By Josh
I was attracted to him the minute I saw him. He had a husky frame and I could see the brown hair coming up and out of the neck of his T-shirt. His full head of hair was wavy and brushed to the side. He had a masculine gait and voice. I soon found out that he was in the same house as me in our study abroad accommodations. I assumed he was straight until I was told that the lanky olive-skinned friend of his was his boyfriend of two years. I was surprised that he was gay and disappointed that he wasn’t single. The boyfriend was standoffish and stiff, and I decided I didn’t really need to become friends with the boyfriend as well.
He flirted with me for months, saying he was going to pin me down, a devilish smile on his face. I laughed at these advances, but was flattered. He was charming, and I was still attracted to him, even after the comments became redundant. It all seemed so innocuous given his boyfriend was living under the same roof as me. He was a playful guy in general. He would be more hands-on when he got drunk- grabbing my wrists as he whispered how attracted he was to me. Throughout my time abroad, we never took trips together or really shared the same group of friends. There were 13 of us in the house, after all. Many of us would reconvene after class or trips and have a drink, but that was the extent of our interactions. Most of which included his wink or smirk.
There was a party at the house one night at the end of the program. He was particularly grabby and assertive, more so than he had been in a while. I gave him a look he already knew. A look you give to a misbehaving child whose actions also made you laugh even though you didn’t want to show it. I called it a night earlier than most, as usual, and headed to my room. He followed me. Hearing his footsteps, I walked back to the kitchen. With that familiar smile, he said that I had no choice that night and he had to have me. I pushed away his hands and told him to stop speaking. He stopped smiling, told me that he didn’t care about his boyfriend, and said we should go back to my room. I said no and told him he had enough to drink and to go back outside with everyone. His face hardened. I turned away and started to walk back to my room. He followed me. I started walking faster. As did he. I started running. I could hear his footsteps behind me getting closer. My heart pounding, I entered my room, trying to slam the door behind me, but he caught it within an inch of it closing. He pinned me on the bed and stuck his hand down my pants. He had about 30 pounds on me, and between that and the leverage he had from being on top of me, my hands pushing him away were easily countered. He pressed his lips against mine. I began to get aroused. He jammed my hand in his pants. I got harder as I felt his erection. I continued to push him away with my other hand, though it felt like I wasn’t pushing him away as much as I could anymore. My head was one of the few parts of my body I could move, yet I didn’t scream. Instead, I pushed hard against his lips with mine, shoving his head back, trying to feel his kiss while also trying to make it feel like I was pushing him away. His boyfriend (or maybe just the proximity of his boyfriend) and the general situation flashed clearly in my mind. The terror and lack of control I felt running down the hallway and his overwhelming strength returned to the forefront of my brain. I lifted my leg and wedged it between us. I kicked him away and ran out of the room.
It was years before I heard about the confusion that accompanies sexual assault when pain isn’t the only bodily reaction and revulsion isn’t the only emotional one. This experience did not instill a deep and lasting sense of fear or shame in me, though part of me is still confused by what happened and is embarrassed to say that I was and still am attracted to him. I’m ashamed that I periodically try to find him on Facebook. Does he even remember me or that night years later, let alone remember it as the violation it was? Are he and his boyfriend still together? Am I thought of in disgust by his boyfriend if what happened was ever intimated- whatever version that might be? I’ve never been the other guy, but part of me still feels like I transgressed against him in some way.
But my bigger question is do I still have the right to share my experience amongst survivors of sexual assault if I don’t have comparable residual scars and trauma? I already feel like an outsider being male. What about my arousal? If I were a woman and/or straight and got aroused in a similar situation, would I be more or less confused? Perhaps the messages I’ve gotten from society about being an oversexualized gay male mean I can’t even react to sexual assault like a “normal” person.
One of the few things I’ve learned is that surrendering to the unknown is the only way to get closer to peace. I still have a lifetime of uncertainties I will have to surrender to. I won’t be able to think or analyze my way out of everything, let alone the unthinkable. So I don’t know the answers to my questions. Or yours. But I do think my confusion might be something that someone else can relate to. And maybe that’s all that matters.