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It was as if he was in “mission mode.” It was obvious that he had already decided that we were going to have sex, and that me agreeing to come upstairs with him was consent enough for him to do it. It was like his body was on autopilot…like I was no longer in the room. He was so drunk that some of the time he was just thrusting on top of my pelvic bone, which was actually extremely painful. He was strong, aggressive, and absolutely wasted, at least partially blacked out, so I don’t know if he knew he was hurting me as much as he was.One of the scariest parts for me was that he was completely silent for all of this, save for some heavy breathing and moans of pleasure.At school on Monday, he approached me while we were all waiting for the bell to ring. Once those words left my mouth though, I couldn’t take them back. A few of my teachers caught wind of this and one that I trusted and had a good rapport with confronted me — I immediately confessed, in tears. I expressed anxiety about this to him, but was simultaneously met with apathy and sternness. Just like the weekend before, I didn’t have a choice. He told me that I had to at least tell my parents, before things moved forward.“You can tell them what happened, or you can tell me what happened and I will call them.He said he was sorry, and my knee-jerk response was,“For what? Paul told me what happened.”I distinctly remember telling him, “It’s okay. I had been holding onto this for days and was so relieved that a safe adult finally knew. Either way, you have until pm tonight, at which point I will call your house and confirm that you have discussed this with them.”After he hung up, my mind started racing. He gave me a mere three hours to do one of the hardest things I have ever done in my entire life.I think for a small period of time, I convinced myself that nothing actually did happen.I was used to pulling myself up by the bootstraps and planting a smile on my face — that year I became a professional. He called me, texted me, left drunk voicemails on my cell, put his arm around me at school, and sought me out at parties. I rode in the backseat and pictured my death while he drunkenly drove 90 mph down country roads.He was kicked out of the party, which was a welcomed relief.

If I reported it, it wouldn’t blow over like I was hoping it would. No one would believe me, since they had already formed their own opinions about the whole situation anyway — I’d look like a liar either way. My principal and the counselor were very cold, my parents were crossing boundaries, and it just seemed easier to put it behind me and move on.He got straight to the point- one of my teachers told him what had happened. In the letter I said that there were rumors going around about something that happened at the party, but that nothing actually happened, and that they needed to call my teacher tonight and set the record straight. My mom kneeled at the edge of my bed, while my dad stood in the doorway, refusing to make eye contact.I felt so disgusted that they were probably picturing it at that very moment. I basically blacked out halfway through the conversation. My own FATHER, listening to me discuss a teenage boys’ penis…awkward cannot even begin to describe it. I spent the night drinking at a house party with a bunch of my classmates.I drank to the point where I was fairly intoxicated— flirting and kissing a boy I met way back in 6th grade, in CCD of all places (church classes, actually short for Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, can you believe that?