The first time I was only 16. At the time I couldn’t imagine letting anyone use the word “only” before my age. I was ageless, life was limitless, the future was mine to behold and from within which to be held. I was loud and out-spoken. I loved like time itself had swooped down and whispered in my ear that this, this was the one and I poured my heart into his mouth when I kissed him. The first time was after a broken heart, tears caught in my throat, and this 29y/o man was my island in the storm while I waited for the ride to whisk me home from the defeat of a relationship waiting on a precipice to tear me to shreds. The first time I said no, repeatedly, consistently, again and again until I did not. I said no until I said nothing. I stood my ground until the ground ceased to be something that meant anything to me at all and I faded into a crow’s view place, looking down on my body, knowing that my brain was controlling my movements but I was no longer there to take part. I said no until I shut down and let him take what he was so determined to take. A part of me. The first time was not brutal, it was simply not anything. The first time was a year after I wrote the poem I titled Butterflies ‘ a woman, no longer the child of moments before, departs the bedroom with a last, longing look over her shoulder. She had no regrets, only a feeling of emptiness, where there should have been love. ‘ The first time a man stole my body and used it for his pleasures, was also my first time. The first time was without my consent, without me even being present inside my body. He entered and I left. A year later, when I finally told my mother about the first time, she cried and told me about a different era, when she was raped and thought she had to marry her abuser. Later when I told my father about the first time, he looked me in the eye and told me he didn’t believe me. I moved out a year later.
The second time was two years after the first, in my own bed, awoken by the pain of a dry entry. Drug haze, a face I hardly knew. The second time I faded back out. The second time, some time must have passed, until I was awoken by his next entry through the back door. Blood does not for a good lube make. But the drugs were strong and I remember little else of the second time. The second time I remember little else other than the friend who brought him to the party, and when I asked for his contact information, he wouldn’t give it. And when I finally burst into tears trying to explain why I needed it, his words rung loud and clear, like a shot across my life, “but you were flirting with him all night”… the second time his words told me I’d asked for it. The second time his words explained it away. The second time his words perhaps led to the third time. And I told no one else.
The third time happened two more years later, at a club in Toronto. The third time it was my birthday. I’d been a sober party-er for a while, but my friends convinced me that a birthday girl should have a good time. Somehow the third time my friends and I held fast for the drugs and lost touch after they kicked in. The third time he said he’d help me find my friends. The third time, I passed out. There’s a narrow stairway at this club, it leads down to the bathrooms. The men’s room is past the women’s and I’d never been there before. The third time I came to in the stall. How they managed to get me from the dance floor to the stall, with no one commenting on my comatose state, I’m not quite sure I understand. The third time I was penetrated by him and his friend was penetrating from behind. Blood still does not for a good lube make. This woke me to my surroundings. The third time, a voice outside the stall called some sort of warning, something about the watch being on deck? A code known to those who frequented this sort of event. A code I didn’t understand. The third time he urged me up on the seat, his friend departed the stall and he turned to face the bowl. The third time I hunched down and waited. The third time the help I needed was on the other side of the door. What was I doing? Why was I still cowering. I waited with breath lost and muscles frozen. The watch retreated and with a laugh, my captor swung open the door and watched as I scurried back upstairs. Somehow, the third time I danced all night. Somehow, the third time I watched the sun rise as we were all ushered out of the party and my captor’s eye caught mine across the crowd and he laughed and winked and said “thanks for a good time” before his face was lost in the sea of faces. The third time I was drowning inside my body and no one could see.
The fourth time I was in another country and my world was falling apart. I had no voice. I went with the flow of the party. Wherever the action was, whoever had the most drugs, I followed them. The fourth time I was in an apartment with strangers and agreeing to take some fancy designer pills. The fourth time I gave consent with a swig of vodka and a grin. The fourth time I didn’t know what I was consenting to, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. The fourth time I woke beside a man’s warm body and a pile, a pile that resembled a mountain, of bloodied condoms. The fourth time, the first thing to go through my mind was, at least they’d used condoms. The fourth time I pressed the two of them for details, and they laughed and said I was a riot. The fourth time one of them took me aside and pulled from a plastic bag a balled up piece of fabric, he unrolled it and showed me his shirt, the front drenched in my bright red blood and he said, I’m sorry. The fourth time I shrugged it off and asked for a ride home.
The fifth time was a decade later. The fifth time I thought I was a different person. A different kind of woman. The fifth time I was a mother to a beautiful eight year old girl, who was away at her father’s for the weekend. The fifth time was in my own bed again. A different bed. A different scenario. We’d broken up, but I wanted him to stay. The fifth time he’d hurt me so much I should have run to the hills, but I depended on him. I’d let my life begin to revolve around him. I couldn’t have given so much of myself up if he was just going to walk away. The fifth time, when he took me to bed, I thought it was a good thing, I thought it meant we’d get back together, I thought he wanted me. The fifth time, all he wanted was to show me his power over me. The fifth time, somewhere in the middle, it was no longer pleasurable and he was hurting me. The fifth time I told him to stop and he laughed. The fifth time I realized, again, how weak my muscles were when compared to his. The fifth time I told him I was done, to get off me, to let me go, to please just don’t do this, please, no, stop. The fifth time he held me down and drooled into my face and spat across my nose and told me I was nothing. The fifth time he didn’t cum, he pulled out, wiped himself on my thigh and walked out of the room. The fifth time I had to live with him for another month, before I could move into my own place. The fifth time I had to pretend in front of my daughter that everything was okay at home, that I wasn’t dead inside, that I could be a strong woman and her mother and get on with life, because, the fifth time was nothing.
The fifth time I was raped, I learned, statistically, victims of rape are often repeat victims of rape, but no one really knows why.
I live in fear every day that the sixth time will be a conversation with my daughter crying about her first time.
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