On his seventeenth birthday, there was no party. We had been broken up for over a year but maintained a relatively consistent friendship and it was a special enough occasion and I didn’t want to be at home on a summer day. June 2nd. Hotter than I would have expected. I drove to his house and because we had once dated, because he always flirted, because it was hot, I had a feeling we could wind up naked.
We did. I knew even before he had kissed me that it was not what I wanted. Even though he never pushed me down, he never asked me either. I was somewhere else while he was inside me on the sticky leather couch in the basement. I was somewhere else while he had no sense of rhythm and beads of sweat from his forehead splattered against my spine. He should have noticed that I didn’t say a single word while he was walking me out to my car and telling me not to tell anyone, since his girlfriend who I didn’t know about went to our high school, too. He should have, but he was never that kind of guy.
That night I found I was bleeding from where he’d been too vigorous with my smaller body. I wondered idly whether he had used a condom. I wondered idly whether I had made any sound at all while it happened.
And it was wrong.