Before the night I was raped, I had only slept with two people. The first — the guy I lost my virginity to midway in my sophomore year of college — was someone I’d had an on-and-off “thing” with for a year. The second guy was my eighth grade boyfriend who called me up over winter break my junior year of college when I was back home in California. Yes, it was a booty call, but hell, I was curious. I felt comfortable with what had transpired and confident in my decisions. No regrets.
Despite having a few hookups, I wasn’t a sexual person. At all. Growing up, sex was never a topic of conversation. I never got “The Talk” from my parents. I was never taught that masturbation was normal, even healthy. I thought it was something that the hyper-sexual women of Sex and the City did, not twentysomething women like me — masturbating and having sex outside of serious relationships weren’t things that “nice girls” did. Without realizing it, I had been raised to be ashamed of my sexuality.
Then I was raped my junior year abroad in Paris. It was the night of the Superbowl: Baltimore Ravens vs. San Francisco 49ers, and I decided to head to the American sports bar in the Latin Quarter. My friends had ditched me, so I went alone, hoping that a sense of Bay Area camaraderie (and my fair-weather 49ers fandom) would help me make some friends for the evening.
The place was packed, full of homesick expats and young Parisians looking to practice their English. I took a seat at the bar and struck up a conversation with the bartender, a 30-something American guy. After realizing I was drinking alone, he took it upon himself to introduce me to his friends a few barstools over. Within minutes of befriending them, the beer started flowing. The last thing I remember from that night is taking a shot with my new friends.
Despite having a few hookups, I wasn’t a sexual person. At all. Growing up, sex was never a topic of conversation. I never got “The Talk” from my parents. I was never taught that masturbation was normal, even healthy. I thought it was something that the hyper-sexual women of Sex and the City did, not twentysomething women like me — masturbating and having sex outside of serious relationships weren’t things that “nice girls” did. Without realizing it, I had been raised to be ashamed of my sexuality.
Then I was raped my junior year abroad in Paris. It was the night of the Superbowl: Baltimore Ravens vs. San Francisco 49ers, and I decided to head to the American sports bar in the Latin Quarter. My friends had ditched me, so I went alone, hoping that a sense of Bay Area camaraderie (and my fair-weather 49ers fandom) would help me make some friends for the evening.
The place was packed, full of homesick expats and young Parisians looking to practice their English. I took a seat at the bar and struck up a conversation with the bartender, a 30-something American guy. After realizing I was drinking alone, he took it upon himself to introduce me to his friends a few barstools over. Within minutes of befriending them, the beer started flowing. The last thing I remember from that night is taking a shot with my new friends.
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