< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.
This happened after my student years. I was walking home after a concert of my favorite band — happy, with shining eyes. In my neighborhood, between buildings, men from a passing car asked for a specific house number on that street. I didn’t know the numbering, but two men started talking to me and asked for my phone number.
Back then, after hearing from friends and the internet that older men are supposedly better at sex because they have more experience, I decided, after a call the next day, to meet the one I liked more. Although it was autumn, we agreed to meet in a park. He manipulatively, through a question like “let me lift you and guess how much you weigh,” through touches and hugs, quickly established closeness with me. Then he invited me to his place. Even though I was on the last days of my period, and I said that as an “excuse,” he replied that it wasn’t a problem and persuaded me to go with him, saying it was nearby.
Unfortunately, when I was younger, I had a high libido, and I agreed to go with him. The apartment in Borshchahivka was quite creepy. He said he didn’t live there, so I wouldn’t be scared by how it looked, and that he rented it “for unclear purposes” — obviously to bring girls there. He bought me vermouth for the evening, and for himself, when we arrived, he took out vodka because “light drinks don’t affect him.” Later, I realized that this all looked creepy and that I should leave. But he started telling and showing videos of himself doing “no-rules fighting.” Since my father became aggressive when he drank, I was overwhelmed and paralyzed by fear, and I could no longer say anything or figure out how to leave that apartment.
On the one hand, it was good that for sex he used additional lubricant — at least it wasn’t physically painful for me. It even had a mint effect that “burned” a bit, which was also scary. In the morning, he said goodbye, “until the next meeting,” as if nothing had happened. And for another two years, he kept calling me until I changed my number, even though I clearly told him not to call. That’s when I understood on my own “skin” why women don’t resist and don’t run away when raped. Because when the body’s natural reaction is to “freeze,” not “run or fight,” sometimes it’s impossible to do anything.
Before that, unfortunately, I didn’t understand this and even had misogynistic thoughts: why don’t women run away, how is that possible? I thought that when reading stories about rape or sexual slavery. But unfortunately, to understand it, I had to go through a “light version” of it myself. And it took about five more years to realize: I am not to blame for this, that consent must be active, and that “frightened” silence is not a “yes” for sex or any sexual activity. And finally, to accept: it was not my mistake — it was a rape.
Anonymous author; story shared in 2023 as part of the campaign “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence.”