They say girls give sex to get love,
and boys give love to get sex.
I always thought that was weird, though,
because most of the boys I know
just skip the love part.
They go right to the fuck part.
And then I wonder, what does that say about me,
that that is my experience with boys?
I just fell into what society teaches,
what a conservative preaches,
like blood-sucking leeches
taking the souls out of people like me.
Making me think I had anything to do with their actions,
that it was me who caused it,
that’s bullshit, so toss it.
But… wasn’t it?
I was the girl who said yes to a near stranger,
I’m the one who likes a little danger,
the one who said, “Hey, I’ll do you a favor
if you just do me one back and promise to call me later.”
That was me, right?
So maybe it’s my fault that he didn’t hear “no,”
maybe it’s my fault that he didn’t let me go,
maybe it’s my fault…
Shit. I don’t know.
I’m not the one who held me down,
I’m not the one who took me out,
who spiked my drink,
who promised to help when I lost control of myself.
If what he did was help, I’m better off on my own.
You are the one who made me feel worthless.
You are the one who did it on purpose.
You are the one…
I ran to when I needed help.
When I was going through hell,
when I just wanted to be held.
And I am the one…
Who said, “Yes, we can fuck.”
Who thought that would be enough.
Except for that one time when I didn’t.
That one time when I said, “Don’t.”
That one time when I trusted you
And you hurt me.
You broke me.
You made me fell like I’d never be worthy
of someone who loved me.
Because everything I was,
everything I thought I was,
Or was that me?
See, because I’m so confused.
It’s not like what you see on the news.
He’s just an ordinary guy.
And I was just an ordinary girl,
before I became another kind of ordinary.
Because “1 in 4” means my story isn’t extraordinary,
I can’t be the only one who thinks that’s horrible.
It wasn’t my fault, but I’m not sure it was his. Entirely.
Because when I say “he,” I mean “they,”
more than one, plural.
with certain complications,
rolled into a compilation in my mind.
I wasn’t asking for it.
I said “no,”
And there was fear on my face.
It wasn’t a misunderstanding.
It was a loss of consciousness on his side.
Because he started as Jekyll
And ended up Mr. Hyde.
But “no” still means no. Right?
And that starts with parents meaning it
when you say “no” to your sons.
You can’t let them talk you out of it, because
if your “no” doesn’t really mean no,
how is he supposed to know that mine does?
“No” still means no.
“Don’t” is not an invitation,
“Stop” does not mean I like it.
Sex should not be something that is feared.
His hands on my body should not bring me to tears.
So I’m asking you, right here:
Is it my fault?
Is it his?
Sex should be an agreement, at least for one night,
not a competition to see who is stronger.
It shouldn’t be a fight for dominance.
I didn’t mean for this to be a rant,
but that’s what happens
when you hold it inside,
thinking you can’t tell anyone.
When you realize it shouldn’t be a secret.
The discussion of sex should not be taboo.
It’s been my secret,
but I don’t want to keep it,
and that’s why I’m telling you.
We should not have to stay silent.
And this is what happens when we finally get a chance to speak.
It’s not a simple issue.
But it shouldn’t be that complicated.
My “no” sure as hell wasn’t.