When I was 16 years old, I went to a house party with my boyfriend at the time. We’d both been drinking and had gone up to a bedroom to have some ‘alone time’ which, of course, meant hardcore making out on a bed that wasn’t ours, probably surrounded by everyone else’s coats.
We did just that — hardcore making out on a bed that wasn’t ours, surrounded by everyone else’s coats, empty beer bottles, and the occasional handbag or rucksack. He turned me over, getting ready to do me in the doggy position, his favourite position, and I found myself in a corner, staring at two walls, bracing myself. I didn’t brace myself enough, that’s for sure.
We’d never discussed the idea of anal. It had never even entered my head. This boyfriend was my second ever lover and I was just getting used to my own sexuality. We’d messed around with some non-vanilla stuff, of course, spanking, typing up, blindfolding, etc., but that’s as far as our experimenting went. He knew I was a “beginner”. I needed to be worked in gently, especially if I wanted to match his insatiable, kinky appetite.
He didn’t even bother spitting on me. He didn’t touch me at all. He didn’t see if I felt wet, or think to use some of that wetness to spread around my ass, getting it ready. He just went in, bareback, dry. The second I felt that nudge against my ass, I said no. Cried out no. He did it anyway. It made me cry. He didn’t stop. He carried on, all the way. It made me bleed. I was in agony. I avoided all anal play for many, many years. I don’t enjoy anal to this day.
I said no.
Before he penetrated.
We’d never even discussed anal.
When I was 17, I cheated on my boyfriend of 10 months and he found out by reading my journal. We had a big fight, him throwing my stuff out on the street. You know — underwear I’d left there, toothbrush, hair bands, and brushes, makeup remover wipes, tampons, razors, a few clothes. It was all very dramatic.
A few nights later, he turned up at my house in the middle of the night. Well, my Nan’s house. That’s where I lived. He made such a racket, calling my phone over and over again, begging me to let him in. He was blind drunk. Stupid and naive, I let him in.
I took him up to my room and he promised he’d be quiet and not wake my Nan. I wasn’t allowed boys at my house. She would kill me. I had two single beds in my room and I motioned for him to get in one while I got in the other.
“Nope, I’m getting in with you.”
He climbed in beside me and pushed me towards the wall. I had nowhere to go. Not unless I could springboard myself down to the bottom of the bed.
He kissed me. He was crying. I was crying too. I was sorry, so sorry, and I said it repeatedly. I was stupid for cheating on him. I wanted another chance. I was young and dumb, I didn’t know the mistake I was making as I was making it. He tried to pull my pajama bottoms down and I managed to stop him. His hands were everywhere though, pulling at my clothing, one of them sliding down into my pants.
“Please don’t, let’s talk.”
I pleaded with him to stop. He didn’t. He got my pajama pants off, stopping my struggling by reminding me that we couldn’t wake up my Nan. He’d forgive me if let him do this. I gave up fighting when he got to my top, not helping him undo the buttons but not really stopping him either.
He climbed on top and thrust into me, harder than I’d ever felt before. He was enormously well-endowed, something that hindered our sexual progress on many an occasion. He was so well-endowed, we couldn’t manage full, penetrative sex often. It wasn’t a consideration he had on this particular night.
I cried out in pain but he silenced me by putting his hand over my mouth. Then he slammed into me over and over and over again. It felt as if I were being battered with a baseball bat. I was in agony for days. I didn’t go to work the next day. I bled for two days. I still remember what that pain felt like.
The same man went on to put me in the hospital after punching me in the face during a fight one night, a couple of years later.
When I was 18 years old, I worked in a petrol station. It was during handover of the shift that it happened. I’d signed out, removed my float and taken it out the back, and then I came back into the store to wait for the last customers to leave so I could lock the door. Nightshift meant the switchover from shop door to safety hatch.
There was a pub just across the road from the petrol station, although there weren’t usually many problems. The odd drunk, but they tended to be more fall-over-friendly and thankful for their Ginsters pasty than on the hunt for a fight.
One guy wasn’t like the rest. He was blind drunk, grabbed a chunk of cheese from the dairy fridge, and shoved it down the front of his trousers.
“Excuse me, you can’t do that!”
I figured I’d let him keep the cheese, because, ew. I just wanted to get him out the shop and stop him from shoving anything else weird and wonderful down his pants. Anyone who stuffs cheese down the front of their trousers is not a friend of mine.
