I’m Not Your Bitch: A Story of Sexual Assault

Before you read on, I just want to make something clear. I’m the type of person who sleeps with a different guy every night. It’s not unusual for me to go on two dates on the same day or to have sex with strangers, just because.

Now that that’s out of the way, we can talk about you. We can talk about the boundaries you crossed. Transgressed. Violated.

I know what you’re thinking at this very moment: “You asked for it. You’re a slut.” This is what rapists say to deny responsibility. To help them sleep at night, they tell themselves that by sleeping around, girls like me end up hitting a wall. The thing is, I never thought you would be my wall.

That evening, I don’t know why, but something felt off. We had just started our date and I wasn’t feeling it. It didn’t feel like it normally did. Was it just me? Was it because I was feeling tired? After all, I had no real reason to want to leave. Still, the idea haunted me all evening. I was fixing us dinner, and it was eating me up inside. For no apparent reason.

They say that you can feel these sorts of things.

There were a few times when I was like, “Okay, I think that’s my cue.” But, at the same time, I couldn’t just ghost you. Last time, you paid at the restaurant. The least I could do was stay. I owed it to you. I took it upon myself.

It was the violence with which you grabbed your dog that disturbed me at first, I think. The six-month-old female Labrador you lived with was pretty hyper. You were getting irritated. She was sprinting through your one-bedroom semibasement apartment in Saint-Jérôme, and it was getting on your nerves.

That, or maybe it was the disparaging remarks about my lifestyle and my (other) lovers. Your inferiority complex, which you barely camouflaged under a thick layer of sarcasm. Your harsh criticisms, which you took care to shroud in laughter.

It was probably all of those things.

At some point, you mentioned that we didn’t use a condom last time,  (because, yes, we had already fucked). I usually use protection, so I was quite surprised that you brought it up, but you were dead serious.

To tell you the truth, I was too sloshed to realize what was going on the last time we saw each other.

Nonetheless, it contributed to setting a standard. I had inadvertently created a precedent and, with you, the expectation that we would sleep together again.

However, I admit that before knocking on your door that evening, I didn’t feel any pressure. Not from you. You had even told me earlier that we could get together just to chat, make dinner, and cuddle. I was all in for all of those things. I would have even been up for more, if only…

Red flags aren’t always blatant. We contemplate them after the fact, with a bit of distance, and we tell ourselves that, ultimately, all the ingredients were there for things to go wrong.

I replay the scene in my head.

We definitely chatted in front of the fire. We cuddled. You chose your moment to take my hands and put them on your already erect penis. I moved them away gently but you put them back, pushing down more firmly. I decided to go along with it. Because when we say yes often, we sometimes have the impression that saying no is no longer an option.

I wasn’t particularly in the mood that evening, but I couldn’t see myself refusing your advances. There are several reasons for that. The first being that I do like these things. Usually. I’m supposed to, anyway. After all, I’ve done much more. I had even gone further the day before, with someone other than you. You suspected as much, and it bothered you. You hinted at it all evening.

Okay, maybe I just needed to get into it, to make out with you until I found my arousal. So, we started kissing on the couch and it worked. I got wet when you touched me.

Then, you positioned me so that your cock was in my face. You pressed my face harder and harder against your penis to let me know, without much subtlety, that you wanted me to blow you. You liked it last time and you wanted more. I understood that. But that evening, I just wasn’t up for it.

As I rested my head next to your stomach, you must have thought, “She’s a little whore, I can do whatever I want with her. I’m going to fill her mouth with it. This bitch is going to give me everything.” The truth is, I gave you more than I could. More than I wanted.

You kept insisting and I persistently raised my head. I wanted to show you, gently, that I didn’t want to. You still asked me, several times, to suck you. You were quite explicit in your demand.

I said NO. You asked why.

“I have a sore throat. I’m sick, I told you earlier.” It wasn’t enough.

“I don’t feel like it tonight.” Still not enough.

