Until about 24 hours ago, I was celibate for over two years. (I’m a guy.) Despite some rare and brief moments of loneliness, I really didn’t mind it; I’d get high, ride my bike, write music… I was fulfilled in ways I never had time for when I was dating, in a relationship, or regularly trying to hook up online or in bars. Recently I stopped smoking weed in order to pass an upcoming preliminary drug test for a job and, as a result, I’ve been going out drinking more often.
Last night, I had plans to meet some friends for karaoke but they couldn’t make it, so instead I made my way to another bar, this one closer to my apartment. I ate half a Xanax and drank two beers before I left on my bike, then proceeded to drink Tom Collins until last call (I think I totaled five), chatting with a gay former marine eight years my senior. It wasn’t until my second to last drink that I really started to feel intoxicated, and I probably shouldn’t have ordered that last one but the bartender makes the best I’ve had in this town.
We stepped outside to smoke and the marine mentioned going somewhere and cuddling. I said, “Fuck it, why not?”, and we walked to my apartment. I could barely push my bike, let alone ride it, but we made it back safely. I locked my bike up in the basement and we crept quietly into the apartment so as not to wake my roommate, who, despite my protests, prefers to sleep with his bedroom door open. I led him to my bedroom and then went to take a piss. When I came back, he was sprawled out on my bed in his underwear. I stripped down to mine and crawled beneath the sheets, inviting him under to be the big spoon.
He placed his hand on my crotch and remarked how hard I was, then led my hand to his erection. It wasn’t long before his dick was in my mouth.
The rest of this epic letter—which ends with my least favorite question—after the jump…
That’s all I really wanted: to blow him, make him come, and be blown myself. I was secretly hoping I could get rid of him afterwards, but it was nearly 5 a.m. at that point and I wouldn’t have put him out if he didn’t have anywhere to go. My memory is hazy about what happened next. At some point he began to insist that I top him. At some point I got very uncomfortable. I think it happened in that order, but I’m not really sure. I’m not a top. I’m not versatile. I don’t know if I really knew that then—I’ve only been with one other guy, a long time ago, and we just sucked each other’s dicks—but I had an idea that I wouldn’t be into it.
I finally gave in. I put on a condom and began fucking him, but I couldn’t stay hard for long. I wasn’t into it, and told him so, and he took the condom off and started blowing me, but my mood had been ruined. I wanted him to leave, but I didn’t want to tell him that, at least not inside the apartment, so I suggested we go outside for some fresh air. Each time I got up, he’d pull me back into him. He began to guilt trip me and insisted instead that we try cuddling again. It’s hard to explain, but I felt simultaneously comforted and threatened by him. We fooled around some more and it felt okay, then he suggested I top him again. I told him I would, as long as he let me finish him with my mouth, and I put on my last condom. Again, I couldn’t stay hard and kept slipping out. I didn’t realize it, but at some point the condom had fallen off. He knew, but didn’t tell me so. I admitted again it wasn’t doing anything for me and stopped and that’s when I realized the condom had fallen off.
“I thought you knew,” he said. “I didn’t think you cared.”
I don’t remember what I said. I was freaking out. When I closed my eyes it was like a strobe light in my brain. I was suddenly sober. I was ready to kick him out but we had woken up my roommate, who was in the living room watching television at that point. My roommate, I’ve come to learn after a month or so of living with him, is in love with me, but the feeling is not mutual. He’s a nice guy, I like him as a friend, but I am not attracted to him at all. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and was hoping he would go back to bed so I could kick the former marine out without him seeing anything, but that wasn’t happening.
The marine could tell I was upset and tried to reassure me.
“The bottom is ten times more likely than the top to contract something,” he said. “I know I’m clean. I believe you if you say you are too. I’d let you do it again.”
I didn’t want to do it again. I just wanted to be left alone.
I knew I couldn’t get rid of him, so I ate the other half of the Xanax so I could just pass out. That probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but he had fallen asleep once already, so I didn’t think it was a huge risk. And nothing happened. I passed out. He passed out. We woke up around noon and snuck out while my roommate was in the shower. We didn’t speak. He walked toward wherever the fuck he was going, I walked toward the corner market to get some cigarettes.
I wondered if I was just being an asshole, but I was really scared. I called a friend and told her what had happened.
“You were raped,” she said.
I thought that was a bit extreme. I said I felt I may have been taken advantage of, that I may have felt threatened by him at times, and to tell the story was painful. But I wasn’t raped. I said it was my fault for putting myself in that situation, for being that fucked up, and for letting him come home with me. She said all my excuses were the same that people who blame rape victims give. She said that I was too far gone to give consent and that if I said no—which I did, several times—then it was definitely rape. I asked if it was even possible for a bottom to rape a top. She said she didn’t know, but concluded by telling me to get tested in three weeks, and again in three months, and if I tested positive for anything to press charges. I told her I didn’t think involving cops would be a good idea. I said it was a mistake, one I have learned from, and whatever the consequences, they were mine with which to live.
