I didn't want to, but I did. I let you manipulate me and talk me into doing things I never wanted to do. When you grabbed my hand and pulled it onto your dick, you moved my hand for me for a few seconds, but when you let go I kept going because I was scared. I let you scare me. I shouldn't complain because it could have been so much worse (and it would have been if I hadn't cut you out of my life when I did). I know it was nothing. People do it all the time, they say it's not even sex. But I didn't want to do it. You didn't care. And for the longest time after I got away from you I couldn't say no to anything. I let another boy talk me into going further, in much the same way. But it didn't take as much for him. He didn't have to force me to do anything, I just went along with whatever he wanted to do. But that wasn't his fault, he only did what men do. It was you who made me weak-willed, even though your offense seems so much less extreme on the surface. You broke my will, you broke my resolve, and I broke the promise I made myself, many times over. And I hate that I can't even blame you because I could have stopped it. I didn't consent, but I gave in, I kept going. There was nothing technically wrong about what you did--what /we/ did. So why does every physical thing I do now somehow relate back to you? Why am I afraid of men and relationships? Why do I associate all sexual things with shame and regret? I have no right to feel this way, but I do. Just to feel like this about something so small and insignificant is an insult to people who have actually suffered real sexual abuse. I can't help it though, maybe it's just because I was already so mentally fucked up when you found me that I was more sensitive than a normal person, so the shame sank deep beneath my unusually thin skin.