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My rapist’s name is John.

When I was 17, I lived on my own with my 19-year-old boyfriend. We would go to house parties on the weekends. These parties involved alcohol, a variety of drugs, and about 10, 20, maybe 30 men & women ages 15 to like 35 (probably older). My mixture of choice in those days was cocaine and alcohol.

One night, my boyfriend and I split a gram of coke and headed into a party at John’s house. We proceeded to drink and consume additional drugs. At one point I peed myself waiting in line to use the bathroom.

The next thing I remember is waking up in John-the-rapist’s room passed out on the floor. The party raged on. I went back to sleep. The next snapshot in my memory is waking up with my pants off and John guiding me over to his bed. I remember thinking “ahhh a bed to sleep on, what a good friend.” Then there’s a flash of him all over me and me saying no. He kept saying “shhh” and then moved me back to the floor. I kept saying no as he started to penetrate me and then I started calling out for my boyfriend. John stopped, adjusted himself, and left the room. I put on my urine-soaked pants, found my boyfriend, and went home.

The next day I felt so guilty but a big part of me also knew I wasn’t to blame so I told my boyfriend what happened. He said, “I think I saw Jerry go in there too”. To this day I don’t know if I was gang-raped.



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