Kalah Allen
Hey, Mr. Hot-Shit: You raped me. Sure, I answered my hotel room door wearing a slinky nighty, but it was past 3 am for chrissakes. I was in bed. Last time I checked, lingerie didn't give a guy license to force a girl to have sex with him. I eventually went along it, but merely because I was sick of telling you no. I wanted to get some sleep, and it was clear I wouldn't be getting any unless I gave you what you wanted. And even after it was over, when you asked me to go back to your room with you, you wouldn't take no for an answer. Want to know the saddest part about all this? You probably don't even realize how fucked up that was. Since I didn't scream bloody murder; since I didn't let it escalate to a violent level, you probably don't even consider it rape. I'm here to tell you it was. I did NOT want to have sex with you before, during, or after it happened. I let you go down on me because I thought I might at least get something out of it, but that doesn't nullify your sick and twisted behavior. I'm saying something about it because I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I hadn't. Not only because I compromised myself by not putting up more of a fight, but also because you are now left with the impression that what you did was acceptable. My worst fear is that you're somewhere right now, drunk and coked out of your mind, pulling the same shit on some other unsuspecting so-called friend of yours. Stop the cycle now. There's still time for you to change your evil ways.

--Anonymous