It’s not just men. Female on female rape exists too

It was a party. I was there with my best friends. It was hardly anything out of the ordinary. We had fairy lights strung up on his back porch, we were smoking cigarettes, drinking beers, having the time of our lives.

I went upstairs to the bathroom, not being one of those girls who needs a buddy, so I went alone. I walked alone unafraid and unsuspecting up the stairs, with no idea what would occur next. And that’s when it happened. Something that I always had had creeping in the back of my mind, a terrifying prospect of domination and violence. I was raped on the floor of that bathroom, on the night, listening to my friends laugh outside oblivious to the state of horror I was in.

It wasn’t my fault; it never is anyone’s fault, a common feeling after being assaulted.  And it was the last person I would expect, someone I had always least seen coming, not the person I had pictured in my nightmares.

Yes, my rapist was a woman.

Everyone thought she was so pretty, popular, the whole shabang. But, in that moment, that’s the last thing I saw her as. She was my monster. She asked me if it was true I was bisexual, I responded with a confused “yes”. This girl, this person, leaned me against a wall holding me.

I told her she was beautiful but I was not interested, flattered but not inclined. She started crying saying I thought she was ugly, then suddenly her fit overcame her. She threw herself on me, and as I tried to reason with her I went numb. Already in a drunken state, I felt confused, and everything happening so fast.

She tore my pants down, scratched by thighs as she brought my panties down and orally assaulted me. I finally slid her off and went to the sink to button my pants and collect myself, when I turned around she was gone.

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And that word no, that one simple word no over and over, just didn’t communicate to her. Being openly bisexual, she assumed this is what I wanted, that “no” didn’t mean no to her. I wasn’t raped in an alley by a man or behind a dumpster – a sexist misconception based on real statistics. That night I got raped on the bathroom floor of my friend’s party by another woman.

She identifies as straight but perhaps, that in both our drunken states, she thought that now was the time she was going to experiment, just what she wanted. Just like every other time, being drunk is no excuse.

Societally, we constantly see rapes reported with males as the perpetrator and females as the victim. But how many of them are even reported? How many of them are perpetrated by either sex?  This epidemic is not even fully covered due to the reluctance of some victims on reporting their assaults.

I didn’t. I never reported my rape. I thought people wouldn’t believe me. No way would they believe me, no one would, I thought. After all, this is not uncommon, rape being the most underreported crime. I told two people, I didn’t have the heart to tell my mother. There were a  select few who understood the pain and confusion I felt. Months later everyone was talking about how I the was the aggressor, I wanted it. I already felt ruined, and hearing this, it felt like I was being kicked while I was already down.

I have another friend who was also sexually assaulted by a woman. It also happened at a party. She was a camp friend of mine who I ran into in New York City. We had a few drinks and we talked about our shared experience. She said she too had fears that she might get raped in her life, as I did.

After watching SVU and endless terrifying news stories about girls and women getting raped or sexually assaulted, we had an assumption about our personal attacker. It imprinted on us both, like an embossed piece of leather, we had an inevitable fear of being sexually assaulted. Not only even just sexually assaulted but violated, overpowered.  She was brutally surprised by her attacker being a female just as I had been surprised my attacker was a woman. She also thought her attacker would be an overbearing, large aggressive man, not a gentle rape, but one you couldn’t stop because maybe they drugged you. Or maybe you drank too much.

But regardless of gender or circumstance, there was one thing we both agreed on. It’s only ever the fault of the perpetrator, never the victim.