It wasn’t rape because he was my boyfriend.
It wasn’t rape because he was popular.
It wasn’t rape because he was funny & talented.
It wasn’t rape because I followed him into the woods.
It wasn’t rape because there were already “rumors” about me.
It wasn’t rape because he didn’t finish and I didn’t bleed.
He loved me, so I had to stop crying, because I wasn’t hurt, broken, injured. Nothing happened that I wouldn’t have wanted anyway. If I just didn’t talk about it, neither would he. He’d protect me against what people already thought about me, against those rumors. I was just using him to be popular anyway. He felt so sorry for me. He’d helped me actually. He made people like me. He made me a Prom Queen. I was lost and invisible without him. Didn’t I owe him that? Didn’t he deserve at least that?
I had been reduced to nothing. My “no”s were too feeble. With no one to believe me, how could I fight back? “Nobody wants to hear about your problems anymore, Mazy.” It would have just been more drama, more noise, and I was spent. So, even though I cried “no” and “stop” and pushed back, I didn’t call it rape. It wasn’t rape because I didn’t say it was and that was something I could control.