Why I Never Reported My Rape

I had many reasons at the age of 16. It was my last day of school my junior year in high school. I was only 16-year old. Some friends and I from my neighborhood decided to cut school and go back to her house. Her mom was a single mom…

Why I Never Reported My Rape

It was my last day of school my junior year in high school. I was only 16-year old. Some friends and I from my neighborhood decided to cut school and go back to her house. Her mom was a single mom and she worked for the post office. She would be gone all day. It was the perfect hang out spot.

We all had to bring something to the hooky day party. Back in the late 80’s, we could buy cigarettes and alcohol from convenience stores. Most of us had saved lunch money to buy food, alcohol, and a couple of our friends sold or used weed. We had everything kids shouldn’t have access to for our cut day from school.

We all walked to school together the last day of school, then we all met at “the spot” to leave campus after attendance was taken to head back to my friend’s home. When we arrived, she opened the door and told us where to be seated. We all gave her our items to put in the kitchen. She set up a good station in the kitchen for us to partake of snacks and alcohol.

Her home was nice, clean. She turned on her mom’s stereo, and we all sat around on the sofas and chairs, at the kitchen table, or wherever we could to begin enjoying the final day together before the summer started. We listened to 80’s R&B singing and dancing, just happy to be out of school.

If felt so weird to be out, with no supervision. I can’t explain it. I felt free, but afraid. A few of us playing hooky were couples. I was solo. I didn’t have a boyfriend, kind of a class clown, smart, but also a foster kid. I couldn’t date, my foster peeps weren’t having any of that. I was sheltered, too much.

This day was a day of freedom for me. I wasn’t going to do anything to mess it up. My classmate laid down the ground rules for using her home mom’s place as a flop house for the day. We had to keep it clean, keep the noise down, and not break anything.

The group cutters began drinking, some started smoking cigarettes or weed, and some started heading for bedrooms for sex. That’s where the trouble began. It’s like a striking a match. When one guy started having sex, the rest in the group wanted to have it to.

The guys smoking drugs and drinking reacted differently to being intoxicated than the girls at the party. The girls sat around and laughed, cracked jokes, and some even dozed off after consuming their drug of choice. No one felt pressured. No one felt unsafe. It was a small group.

The guys got horny, and kind of aggressive. They started talking more vulgar, and spoke a little more recklessly about their penises. Especially the guys who came solo.

As couples went off into the bedroom and bathrooms to have sex, the rest of us solo girls were left behind with the restless, horny disrespectful high young boys. One by one, the boys began attempting to get the girls to have sex. Some girls willingly went along to get along. They didn’t want to be left out or be scary.

A guy I knew from a few of my classes approached me to tell me he wanted to fuck me. I thought he was joking. I did not like this guy. He was a bully. He was small, he cursed all the time, and he fought a lot. He had a bad reputation. The only time he was nice was when he wanted something, like your homework. He never spoke to me at school. I wasn’t his type of girl. But he was horny now, and I was one of the solo girls at the cut day party alone, unprotected and vulnerable.

He sat next to me and started whispering in my ear and kissing my neck. At first, I was flattered. But then he told me he wanted to fuck me, and his true motives were quickly exposed. He persisted as I resisted, and eventually he would move on. There were no takers on his sad offer.

I don’t know if he had pegged me as his victim for the day, but looking back, it sure seemed that way.

We continued to drink and listen to music, laughing and have fun. As the couples having sex returned to the main group, we ate and talked about teenage shit. Eventually, I got up to go to the restroom after consuming lots of Mad Dog 20/20 and an 8-Ball. The restroom was next to a bedroom. When I came out, I heard a noise…psst.

I looked over towards the bedroom, and it was the guy, my drunk. His name is Ricky. I was calling me to the room. He was really close to the door, but not too close to the bed, so I thought it would be fine. I walked over to the room, and as soon as I got close to the door. He pulled me in, and closed it.

I was scared, and kind of flattered.

I didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t had sex willingly on my own, ever, with anyone. All I knew was that this very popular bully at school was interested in a nobody little orphaned girl. For a split second, I felt special. I felt pretty. I felt wanted by someone. Someone thought I was worthy.

Ricky leaned his body forward against mines, which also closed the door. He began kissing me. I reciprocated. As he ran his hands up and down the sides of my body, he locked the bedroom door. I wondered why.

I just came to see what he wanted. I didn’t have plans to do anything with him. I didn’t have protection. I wasn’t on birth control. I wasn’t sex savvy. I didn’t really like him, I was afraid of him. Sex with Ricky was the last thing on my mind.

My back was against the bedroom door. His back was aimed towards the bed.

As we continued to kiss Ricky got more and more aggressive. I started to feel as if I was no longer in control. I got nervous, and began resisting. The more I resisted, the more strength he exerted. He was shorter than I was, but he was a football player, and very strong. I was a skinny little thing, like Olive Oyl. He began gripping my arms, trying to pull my pants down. I was able to squirm to undo his tight grips, holding onto my pants. He continued.

The last time he gripped my arms, he began pulling me towards the bed. I didn’t have shoes on. They were in the other room. I was unable to stop his pull.

