He was a junior; I was a freshman. He was 6’4”; I was barely 5’3”. He was an athlete; I didn’t even know where the fitness center was. We’d hooked up once before…it had been drunken, sloppy, forgettable. We must have exchanged numbers because he called me a few weeks later on a Monday night. Three or four times. I didn’t pick up, and he left a couple of messages. He yelled my name into the phone, his words becoming progressively slurred: “Heyyyyyyy it’s meeeeee, what are you uuup toooo? Lemme know if you’re down to get weird tonight.” His teammates laughed raucously in the background. I could almost smell the booze through the receiver. And no, I was not “down to get weird” on a Monday night when I had homework to finish, a 9AM class, and a not-too-fond memory of our last encounter. I texted him back that I was sorry, but that I wouldn’t be available. I think he may have called me a couple more times. I didn’t pick up.

 

I was getting ready for bed, had just gotten out of the shower, and was brushing my teeth when the bathroom door opened. I lived on an all girls hall, so you can imagine my surprise when a guy walked in. And my astonishment when the guy turned out to be that guy. He saw me in my bathrobe, toothbrush in my mouth, and excused himself, said he’d wait for me outside. I was dumbfounded. How had he found me? Did he have friends in my dorm? I didn’t think so. Had I told him where I lived? Maybe the building, but I was sure I’d never mentioned what hall I lived on. And given I was also pretty sure that juniors don’t generally take to wandering the corridors of freshman dorms – and especially not alone – I came to the conclusion that this was no (un)happy accident: he’d been looking for me. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I knew I had to leave the bathroom at some point. I opened the door, and there he was, waiting for me, his frame filling up the entire doorway. He reeked of liquor. Not without difficulty, I squeezed past him and told him to stay where he was, that I would put clothes on and meet him by the bathroom. My roommate had already gone to bed, so the lights were off, and I stumbled a bit as I set down my shower caddy and searched for my pajamas. I crawled into bed, my mind racing. How the fuck did he find me? What is he doing shitfaced on a Monday night? I told him I wasn’t available…why didn’t he listen? Should I go back out or should I hope he leaves on his own? I decided to stay in bed; I didn’t know what to tell him to make him go away. Probably about a minute later, I heard pounding on my door. Fuck. And then the turning of the doorknob (we never kept our door locked). FUCK. I rushed to the door as my roommate stirred and asked groggily what was going on. I apologized and told her to get back to sleep.

 

I went outside and chided him, “What are you doing here?! You woke my roommate up. I have class in the morning.” I don’t think anyone has ever looked less sorry than he did when he whispered, “sorry” as he bit his lip and pulled me towards him. Ok fine, I figured, maybe if I make out with him a bit, that’ll be enough, and then he’ll go. I let his tongue and alcohol breath slosh around in my mouth for a while, my calves starting to cramp up because I was on my tiptoes. Someone on my hall opened her door, and he quickly ushered me towards the bathroom. Ugh, what now? There was a girl in one of the stalls and a girl taking a shower, so he pushed me towards the separate room that contained a single bathtub. He closed the door behind him and locked it. I had a pretty good idea of where this was going and didn’t know how I felt about it.

 

Yes, he’s attractive. But am I at all in the mood for this right now? No. And this is so weird, there are other people in the bathroom! He’s so drunk…he’s not going to let this go. Would I be able to physically get away from him if I wanted to? Probably not. I could threaten him, but he’s not a bad guy.

 

Without taking off his jacket, he unzipped his jeans to reveal a flaccid penis, put his hands on my shoulders, and pushed me down. “Look,” I told him, starting to stand up, “I really don’t have time for this…” “Shhh,” he said as he pushed me back down, “I’ll be quick, don’t worry.” This exchange repeated itself several times before he pushed me to my knees with one hand, grabbed the back of my head with the other, and pulled it towards his body. “Open your mouth,” he instructed, “suck.” I know how to give a fucking blowjob, I thought, I just don’t want to. But eventually I opened my mouth. And sucked. Because it was easier than trying to fight it, easier than thinking up new ways out of the situation. He grabbed my head with both hands and thrust rapidly. I started gagging, nearly retching, tears streaming down the sides of my face. My hands pushed at his thighs for him to release me. He didn’t. I couldn’t breathe. Has anyone ever passed out from being skull-fucked? I wondered. He finally let go of my head, and I surfaced for air, gasping, coughing, saliva dribbling down my chin onto the floor, my tear ducts all but emptying every last drop. “What the fuck, dude?! I obviously can’t go that deep.” “Awww…sorry.” That “sorry” so devoid of any remorse was beginning to bug me. And then he did it again. And again. Each time I got angrier, and each time he said “sorry,” he sounded less and less apologetic. “Stop doing that!” I told him. “Sorry…it’s so hot when you choke.”

 

And when he wasn’t ramming his penis down my throat to the point that I thought I was going to suffocate, he was pinching my nipples and pulling them with such force that I would actually cry out in pain. I repeatedly told him, “That hurts! Stop it!” More blank apologies. He would stop just long enough for me to clutch my breasts in pain, and then he would push my head back towards his crotch, and continue thrusting and reaching for my stinging nipples. “OW! How many times do I have to tell you to stop?” “Come on, you know you love it.” “No, I don’t, actually, it fucking hurts.” “Awww, you know you like it a just a little bit.”

 

He had said he’d be quick. We were in that room for well over an hour. I let him jerk himself off onto my face. I was relieved, to be honest. My jaw was too sore, my throat too raw, my chest too bruised. I wasn’t sexually experienced – or brave? confident? – enough to feel comfortable walking away from a guy before he reached orgasm, and especially not a 6’4” intoxicated athlete. He left. Finally. I took another shower and brushed my teeth again. I felt dirty as I climbed back into bed that night.

 

The thing is though, I didn’t realize just how fucked up this was until months (years?) later. When I told my friends about it, I played it off as being merely annoying and kind of strange. That’s just the kind of stuff that happens in college, right? Stories to laugh about later in life. Except that years later, I’m not laughing. I’m angry. And part of what I’m so angry about is that I, an independent, educated, strong young woman, somehow thought that someone’s seeking me out against my express wishes, then physically hurting me regardless of my pleas for him to stop, could ever be considered “normal” or “okay.” I had learned that sex meant submitting to the man’s desires, whether you wanted to or not.

 

I hooked up with him several more times my freshman year. I still get calls from him at 3AM when he comes back to campus as an alum. I don’t pick up.