Men Can’t Be Raped, I Once Thought — Until It Happened to Me
I said no. My rapist didn’t hear me.
I said no when we met at the wine bar in downtown Palo Alto.
I said no when we talked about his book collection in his two-bedroom apartment.
He even acknowledged that he wouldn’t touch me, and I actually believed him. Yet, he must have misplaced his memory because I had to repeat the word “no” when he looked into my eyes — and he still did exactly what he said he wouldn’t do.
My chest tightened. Like a threatened opossum, I just laid there with disassociation. I tried to make the next few hours, days, and months feel emotionless, too.
Just because we met on Grindr meant that I wanted it, right?
Just because I let him pay for the wine meant I had to be agreeable, right?
Just because I didn’t fight back meant I enjoyed myself, right?
Black men can’t be victims, right?
I was a 23-year-old man, and I didn’t know that I could be raped, too.
Eight hours after the incident, I was awake and had to represent my company at the sales conference Dreamforce. That’s when I realized that one can be in a room full of people and still feel alone. While I hadn’t fully…
