Here is a cut and paste:

**Nobody knows I was assaulted in college except me and the guy who did it. I was 19.

I shouldn’t have to say it–it doesn’t really matter–but I had no sexual experience whatsoever. I went to a party. I wasn’t the kind of girl who attracted lots of guys: chubby, shy. I thought college would be teeming with all sorts of guys who would want to date me, but it wasn’t and I was devastated. In hindsight, these things made me more vulnerable.

I had a few drinks with a guy who used to hang around my dorm. None of us actually knew his last name. He kissed me and I liked it. I didn’t like him, but I liked kissing. He asked if I wanted to go to a room alone. And I said I wanted to keep making out.

This I remember clearly. We kissed. We touched each other outside of our clothes. He unzipped his pants. I just thought he wanted a hand job. I’m still not sure of the mechanics of how the next part happened or why I didn’t fight harder to stop it: He ended up standing in front of me while I sat on the edge of a dorm room bed. He forced himself into my mouth. I remember he had my ponytail wrapped around one hand and his other hand holding the back of my neck. It was fast. It was shocking. It was violent and painful. He finished quickly, then thanked me and left.

I didn’t define it as rape for the longest time. I didn’t consider oral sex to be sex until I was much older. Even now, I call it my “assault” not my “rape.” Rumors spread. The guy bragged about what “I had done.” My hopefully-soon-to-be-boyfriend heard and asked about it. I was so ashamed: How could I have been so stupid? Why would I be alone with that guy? Why didn’t I fight him off? I told my soon-to-be-boyfriend it had indeed happened and that “I was drunk,” implying consent. My rationale: I would rather have him think of me as a cheating bitch than stupid enough to let that happen. We never spoke again.**