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.
You said “how ‘bout just the tip”
And “all you have to say is stop”
But I never said GO or stopped saying NO.
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.
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.
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.
And I shouldn’t have been surprised
when suddenly one day you were seeing someone else.
I was a toy and you were selfish.
Well, I hope you’re happy,
I mean who wouldn’t be if they got away with what you did?
And your 65th, I pray to God, won’t feel like I did.