He grabbed me. He turned me around and barged me into the candy counter in the middle of the shop. He grabbed the back of my trousers, just below the butt, and he pulled. He pulled my trousers down, and my underwear, in the middle of the petrol station. In the middle of my place of work. He laughed, and then he ran away. Except he didn’t run away. He waited in the petrol station’s closed car wash. Someone had left the door unlocked and he’d managed to get in there. My work colleague and I thought he might have been waiting for me to finish.
We called the cops, of course, and they came, after quite a wait. They did have a look around for the chap, but he’d long since scarpered. After taking the CCTV from the shop, they escorted me home and I never heard anything else about it. I did become a joke among the male members of staff. Pants down. It was fucking frightening. I thought I was going to get raped.
When I was in my early twenties, I found myself in the bedroom of a man who wasn’t my husband. I’d slept with this man once before, cheating on my husband, but it had been a terrible mistake. I realised that the morning after, hangover in full force. It was only a few weeks after that first night that we’d found ourselves in the same bedroom again. This time.
We weren’t originally in the room alone, but the other lads had gone down to the bar. I was just about to leave myself when he put his body in front of the door. It was a move he’d played the last time too. He tried to kiss me, but I ducked out from his arms. He still wouldn’t move though, and he also refused to lighten his grip on the door handle.
It took me twenty minutes to get out of that room. He was persistent, following me from one side to the other, but always sticking between me and the door. I wasn’t able to get out. Not half as drunk as the time before, not at all, in fact, I told him I just wasn’t interested.
“But you did it last time, come on.”
He kept trying to kiss me and touch my tits. Grabbing my arm. Shoving his face towards mine, hopeful desperation dripping from his sweaty, red face. It was only when we heard a few lads outside the door, in the corridor, that he agreed to let me out of the room. I threatened to scream for help otherwise.
The next day, he put up a Facebook status stating he’d fucked one of the other soldier’s wives and gave the initials of my first and last name. Thankfully (for me), another wife who had exactly the same initials as me had been playing around behind her husband’s back and it was no big secret. Everyone just assumed he was talking about her. Hilariously, I actually think he fucked her too.
For a few weeks, he hounded me, threatening to tell my husband if I didn’t sleep with him again.
“I’ll see you on Friday night, wear something hot.”
Each time I’d turn up at the bar, he’d give me a knowing wink and, for a few weeks, I steered clear of the partying scene. He eventually got bored of the game and left me alone.
When I was in my late twenties, I was followed to work by a man. He tried to talk to me as I waited to cross the road and then, very obviously and very creepily, followed me for about ten minutes on my way to work. I reported the matter to the police and then gave more information when it was requested, many months later, but I never heard anything back. I read a story in the local newspaper a few months after that about a man who got sent to prison for a series of serious sexual assaults on women. It was the same man. I took a photo of him at the time (because I take photos of EVERYTHING, especially when it’s weird, and that came in handy when I reported it) and compared the two. Same guy. Same fucking guy. Calling Bestie for help and taking that photo in that moment was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
But imagine if I hadn’t? I would have been alone on a field with a man who had already tried to talk to me (I had headphones in) and had followed me for ten minutes minimum. At 8 in the morning. That was AFTER he’d tried to talk to me too. I have no idea how long he might have been following me before he approached me. I’m not known for my alertness first thing in the morning.
When I was 29, I found myself in my boyfriend’s kitchen. We’d been fighting. He said something that tugged at my heartstrings and I stopped the fight to kiss him, not wanting to argue any longer. In seconds, I’d been pushed up into the corner of where two kitchen countertops meet, nowhere to go. I told him I was mad at him and that I didn’t want to. He didn’t listen. He managed to get my jeans down because he was a good foot plus taller than I was, and much broader too, and he bent me over the counter, fucking me from behind, lifting my feet off the ground a little so that I couldn’t move away.
When he pulled his trousers up afterward, he apologised. He apologised because he knew it had felt a little rapey. He even used the word “rapey”. He knew I didn’t want to. He admitted that. His excuse? I was wet. I felt wet when he forced his hands inside my underwear. That gave him the go ahead. Despite saying no. Despite trying to fight his hands off.
I definitely said no. I told him I didn’t want to.
He carried right on.
I have been called a “frigid bitch” because I didn’t to sleep with a man. And a “savage, wild dog” because I didn’t want a second date after I slept with him on the first.
I’ve had my drink spiked. I was 14 years old at the time.
I’ve been sent videos of random men whacking themselves off. Men I’ve never even spoken to.
