It's 3 AM, I Must Be Lonely

We had been seeing each other for about a month. I typically pencilled Matt in between mediocre dates and meaningless sex with other men. I liked Matt—we had both a spark and a power struggle that I didn't have with the other guys in my life. A stormy mix of both of our egos in addition to both of our half-broken "just-out-of-a-relationship" hearts, and we were destined for a rollercoaster that I wasn't about to sign up for. Therefore, Matt was my midnight knock at the door, for a glass of wine and witty banter, but no sex...yet.

I had enough casual partners that I figured I didn't need another. So, Matt kept coming by, late at night, and we kept things innocent. Every weekend, we cuddled up on the couch until four AM, talking about our week, sipping Pinot Grigio, occasionally kissing...with our mouths shut. I knew Matt was beginning to get confused by what feelings (or lack of feelings) I had for him. Matt was handsome and confident. He was a tall, well-dressed hockey player with a rockin' bod. He had that cocky arrogance that I hated in a boyfriend, but found so sexy in a Friday night fill-in.

After our PG rendezvousing for about a month and a half, Matt showed up to my doorstep around our typical meeting time—midnight. I had already had a couple glasses of wine in me and I was excited to see him. His texts lately had shifted from friendly and flirty to overtly sexual. I figured his patience had run up...along with my alcohol levels. I figured it was time to kick things up with Matt a notch.

He traced my hands with his finger tips. His touch trickled over one hand until he bridged over to the other one. I was laying on my back next to him, and I could feel his breaths sync up with mine. I was anticipating this kiss to be different. I had imagined this moment a number of times in my head over the last week or so.

And so he kissed me. Like...really kissed me. Not deep and passionate and sexy. Instead, sloppy and unfortunate and uncoordinated. You know those kisses that leave you flushed after? Not because they were good, but because you're wondering if that was as bad for them as it was for you? I pulled away to register what had just happened. Was this what all the build-up was for? A terrible kiss? This must be a fluke—just look at him!

I don't think Matt really put much weight into the kiss, because shortly after I slid (literally SLID—so much saliva) my lips off his, he leaned back in for another really bad kiss. I knew what direction this was leading in and I figured that the quicker we could make our way to my bedroom, the quicker the kissing could stop (dear God, please make it stop so I can keep this fantasy of Matt alive in my head).

I led him upstairs, and the kissing turned into shirts coming off and there was this feeling in the air as if the walls were saying, "Oh yeah, you're going to have sex tonight." I was welcoming that notion—I had welcomed it before I had even invited Matt over tonight, and now I was welcoming it because coital passion would most likely lead to a little less kissing.

We were naked, and I was excited. I had that pulsing feeling through my body where I was just super ready for six minutes? Twenty minutes? of bliss and passion. Despite my hormones, I remained smart (as I always do) and requested a condom. I knew this was going to happen, so I prepped my bedside table with the necessary goods.

"Condom. Please. Bedside table," I panted out—expecting maybe an annoyed grunt (which I, of course, would choose to ignore) and a shift in his body weight while he reached to open the drawer.

However, things played out very differently. "Aren't you on the pill? I'm clean," Matt responded, defensively and clearly offended.

"So? I want to use a condom," I then took initiative and shifted my body weight toward the bedside table. I was met with subtle fury...it was charming, but nonetheless, fury.

"We don't need one, it's fine," he said as he pinned my arms down so I couldn't motion toward the table. I squirmed as he thrusted toward me. I pushed my body further into the bed in an attempt to ensure he didn't meet me unprotected. We struggled back and forth for a bit until the pressure of his hands on my arms increased (simultaneously as the weight of the world on my shoulders increased) and he thrusted himself towards me again, and this time, he was successful.

I had nowhere to go. I lived alone, and we were the only ones here. My neck was pressed up against the headboard. My body had become one with the mattress. My fight was abolished by Matt's larger frame. So I froze; confused, uncomfortable, and concerned for my health (which soon became a larger issue—concerned for the health of women, as a whole).

Matt finished, slithered off me, and left. I fell asleep. It wasn't until a few days later when it had hit me. What was that? How do I define that experience? I had actively prepped for and welcomed a sexual encounter with a man who, quite frankly, I LIKED. I consented to him being inside of my house, inside bed, and inside me. I am a woman that advocates for consensual, safe sex. I am a powerful woman that is fueled by the strength I display with men. I am a powerful woman that...may have just been sexually assaulted?

It was shortly after this event that the #MeToo movement began. This movement taught me a little more about the definition of sexual assault. I began to understand what is abuse—with that, I could look back at my life (both in my teens and my young adulthood) and notice that I have been a victim of sexual assault—both minor and severe—many times throughout my life. As has nearly every other woman I know.

I continued dating and having casual sex over the next year of being single. I had experienced bizarre, awkward, and straight up RUDE dates since that night with Matt. However, I'll always give Matt the title of #MyWorstDate.