You pushed my head down harder, this time grabbing my hair, and you continued. You even started to jerk off and bang your cock against my closed mouth. I had been fine until then—docile, even—but I felt you were seriously crossing the line. The “yes girl” had had enough.

I decided to play along. You wanted me to kiss your bits. I started licking your balls. You moaned. I sucked one into my mouth.

You had a little spasm… and I bit down. Hard. With my animal teeth. There was no more room for kindness.

You pushed me away. You were angry. Enraged even.

“GENTLE, WE SAID!” Were you talking to me or your dog?

My smallness compared to your imposing build: the chances of me emerging victorious were slim to none. Showing that I wasn’t afraid was the only way to come out of this okay.

I stood up. I towered over you to my full height. I had the upper hand. Always act like I’m in control. Make people believe, even when things get out of hand, that I am holding the leash. Even if, in reality, I am in a position of inferiority. We women always are.

I gathered my clothes. I got up and started to get dressed. It had gone too far and you knew it. You saw in my eyes that I was serious. You didn’t want to let me leave. You just couldn’t. You ripped the clothes out of my hands. You slammed me into the couch, turned me onto my stomach and forcibly removed the panties I had just put back on.

“That’s what you came for, right? So just take it.”

You tried to put it in me. Still without a condom. I was afraid. I pushed you away with my foot. A good, firm blow to the chest, an act of defiance. Above all, an act of self-defense.

You finally moved away. You didn’t understand or maybe you understood too much.

“We did it without one last time. Who cares?”

Did I really have to be the one to teach you that doing something once does not make it a habit? I apparently did.

“I’m kidding! It was just a joke.”

That was enough. We had nothing more to say to each other. I wanted to leave. I was frozen. You threw my clothes in my face and locked yourself in the bathroom, frustrated. Just before slamming the door, you gave me a murderous look.

Now, that was my cue.

I was a little stunned. It took me a moment before pulling myself together, gathering my things, and running away. It was cold outside, and it was snowing hard. A huge storm. I didn’t have time to put my socks on before my sneakers. Didn’t have time to put a sweater under my coat. I was ice cold.

I ran to my car. Once inside, I locked the doors. I was out of breath. I didn’t take the time to clear the snow off my car. The windows were frosted and I could barely see anything. Fuck it. I started the car and drove off. I drove way too fast. I sped through the narrow suburban streets. I wanted to put as much distance between us as possible.

I wanted to get away from the shame, from my feelings of discomfort.

You phoned me many times during the short route between our two homes. I saw your texts coming in one after another. I felt your rage from afar. Your violent words echoed in my head.

Trembling, I felt guilty. I wanted to apologize.

What had I just experienced? Why did I feel this way? I shouldn’t have cuddled with you. I should have been clearer. I shouldn’t have agreed to see you at all.

I should have. I shouldn’t have.

I’m upset over nothing, really. Because nothing happened. Not really, right? It happened so fast. In the end, you stopped. You didn’t go all the way, and yet…

I’m disgusted with myself. Something inside me has changed.

But through it all, I cling to one truth: I am not your pet. I’m not a circus animal. I don’t do tricks on command. I’m not a little bitch. I’m not your toy. I am not a doll that can be used as you wish.

You can neither possess me nor manipulate my body as you wish. I don’t belong to you and I never will. What I do with others does not give you the right to demand the same things of me. What I did with you the previous times does not allow you to demand that I do it again. Buying me dinner doesn’t mean you can fuck me whenever you want, however you want.

That evening, in your hands, you wanted to dispossess me of my body, but I won’t let you have everything. I definitely won’t let you do the same thing to anyone else. Without my combative nature, the evening would have taken a different turn. I’m one of the lucky ones, but the other girls… They need to be warned. They need to know to better protect themselves against guys like you. I’m writing for them. Because if not me, then who? I am not them and they are not me.

I’m not your dog. Unlike her, I bite.