My dating history includes a string of men, 30+ I reckon, who sent me a dick pic before we even met. Dick pics that I didn’t ask for. Dick pics that I definitely didn’t want. I class an unwarranted dick pic as sexual assault on the eyes, therefore, sexual assault.
I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOUR DICK.
I have been called a “dirty whore” because I didn’t message a guy back on a dating site. Another chap told me that I must be shit at my job because I didn’t message him back. Quite what that had to do with anything, I don’t know. That’s before we get into the persistent fuckers, and my personal favourite:
“Well, you must be up your own ass if you don’t message back. You don’t know what you just missed out on, bitch!”
Men driving by in their cars have wolf-whistled at me, shouting that I should get my tits out. It was on a busy road, people saw, I was mortified.
On one occasion, I waited for Bestie outside his home and a man pulled up in his car and asked how much I charged. He assumed I was a prostitute. I have no idea why he might have thought that. I was wearing a black, long-sleeved sweater dress, to the knees, with black tights, black knee-high boots (flat), and a black jacket. I finished everything off with a scarf. I had barely any makeup on, and no accessories or jewellery.
** I’m not saying that sex workers look a certain way, but I wasn’t wearing anything revealing AT ALL. It kinda fights back at an argument I hear so often:
“Well if you go out looking like that, you’re just hunting out trouble!”
Looking like what? Dressed from head to toe in black with no skin on show apart from my hands and face?
I do not feel good when you catcall me in the street. I am not a fucking statue. I do not need to be admired. I don’t want you to admire me. When I get dressed in the morning, I do so to impress other girls, not other men. I read a funny meme thing one time that said along the lines of, “If women dressed to impress a man, they wouldn’t bother getting dressed.” I agree.
Not all men are like this, but the fact that me and almost every woman I’ve ever spoken to have had at least one situation just like I’ve described proves a point. Harvey Weinstein is just the tip of a very big, very dirty, and very sordid iceberg. These are genuine tales — these things genuinely happened to me. I have been a UK size 8-10 when some of these things happened, and I have been a UK size 16-18. I’ve been blonde. I’ve been a brunette. I’ve had black hair, blue hair, pink hair, red hair, rainbow hair. Long hair and short hair. I’ve been both half naked and entirely covered up. I’ve had piercings and tattoos at some times and, at others, I haven’t had any.
These things have happened by both complete strangers and people I know. Men aged from teenage years right through to the elderly. I’ve had my butt groped by old men in shops I’ve worked in. My Design & Technology teacher at school got sacked for touching up the breasts of girls in his classes. Apparently. The touching up definitely happened. I was one of the group of girls that complained to the headmaster because he’d been making us feel so uncomfortable, we didn’t even want to go to class. Then he disappeared from the school and no one ever heard from him again.
I asked Bear if he’d ever felt like he’d been a victim of sexual assault. He said yes, once. By a woman. A persistent, overly-grabby woman in a bar.
These people, monsters, men AND women, people with absolutely no social etiquette or moral intelligence, they’re everywhere. And what happens when they are reported? Nothing.
Nothing ever happened as a result of some drunk guy pulling down my trousers and exposing my naked bottom half entirely in the place I worked.
I could have done nothing about the guy I cheated on my husband with. I’d already cheated on him once. If I had reported that guy’s harassment, I would have been met with a cry of:
“She’s lying. She cheated on her husband, got caught out, and then accused him of rape.”
Do you know how I know this? Because another girl reported harassment from a different group of lads, and that was the essence of the Chinese whispers that got around. Was she harassed? No one knows. The rumour mill went into overdrive for a while and then the entire story disappeared.
We seem to have found ourselves in this position where people are so judgemental, myself included sometimes, that sexual crimes can’t be reported. The police don’t have time to deal with it. Women are often not believed. Not enough evidence can be pulled together, or someone’s sexual history is brought into consideration, such as was the case with Ched Evans.
And then we have the problem of a President who believes it is okay to grab women by the pussy, or at least to say it is.
Locker room bantz?
Nah, mate, that’s sexual assault.
And, apparently, we’ve all been there.
Or, as some people have suggested, an attention-seeking hashtag designed for women to get their five minutes of sympathy. I actually read that. I wish I’d screenshotted it now. Well, fuck that person. I hope they open their eyes to the gritty, grimy, sex-obsessed world we live in now. And the men (and women) who think they’re entitled to grab what the fuck they like, say what the fuck they look and do what the fuck they like.
That’s not how it works.