Which is truly how I feel, but, as someone who has predominately been with women, I couldn’t imagine putting a woman through the same things that marine put me through. I realize now I would feel… like a rapist if I did that to someone. So…
Was I raped?
Terrible Hangover Rakes Over Brain
First things first:
You drink too much, THROB. Stop that. Mixing Xanax and alcohol is potentially deadly. Don’t do that again. Ever.* And if you’re worried that the marine may have exposed you to HIV—and someone who lets a stranger bareback him is likelier to be HIV-positive than someone who doesn’t let strangers bareback him (because duh)—then you should get your ass to a doctor or an STI clinic and ask about getting on PEP, or “Post-Exposure Prophylaxis,” a course of anti-retroviral drugs that could significantly reduce your odds of getting infected if the marine exposed you to HIV. Here’s an info sheet on PEP courtesy of AIDS.gov.
Also, THROB, stop smoking. That shit will kill you—not as suddenly as mixing Xanax and booze can kill you, but just as dead.
And now… pivoting to my least favorite question ever: “Was I raped?” I hate this question, which I get frequently, because there’s only one permissible answer: “Yes, you were.” In your case, THROB, it’s irrelevant that it didn’t feel like rape to you—never mind that you were the one who lived it—and just calling it unpleasant or fraught or traumatizing won’t do. Not now. Because your friend slapped the rape label on it and any attempt to peel that label off will bring charges of aiding and abetting rape culture. And anyone who detects the slightest bit of ambiguity in what went down that night—or possible miscommunication on both sides, or piss-poor, booze-addled judgment on both sides—will be accused of blaming the victim. (But quickly: Your friend says you’re a rape victim and then accuses you of victim-blaming after you offered that being shitfaced might have been an issue. Which means your friend is totally cool with blaming the victim—but only when she gets to blame the victim for victim blaming.)
Before I weigh in on the big question—were you raped?—I’m gonna let someone else answer another of your questions:
According to the Center for Disease Control’s national survey on sexual violence, more than 5 million men in the United States have been “made to penetrate” someone else in their lifetime, whether by coercion, intimidation, or because they were incapacitated. In a largely overlooked study focusing exclusively on college males, 51.2 percent of participants reported experiencing a least one incident of sexual victimization, including unwanted sexual contact (21.7 percent), sexual coercion (12.4 percent) and rape (17.1 percent). Of course, most men assume they’ll be ostracized for reporting such emasculating violations, so the real numbers are likely at lot higher.
Yes, THROB, “men can be ‘made to penetrate’ someone against their will,” which means a top can be raped.
But were you raped?
You didn’t want to fuck this guy and you said no. But after he begged and cuddled and pressured you, THROB, you agreed to fuck him. Twice. He got you back into bed under the guise of cuddling before the second fuck, and cuddling was all you really wanted to do in the first place. (Cuddling and maybe blowjobs.) But he went ahead asked for what he wanted, which was to be fucked. And he had a right to ask for what he wanted. No right take it, of course, but a right to ask for it. And you agreed to give him what he wanted a second time—to fuck him again—if you could “finish him with [your] mouth.” During all of this you were, you write, “simultaneously comforted and threatened by him.” So it sounds like you agreed to fuck him because you were 1. a little intimidated by him, 2. you were attracted to him on some level, 3. he was going to keep asking until you threw him out, and 4. you couldn’t throw him out because you didn’t want your roommate to realize he was there. And the sex, when it finally went down, didn’t go well—you couldn’t stay hard and the condom fell off, at which point he revealed himself to be indifferent to his own health and yours.
To me that sounds like some bad sex between drunken strangers who weren’t communicating well as they negotiated an agreement on how each would get the other off.
But it doesn’t sound like rape.
And, again, was the marine drunk? He presumably the marine wasn’t sipping Shirley Temples while you knocked back five Tom Collins. And it’s highly likely that your desire to be rid of him was palpable and that he left your place feeling used and discarded. He could be telling a friend right now that he begged you to fuck him in the ass twice and you did—and one of those times the condom fell off—and his friend could be telling him that he was raped because he was “too far gone” to consent to things he was asking you to do to him.
Finally, THROB, you say that you would feel like a rapist if you “put a woman through the same things that marine put [you] through.” But genitals aren’t the only thing in flux when you recast the genders of the participants in this story. The exact same interactions but with a woman—the wheedling, the begging, the asking and asking until you get the answer you want—would exist in a context of male-on-female sexual violence. It’s not an apples-to-apples comparison. I’m not saying that you should treat men the way that marine treated you or that the way the marine treated you wasn’t a problem. (I’m also not saying that men don’t rape other men or that men can’t be raped. Men can be raped.) But a woman subjected to the exact same behavior would feel much more threatened. Your “giving in” and a woman’s “giving in” would be informed by different life experiences and exist in different—and in distinctly gendered—contexts.
* There are jobs a person can’t get if they smoke a little pot—but two beers, five Toms Collins, and one Xanax aren’t a problem. Crazy.
