How I was raped by a woman - Male victim opens up

                          

A lot of people don’t know or believe that a man can be raped by a woman. The unfortunate 

fact however, is that female on male rape is a reality and it is just as bad as the more popular 

kind.

A young man who was raped by a woman and then decided to date her so he could take control 

of the situation has opened up about his experience.

He said:

Ten years ago, I blacked out and was raped by a woman who I proceeded to date for the next year 

and a half of my life. 

Like most college freshmen, I drank too much. And one night, I drank too much and was pitched 

out of a frat house in the dead of winter. I don’t remember much, but I do remember being initially 

grateful for all the hands that helped push me home and into my dorm room that night. 

I woke up in my lofted bed, and there were about a half dozen people in my room hanging out. 

My clothing was on the floor, and I felt an invisible miasma of shame engulfing me. Maybe it’s the 

hindsight talking, but I had a premonition that something wicked was coming. Maybe it’s because 

my future rapist was in the room. My eyes retreated into orbit again.

I had met her at the beginning of freshman year. My dorm room was in one of three male-occupied 

floor towers. I was lonely and glad for any friends I could get. I had a long-distance girlfriend; she 

had a long-distance boyfriend, and being able to have someone to share these things with shunted 

the pain. She was nice to me.

And then she raped me. 

When I regained my bearings that night, my friends were gone and gravity was a mystery to me. 

She was in my bed, and I couldn’t tell if my back was facing the ceiling or the mattress, nor could I 

identify whose sweat belonged to whom. All I could feel was pressure, and after coming to my 

senses I put together what was happening. I felt impotent to stop it. 

The morning that followed came with a paradigm shift. I was embarrassed and shellshocked and 

refused to believe it had happened, even though she was next to me when I regained consciousness. 

As a man, I felt especially compelled to hide what happened to me, lest I come off as weak. 

I asked her what had happened, and she confirmed all the details, which included consent and desire 

that seemed impossible to fish out of the folds of my brain.

At that point, I decided to own it. Because if I owned it, it wasn’t embarrassing and it didn’t strip me of 

my masculinity. I had never heard of this happening to anybody else, and researching it online made 

my problem seem more real to me, which was frightening.

Panic flooded me and all I wanted to do was scrub my soul of everything that was demoralizing and 

demasculinizing about the experience. My interpretation became consensual sex, and I proclaimed 

that sex was awesome, even though I had no clue what it felt like at all. I bragged to my neighbors, 

who could hear her wailing through paper-thin walls. The more I bragged, the more the agony subsided.

I was steadfast to make the loss of my virginity mean something. I immediately broke it off with my 

long-distance girlfriend. And my coping mechanism was to make my rapist my partner, giving purpose 

and intent to something horrible.

The path to admitting to other people what actually happened to me was a tricky one. But as I matured 

years after it occurred, I was able to grasp that my concept of masculinity was childish, and only rooted 

in weird stereotypes.

Being able to admit that I was raped brought my life into high-definition levels of clarity. Especially when 

everybody’s response was the same—an awkward pause, followed by a facial expression that goes 

hand-in-hand with being upset.

And then I pulled the trigger and I ended it.

One week after we broke up, she resorted to violence. When the cops came to our apartment and she 

refused to let them in after they threatened to break down the door, I felt like I was getting my first dose 

of reality in nearly two years. Days later, she was in another apartment a few football fields away. From 

that point on, I only saw her two more times on campus before fleeing Ohio.

While I’m able to talk about what happened to me 10 years later, make no mistake: being raped 

seriously damaged me and had a profound impact on how I engaged with women years after it happened. 

While it’s not something I think about every day, it passes through my mind every week through various 

triggers. It’s never going to leave me, and I’d like it to stay that way, as I’m not prepared to reject the 

strong person I’ve become throughout all of this.

To every man out there who has experienced something similar: You are not weak and you are not a boy. 

You were not bested or conquered; you were taken advantage of in a way that precludes all gender 

conventions. Recovering from rape is gender agnostic: it all begins with being able to admit what 

happened to you. However you choose to take that step—be it through therapy or confidentiality—is up to you