He was my oldest friend. Out parents have photos of us sitting naked in a paddling pool when we were both under two. I trusted him.
I took his virginity when we were sixteen or so. It wasn’t that special to me, but it must have been for him. He was not happy when, eight years later, I didn’t remember.
We had a good evening, watching a game (rugby, or something like it). I was tired, and my regular sleeping tablet made me more so. We were sharing the bed, but that was supposed to be it.
I headed for bed, and a few minutes later he came in. We joked about how the noise I made while stretching sounded a bit like a sex noise. I got gradually sleepier.
He was on top of me, inside me, and I was too sleepy and shocked to say anything. I toppled into sleep.
The next morning came, and when I woke up I showered and scrubbed for so long before I got into my clothes and left. He didn’t understand why I was leaving without breakfast. I tried to call a friend, but there was no answer. I sat in a little garden, full of pigeons, and cried.
He ‘took advantage’ of me. It took a long time for me to call it rape. How could I say that about a friend? Maybe it was a misunderstanding. I swallowed the lines that society come up with.
We were still friends. I even went to his leaving drinks, but I told him I wouldn’t go home with him. He told me that he hoped I would get drunk enough to go home with him, and that it wasn’t fair that he wasn’t getting laid on his last night in town. I just ignored it, boys will be boys and all that. It took me a long time to admit that was sexual harassment. It was only once, how could it be harassment? Harassment to me meant the creepy advances your boss made, not the comments of friends.
I was raped, and I was sexually harassed. I blamed myself, or made excuses, because that’s the attitude of the society around me. But it doesn’t matter that I was under the influence of drugs, it doesn’t matter what I was wearing, and it definitely doesn’t matter that we were friends.