I met him at his hotel. We both knew why I was there. He wasn’t a “stranger”. I’d known him for years. I was on the tail end of my chemo and very lonely. I felt ugly and slow. His momentary attention felt wonderful. I soaked in the smell and taste of this man. I’d nearly forgotten what being a sexual creature felt like. Suddenly all my nerve endings tingled. I felt alive in his bed. Dormant things rushed to the surface.
Then his face changed and his words plunged into me more rapid than his cock. I tried to tell myself this wasn’t happening. But his fingers found my throat. I began to fight and he enjoyed that.
His words tumbled across me, scratching my brain. I tried to focus on his hands cutting off my air, but his words were more powerful than his body ever could hope to be. I stopped fighting. Every urge I had left me. I lay there limp and broken waiting for him to finish.
I began to see spots. My vision swam and I closed my eyes. Eventually he stopped talking. Eventually his hips stopped moving. Eventually his fingers loosened grip on my throat.
He got off the bed, proud of himself. He walked to the bathroom covered in my blood and sweat. I wasted no time.
Getting dressed in the elevator, trying to find my keys I prayed my legs would carry me to my car.
I made it home and in the shower. I put my pretty mom face on and pretended my mood was cancer related.
Mentally I attempted to put myself together over and over. I’m still attempting.
Coming out of my rape fog I noticed my daughter hadn’t called in a few days.
She and I were raped on the same night. Miles away. When she told me I got in my car and drove to her.
I won’t tell her story. It isn’t mine to tell.
She’s attempting to put herself together, too.
The other day sitting on the couch together our conversation turned to this.
“I’m tired of being raped.”
That sentence settled into my bones like an arthritis.
I’m tired of being raped.
(I know I’ve given certain people access to this blog. Don’t be shocked, and don’t be hurt that I didn’t tell you. I’m not hiding it, I’m not blaming myself or shaming myself. I simply don’t want to talk about it yet. And don’t go to my daughter. Respect her privacy.)