When it happened, I didn’t think much of it. I’d never been one of the popular girls, and I’d kissed only one person before, although I was seventeen. I was drunk and we kissed, and then it was more and I said no, and asked him to stop, and I cried, and he held me down with his knees and forced his penis into my mouth.
The next day, I saw him and he didn’t even look at me. I’ve never seen him again, and I don’t think he’d recognise me if he did.
He was a year or two younger than me, and dating my a friend of a friend: I hadn’t known he’d had a girlfriend, and I felt guilty. I woke up and vomited and blamed myself, and I felt guilty for years. I put it down to stupidity and regretted it and I thought I got over it. But I started thinking about it the year before last, when I was twenty two, and I started to think about the occurrence differently.
I spoke to friends about it, and went to a therapist, and eventually, when I felt like I was dealing with it , I told my mother about it.
She told me she thought I was overreacting. That people make mistakes. That it would be better if I just forgot about it.
And part of me knew she was right. But all I’d wanted was a hug.
We’ve never spoken about it again.
It could have been so much worse and I feel guilty even dwelling on this, as though I’m making a bigger deal out of it than I ought to, because it could have been worse.