They found his shirt. Gripped the fabric. Pulled him closer. Not pushing away, not fighting—pulling. Wanting.
Straddling his lap.
I felt him hard beneath me, and instead of recoiling, instead of using that moment to shove away and run, Ipressed down. Seeking friction. Wanting to touch.
The wall.
He offered to stop.
Say stop, and I’ll walk away.
I saw it in his eyes. The genuine offer. He would have stopped if I meant it.
I couldn’t say it.
Because I didn’t mean it.
He read me better than I read myself.
The verbal resistance plays back like a damning recording.
I said “don’t.” True.
I said “no.” True.
I said “I don’t want this.”Lie.
The biggest lie I’ve ever told, and my body exposed it with brutal efficiency.
I was soaking wet before he touched me properly. Aroused from the kiss alone. My hips tilted forward seeking more pressure,beggingwith my body while my mouth said no. I clenched around his fingers when I came. Flooded his hand with wetness I didn’t know I was capable of producing.
That’s what I can’t get past. That’s the real horror.
Not that he ignored my no.
That my no was a lie my body exposed.
That he knew it was a lie before I did.
That I wanted his hand higher. Wanted him inside me. Wanted to come so badly I was shaking with it.
Good girls don’t want boys who aren’t nice.
Sister Mary Catherine’s voice echoes from a decade ago, all those catechism classes drilling shame into my bones. Good girls are modest. Good girls save themselves. Good girls don’t touch themselves and certainly don’t let strange men touch them, and absolutely positively do not come on a man’s hand while pressed against a courtyard wall saying “I hate you” on repeat.
But my body doesn’t give a shit about Sister Mary Catherine.
My body wants what it wants.
The questions spiral. Was it rape if I wanted it? Was it consent if I said no? Was it assault if I came?
The legal answer is clear. No means no. Period. End of story. I know that. I’ve always known that.
But what if no means yes, and everyone in the room knows it?
What if your mouth lies and your body tells the truth, and the man touching you reads you better than you read yourself?
What if he said he’ll walk away if I saidstopand I didn’t?
