I’m a man. I’m a pretty big one at that. This story is unconventional and may be inflammatory, but it happened and it’s been causing me some distress for the past few years. I haven’t submitted it before, because I didn't think it was a big deal. But I’m leaving soon and it seems appropriate to finally share it.

 

In the basement of the social house, I wasn't drunk. But my friends were and you were, but I wasn't. We knew each other, vaguely. You came up to me and pushed your hips hard against mine. I was freshman boy; I know what I’m supposed to do. I accepted even though I didn't really want to.  While we were kissing, you shoved your hands down my pants in the dance floor and grabbed me hard. I wasn't aroused at all but you pulled hard, like you were trying to rip it off. I was confused and after a few moments I pulled your hand out, “Stop that.” You nodded and pushed me back towards a wall where I thought things would calm down, perhaps I could tell you off. You spun around and shoved yourself so hard against me that my head slammed the wall. I didn't know how to react.  Then you reached in again and needless to say, I wasn't excited. I didn't know how to tell you to stop, after I had already done so already. I grabbed your wrist tightly this time and said loudly, “Stop!” This time you did, maybe I hurt your wrist. You couldn't understand why I wasn't interested and you called me something that I’ve forgotten. The next night you slept with my best friend.

 

Truth be told, I’ve told this story to my friends a number of times. It’s only response: laughter. So that’s how I treat it. I laugh at it. I laugh when I see your Facebook posts lauding IHH. I laugh when I see your support of the “Carry that weight” project at Columbia.

 

I laugh because if I did that to you in that basement, I’m not sure I could bear my own. I laugh because I doubt this true story will be read.