I remember the first time we had sex.

How you asked me if we’d ever get the chance.

 

You said you’d tell me your “number”

As if that’d be enough to convince me,

enough satisfaction to dismiss my only promise to myself

by being one of 64 to know.

 

How honored.

 

You said “how ‘bout just the tip”

And “all you have to say is stop”

But I never said GO or stopped saying NO.

 

How funny.

 

I remember how you pinned me down

And propped my legs in front of you so I couldn’t move.

How “just the tip” became a painful push

And how afraid I was to push away.

 

How romantic.

 

I remember saying how uncomfortable I was and yelling STOP,

and how when it was over you were happy.

You seemed so proud and I was shocked by what you said…

“Does this mean you buy me lunch tomorrow?”

 

I left feeling disgusted, violated and guilty.

I convinced myself that losing my virginity was my fault

when having sex shouldn’t cause blame at all.

 

How confusing.

 

For several months you had convinced me

that I gave consent and rape was impossible

for people who’re “together”

and that sex was now okay

 

but not just okay—

 

Sex was an obligation.

It’s expected.

And I shouldn’t have been surprised

when suddenly one day you were seeing someone else.

I was a toy and you were selfish.

 

How disgusting.

Well, I hope you’re happy,

I mean who wouldn’t be if they got away with what you did?

And your 65^th, I pray to God, won’t feel like I did.

 

How special.