We had been fighting. Viciously. Wretchedly. I made him leave. On the night his friend brought him back, without my permission, I passively told him he was not welcome. And yet, I needed him.
In my bedroom, the lights flickered low. His chaotic few belongings laid strewn about the floor. We sat on the bed. I cried. I love you. But we can't. I can't. A kiss. An outstretched hand. A slow push backward. A harder push backward. Biting lips. Salty tears. A tumble. Strong arms. Forced legs. Wider. Wider still. A soft struggle. A rumble. A roll. A pin. We can't. We can not. A painful thrust. Loud quiet whispers.
A surrender. Averted eyes. Quiet panting. Quick low grunts. Defeat. My passivity mistaken for consent.
Later, that same friend visited, concerned. The one I loved told him all was fine, he had raped me, we were good....
I had long considered myself a feminist. I had spent more of my life single than coupled. I enjoyed my independence. With this man... I felt Changed. Powerless. Mortified. Enraged. Stupid. At fault.
Chance (L.A. California)