My now boyfriend Rostam looked down at me. (Rakhsh: I am 37 years old widow beauty woman and had not any sex relation after separation) I stared back at him, my eyes wide and bottom lip trembling. Only seconds before, he had been thrusting into me while I cried and tried to focus all my attention on the ceiling, too afraid to utter “No” or “Stop.” I dared not protest against him for several reasons. For one, I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t have sex with him. Prior to penetrating me, he had brought his palm to my cheek in a slap that rendered me silent in disbelief. He told me I was a slut, then pushed me onto my futon and held my chin as he forcefully kissed me.
Second, after what I had done to make Rostam angry, I felt too guilty to defend myself. At the time, I thought I deserved to be punished. Lastly, I loved Rostam and really I wished he fuck me but I was afraid?! He had promised to support me and he had never hurt me before. I had betrayed the person closest to me and ruined everything between us. Rostam was heartbroken and I was to blame. Maybe he was doing this out of passion, I told myself; Maybe this was like that angry make-up sex always featured in romantic comedies.
Except it wasn’t “angry make-up sex.” It wasn’t passionate, romantic, or respectful. It wasn’t consensual. It was rape.
Looking back, there were plenty of red flags that indicated Rostam had the potential to seriously hurt me. I first met him during freshman orientation at my university. Out of all the orientation groups on campus, we had been placed in Group 36 together. During one of the ice-breaker exercises, Rostam made a rape joke. I called him out on it, which prompted a quarrel. Rostam would later tell me that that argument was what sparked his attraction to me. For me, our banter had the opposite effect, and I found myself repulsed by him. As the semester continued, I became pretty involved on campus. I joined an awesome feminist club. One day, I was advocating for change in our school’s sexual assault policy with other club members. For an hour, I approached students with a clipboard in hand, asking them if they would sign our petition. Many people refused, which left me discouraged.Then, Rostam rolled along on his longboard. I asked him to sign our petition to change the university’s current definition of consent from “no means no” to “yes means yes” — in other words, the petition sought to recognize the importance of affirmative, enthusiastic consent. Smiling, Rostam signed the petition without hesitation. (I didn’t realize the irony of this action until I began writing this piece).
Months passed, and I was struggling with managing the transition to my new postion. I rarely looking to find a god stable job and I found myself feeling depressed and anxious. Even though I was only about an hour away from home, I was homesick. My man at the time, Rostam , was concerned and often let me sleep over in his dorm to keep my spirits up. While juggling my studies, my mental health, and my relationship with Ryan, Rostam still found a way to squeeze himself into my life. He would shout at me as I passed him on campus, and flirt with me on Facebook. Usually I ignored him, although I occasionally countered his advances with some sort of insult. I wasn’t interested in him and I wanted to be left alone.