exploration led to more curiosity. Sitting next to each other gave way to laying on top of her. 

Then, it happened.

We weren’t all that far from the park where I first made her cry. We were in a car this time and I was laying on top of her. Our clothes were not totally removed, but they were no longer a barrier. 

“Can I just put it in?” I asked her.

“I don’t know, Jeff.”

“Please, I just want to know what it feels like.”

“I don’t know, Jeff.”

“I just want to know what it feels like.”

She was silent. I let the silence be the answer I wanted to hear.

So, I did it.

My action was shallow, both literally and figuratively, and over in less than 10 seconds. But the penetration left a deep and lasting wound on our souls, affecting our identities, our relationship, and our emotional well-being—wounds that would take years to fully comprehend.

But I didn’t understand that then. I was only thinking about sex.

I did not use a condom, but knew I couldn’t risk getting her pregnant and risk the whole world knowing we’d had sex. So, I pulled out and pinched off. With an impending mess on my hands, and now thinking more clearly, I climbed back into my own seat. 

Thinking clearly probably isn’t the best way to explain my state of mind. On the one hand, I was elated and relieved. I’d waited my entire life to have sex, which, at the age of 19 seemed like a century. But I’d also crossed a line I previously swore I wouldn’t before I was married.

But I didn’t think I cared. In fact, I would have thought I’d care more. I expected to feel more guilty than I did about having premarital sex.

Anyways, I couldn’t think about that in the moment. I opened the storage compartment below the center console in hopes there were fast food napkins stored in case of emergency. Finding the universal stash of napkins, I tried to contain my reproductive mess, mostly failing. Now fully clothed, I looked over at Joy.

She was quiet. Her clothes were replaced to their normal state. She was still reclining in the passenger seat, but looking out the door window, away from me. I’d seen that face many times before and began to feel the first hints of guilt. I could tell she wished it hadn’t happened. Pushing aside my observations I reached over to caress her, desperately hoping she’d turn back to look at me with a smile. Upon my hand reaching her cheek, she pulled away.

“Take me back.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Take me back, please. I just want to go to my room.”

“Alright.” I started the car, put it in drive, reassuring myself her outlook would change like it always did in a few days. 

We returned to campus and to our separate dormitories. I covered my pants with my jacket as I walked back in an effort to conceal the resulting evidence of sexual activity. Safely concealed in my room, I pushed aside any guilt and wondered if the physical experience of sex was as I had imagined it would be. I questioned whether having sex made me feel less of a Christian. I wasn’t sure what to think, but guilt as a Christian? I don’t think so.

The next day was a gorgeous spring day in New England. Joy called and asked to see me. I knew we’d revisit the previous evening. I met her just outside the Student Center where we sat down at a picnic table. One look at her forlorn face told me she was upset. 

 “We shouldn’t have done that, …I wish you hadn’t have done that, …I didn’t want you to do that, …that didn’t happen, …I didn’t have sex with you.” Outwardly, I agreed with everything she said. Logically, I didn’t really know what to make of it. I was pretty sure we had had sex. I mean, it didn’t last long, but it happened. 

I decided to let her believe it hadn’t happened. Something told me there was no reason to convince her otherwise. Seeing her upset bothered me, and the thought of losing her virginity was clearly distressing for her. I felt guilty, and sought for a way to absolve myself.

Quietly, I asked, “Why didn’t you say ‘no’?”

“I did.”

“No, you said, ‘I don’t know.’ Then you didn’t say anything.”

“That’s not what happened. I said, ‘no.’”

I didn’t reply. It wasn’t an argument I wanted to have. I regretted it all, and suddenly I wanted to put it behind me as much as she did. If she was willing to act as if it never happened, then so was I. I was confused but agreed with whatever she wanted to believe.

I hated myself for making her cry.

Again.

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Thank you for reading.

Soon, I’ll share the perspective of my victim.

Correction…She’ll share her perspective. She gets a voice this time. She’ll also tell you what happened in the hours between when I dropped her off at her dormitory and when we met the following morning. Because she did tell someone. She looked for help.

That’s not what she received.