We had already had sex earlier that evening when he took my hand and led me into the holy place: his bedroom. I was in heaven as he touched my breast and planted beer stained kisses down my stomach. Even the penetration was magical, I remember looking into his face and thinking "this might be it!" That's what niave little girls with a heart full of desire and a belly full of boos says when getting drunk fucked. After he walked out of the room, joking that I could "take as much time as you need love." Back downstairs he was laughing with his friends at the shots table, I stared at him until I felt awkward. For two hours I casually tried to make conversation with him in a vain attempt to get rid of the trashcan-like feeling that was creeping up from between my legs. He ignored my timid advances until it became too much for his party personality to brush off. Back upstairs we went where he angrily asked me "what are you doing? You think because I had sex with you that I'm your boyfriend?" I just started to stutter about how I just wanted to be included and not feel ignored now that we had sex. He changed right then and there, the twisted look on his face glowed from the shadows. He advanced on me, cooing about how he would make me feel better. He started touching me, kissing me. I fell onto his bed and he started to take off my clothes. He was rough though, angry. I told him he was hurting me between my legs but he didn't answer. He pushing down on me, into me. The pain bounced between my legs like knives. I said "no, it hurts really bad now." He looked over my head and the feeling of sandpaper inside of me increased as I wiggled to get away. "Stop!" The scream was muffled as he flipped me over into the pillows. I tried to squeeze my legs together but the nausea was overwhelming. "It'll stop, it'll stop, it has to stop soon."

He lounges in his hammock, looking like a lazy tiger on a sunny afternoon. I'm fumbling to put my pants on, stuffing my torn panties into my pocket. My body feels so numb I can't even tell if I'm putting my arm into my shirt or if it's someone else's arm. "You know no one likes a girl with self esteem issues. I bet your parents dont pay attention to you huh?" The words cut deeper than his violation of my body had. "You're pathetic, always after the popular guys. Hanging out with the drama kids all the time. You know they just use you for the free rides." I was at the door now, pulling it open. "I told them I didn't want you here but I guess you were useful after all."

I fumbled to start my car, I looked over at my drunk and happy friends. I had scooped them up faster than they could finish their drinks. I needed them in the car with me or else I knew I wouldn't make it home. I felt numb, broken, stolen.

I still remember the text the next day "Take the plan B because I'm not ready for that responsibility" and my response "ok".

I looked him up recently and he's married with a new baby. He's living a productive, stable life never wondering about the quiet little girl who's life he changed forever.