May, woman, twenties, UK

TRIGGER WARNING: Gender-Based Violence

I was on the dancefloor at a bowling alley in north London on a Friday night. Most weekends in this stretch of my life featured a stint at this venue. Almost everyone I knew in London congregated there at some point or another over the course of a Friday evening. The playlists, arcades, drinks, and faces were familiar. We almost always walked the 15 minutes back to our house when it closed at two. 

I could see my friend by the bar smiling as she noticed me talking to a man I’d just met. She knew him vaguely and had reported he was considered very handsome - a consensus from a peer group unknown or unidentified to me. In the next hour, he and I kissed for a while, on several occasions. I noted that during our kisses, he pulled hard on my ponytail. On trips to the smoking area, I laughed about it with my friend - it was strange behaviour and seemed inept. Had he confused me with a horse and carriage? 

Well before the bowling alley closed, I left with the man. He said he lived around the corner with his parents but they were away. We walked to his house in the dark, and I noted that he spat repeatedly into the gutter as we talked. We arrived, went upstairs to the kitchen and began kissing. As things progressed I asked if he had a condom. He said no. I said I didn’t want to have sex without one. We went into his bedroom to look for one and didn’t find one. We continued to kiss - I said it was OK to carry on but that I wouldn’t have sex. As we undressed he pulled my pants aside and, in one swift motion, slipped inside me. 

When I tell this story now, I say that I stopped moving, pushed him away, and said, with amused disbelief, ‘Excuse me, could you stop that? I think you might be raping me?’ And that with polished resilience - strong and smooth at the same time - I got up, flashed him an astonished smile, pointed out again that he’d deliberately penetrated me without my consent, and walked out of the door. 

In reality, although I did leave eventually, I wasn’t slick about it and I didn’t use the word rape. I asked him not to, wriggled a little, and continued kissing. He did it again, twice. Eventually, I said I wanted to go home. He saw me to the door and I left in a taxi. Through the night and over the following morning he sent me messages on multiple platforms, calling me ‘babe’ and asking me to reply. 

When I left I felt dirty, humiliated, and slightly scared. By lunch the following day I felt fine. When I think about it now I’m mainly angry that, at the time, I was embarrassed by what was happening, even as it happened. I was too embarrassed to ask him directly what the hell he thought he was doing. But otherwise, it’s one of many experiences that drifts to and fro over the line between a criminal offence; a potential trauma, and something entirely quotidian - familiar; mundane even. I could sift dispassionately through handfuls of experiences like it, and so could every woman I know. 

It’s important we let the shame drain away. The humiliation is not ours to hold.