He fell on the bed, which caused me to fall on top of him. I remember the alcohol and mint on his breathe. His teeth were white. His eyes were focused on mines. He begged me to “give him some pussy.” I said no, he wanted to know why.

“ I don’t have rubbers. I am not on pills. I can’t get pregnant boy,” I said.

He told me had rubbers. I still said no. I didn’t want to be with someone like him.

Suddenly, Ricky rolled me over, and was now kneeling on top of me. He pulled my arms over my head, causing me to be pinned. He used his strength to lay his body on top of mines using one of his hands to hold my arms over my head while using the other hand to pull my pants down.

His dick was already hard. I was paralyzed. I wasn’t sure how this happened so fast. I couldn’t speak, I was traumatized. I also didn’t want to appear to be a virgin or too scared to do what my friends were doing, so I stayed silent. Being a virgin wasn’t cool, so I didn’t scream. My only hope was to squirm until he hopefully got tired.

I continued to fight, roll, and squirm. He easily pulled his pants down enough to get his dick out. It was long, brown, and skinny. I remember he smelled nice. He was chewing gum. His breathe smelled good. My heart was racing. I panicked.

Ricky pressed his chest against mines with all his might as he maintained control of my arms above my head. I knew sex was going to happen, there was nothing I could do to stop Ricky. He was too powerful.

I remember looking at the bedroom. It was so clean, everything was so neat and organized. The walls were white. The bedspread and pillow shams were off-white. The blinds were open, the sun was shining in. I focused on a corner of the ceiling. I needed a place to zone out.

Ricky shoved his skinny dick inside of me. I was dry. It hurt so bad. I didn’t look at him. He humped and humped and did his little business until he came. After he came he let my arms go. I could feel the pressure from the weight of his body get lighter. He didn’t wear a condom. I was mortified.

He laid there for a moment then he raised up so he could investigate my face. He wanted to look me in my eyes. He asked, “How was it?” I shrugged. He got up as if he had performed a miracle. He mumbled something about my pussy feeling good. He never asked if I was okay.

My pussy was on fire. I never got wet during my assault. His hard grinding, his barb wire pubic hair, combined with his semen inside of my raw vaginal canal felt like someone had poured alcohol onto my private area. I was hurting so bad.

He zipped his pants and left me on the bed to get myself together. He never said another word to me. No one ever came to check on me. I sat on the side of the bed for a moment to gather my thoughts. I had been raped although at the time I didn’t call it that. My classmate forced himself onto me. He lured me into a bedroom, and he had the entire scenario laid out.

I felt stupid. I felt used.

I wiped myself with my cotton panties bottom and then dressed. I opened the door. The group was back congregating in the main room near the kitchen. I was the last one I guess to have sex that day. I went to the restroom to clean up. I had blood and semen running down my leg. I looked in the mirror. I felt sick. What if I was pregnant? What if I had an STD? The thought of either scenario scared the hell out of me.

I eventually came out of the restroom. My bottom was so sore. I sat with my friends, trying to act like I was okay. None of my classmates said anything about us being gone so long. Ricky never acknowledged me again, and I wanted to keep it that way. It was getting close to the time for the buses to arrive at school. We cleaned my friend’s house and walked back to school.

I never saw any of those people again. I never saw my rapist again either. I never talked about what happened in that room. Fortunately, I didn’t get pregnant and I didn’t get an STD.

I remember his full name. I remember the car he drove. I remember he had a Letterman jacket. He was a jock. He kept his head bald, and he always chewed gum. I remember he had a nice smile. I remember his cool-guy walk on his tippy toes. It was 30 years ago, but I remember everything little thing about my rapist.

I never told anyone about this rape until this very moment. The Dr. Christine Ford disclosure made me share my story. Millions of women and men have been raped, and they never tell. They are damned if they do, damned if they don’t. So, they don’t.

The trauma from the assaults never go away. It just manifests itself in other ways.

Just because I didn’t file a police report doesn’t mean an assault never happened. Tell my mind that! Just because I didn’t tell an adult, my parents, my foster parents, my kids, my husband, or my pastor doesn’t mean I’m a liar. I was a kid. A dumb kid with a classmate who was a predator.

For those reading this wondering why I never told anyone about my assault, let me give you my very personal reasons.

I never told anyone because I cut school. I was doing something I shouldn’t have.

I never told because were underage drinkers and some were smoking pot. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.

I didn’t talk about it because I blamed myself for being so naive, even when I knew Ricky forced himself on me.

I intentionally forgot about the assault because remembering changes nothing. My rapist raped. I can’t get my innocence back.

I didn’t tell my friends because I wanted to fit in, be cool, and not be a lame or a snitch.

I never told the police because my parents and foster parents would have found out. It would have made my life that much harder. Calling the police never occurred to me as an alternative at the age of 16.

My assault happened 30 years ago, and I still remember the act. I don’t remember the date, or the day of the week, but I remember who was there. I remember the house. I remember many things. And while I have forgotten a few minor things about that day…

I never forgot I was assaulted. To the male and female survivors of sexual assaults, especially as children, who never told and carry the guilt, shame, and trauma, please know you are not alone.

We survivors understand why people don’t come forward. There is no such thing as a right way to be a victim. Don’t ever let skeptics victimize you all over again.

Marley K., 2018