"He was on the edge of too good for me... What I remember about the night I wasn't raped."

This post deals with rape and might be triggering for some readers.

I wish everything was still in bright primary colours.

Remember when you were little and the world was in such vivid and clear colour?

Red bikes, blue skies, yellow jumpers.

Then you enter your teen years and everything in your world becomes black and white. Right and wrong.

Oh, how blissful it is when you know everything! With no life experience to really know anything.

Down with capitalism. Stay woke.

Black and white.

Then as you grow the world begins to shade, nothing is one just one colour, no one is just one thing.

All that certainty of black and white suddenly becomes grey.

This story is from the grey.

I was a slut before it was OK to be one.

Before you could just call it female empowerment and have ownership. I still question how much ownership you can have in a one night stand. In an experience in which a stranger twice the size of you will take your clothes off and bare weight on top of you. If consent is held and orgasms are had you walk home with your head held high. Look at me. I’m so empowered. Owning my sexuality.

But really you were just lending it out and hoping they don’t smash it with their bare hands.

I wasn’t raped once.

I don’t remember his name, he worked at a pub. He served me drinks and his eyes lingered a little too long. I loved that. I loved entering a space and making eye contact. Seeing which glances lasted long enough to know the possibilities. Looking around to see who I wanted to fuck. I’d always scope the scene I entered, eyeing people out and placing them into categories.

The men that were out of my league. The men that were in my league and the men I was too good for.

I was as attracted to these men as I was to the unpredictability of it all.

I loved not knowing where my night would end.

He was on the edge of too good for me. He knew it. The thrill I got when he asked for my number was a high better than any drug.

He texted me. Did I want to come over when his shift ended? Yes, I did.

So I went. I made that choice. I was in control. I was empowered and in ownership. Wasn’t I?

I don’t remember how I got there. I remember we kissed and he darted his tongue in and out of my mouth and I rolled my eyes and thought someone should tell him he is a terrible kisser – knowing that someone wouldn’t be me. I then wondered if the girl he kissed before me thought the same thing and how she didn’t say anything either. What a disservice we all do to each other.

I remember he had a nose bleed and he was embarrassed about it.

I remember we had sex and I performed well. I arched my back in that way that made my boobs stick up and my stomach seem flat.

I remember he wanted to do anal. I didn’t.

I don’t remember saying no.

I don’t remember saying yes.

I remember there was some blood on the sheets after. I was embarrassed. Was it the nose bleed? Or me? I don’t remember.

It was all shades of grey.

I remember in the morning giving him a hand job.

I remember my hand feeling slick and repulsive and not attached to my body.

I remember a lump in my throat.

I remember thinking I just want him to finish so I can leave. I think he finished. He must of because I left.

I remember thinking how some men are two completely different people before and after they cum.

I remember driving home.

I remember he texted me thanks for a good night.

I remember feeling rage but I didn’t know who I was angry at.

I remember feeling shame. Was I drunk? I don’t think I was drunk.

Then I remember feeling nothing at all.

I remember thinking at least I wasn’t raped.

Later on, the toilet when I tried to shit there was blood on the toilet paper. That happened for a while I think. I hated that every time I had to shit, I had to think of him.

I wasn’t raped. It’s barely a story. It’s just a small part that lives in the grey area. I think women have so many small things that live in the grey area.

It bothers me I still think of it years later and that anal sex is something I will never do.

Once I had my drink spiked by two guys at a club.

I remember it clearly. I was sitting talking to them and I got up to use the bathroom. When I got back I took another sip of my coke and within half an hour I felt blind drunk.

I left to find my friends and the two guys protested that I should stay and talk with them some more.

The dance floor was spinning. A bouncer threw me out because I was too drunk.

“But I’m the designated driver,” I slurred. He just shook his head. I have no memory after that. My friends told me they found me outside violently vomiting. They took me home and put me to bed as I cried and told them my skin was melting.

The next memory I have is waking up in my bed with no recollection of how I got there.

I’ve told that story so many times. It’s the cautionary tale, isn’t it? Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t leave your drink unattended. I was the good girl in that story. I was sober. I was unaware. I was drugged. I was right. They were wrong.

Black and white.

I don’t tell the other story out loud. I did say it once to a friend when I was drunk. I giggled a little when I said it. “It’s not like I was raped,” I said…

“It happens,” she said.

Perhaps she was once in the grey area too.

If this post brings up any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) – the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service. It doesn’t matter where you live, they will take your call and, if need be, refer you to a service closer to home.

Feature image: Getty.