When I was 16, I went to a house party with my best friend at the time and lost my virginity, or so I thought. She was currently dating his best friend and lost her V plates to him that night, and in response he plowed me full of whisky, leaving me incapable of giving consent, and raped me on the bathroom floor of a house in Dersingham in order to get back at his sister.
He and his friends mocked me, barging in and then licking the used condom covered in the blood that came when he broke my hymen. For the rest of the night, and from then on, he ignored me and I chalked it down to a bad first time. Thinking that it was normal.
Oh, sweet girl, it was not.
My best friend blamed me, thinking it was my fault and not acknowledging what he had done. To be fair, neither did I. I blamed myself for sleeping with her brother when, in reality, he had raped me and taken my virginity. The age of consent in England is 16 and I thought it was okay because it was legal. Regardless of his or my age, fucking someone when they don't have the ability to give informed consent? Rape.
Ironically, even as I'm typing this I'm blaming myself.
So many people, friends included, made fun of me. Made fun of the whole situation, and I pretended it didn't happen. I sat at the dinner table with him, thinking what he had done was okay and that him ignoring me was to be expected. That I should be embarrassed in front of his mother because I'd slept with her son. When in reality I was sitting at the dinner table next to the sister of the man that had raped me.
I have, however, realized that I have been wrong. So wrong. When I was raped, for the second time, I believed that people who had taken years to say they were raped were full of shit. That I had come forward and reported the person that raped me and therefore so should they. In reality, I didn't realize that it could take people years to acknowledge, and understand, that they'd been raped. To those, I'm sorry, I'm very very sorry.
Rob Lewis, you raped me. End of.
xXx
