via instagram @DanielleLaPorte, credited to @Jannarden + David Pierce
Four years ago in New York City, I went on a second date with a male model. We knew each other through friends of friends. We’d seen each other at events and get-togethers, we flirted here and there, and finally, a year after we met, he asked me out.
The first date was great. He came to my neighborhood — at the time I was in Harlem and on the second date — I drove down to his neighborhood on the Lower East Side. Since I was driving, I made sure to only have two drinks so I could get myself home.
During our meal, we caught up, exchanged stories about what we were working on and the friends we had in common. I had fun and noticed that during our meal, he kept sharing tidbits about his apartment and how much he loved it. As our dinner progressed, this led into how much he wanted me to see his place as well.
I’m sure you know where this goes.
I didn’t really care to see his place. But I could tell he wanted to share it. And at the time, I didn’t feel like his desire to show it to me had anything to do with sex. Although I was enjoying his company, I was beginning to think that we weren’t romantically compatible. Not to be cliche, but I wasn’t intellectually stimulated. I wanted a soul connection. Not sex.
In the end, I decided to see his place. And of course, we made out a little, and eventually, I was done. I didn’t want anymore. I was ready to go home. So I told him, “This has been awesome, I’m going to get ready to leave. Thanks for a great night.”
And his response was to put his hands under my dress and start touching me. I was annoyed, both by his actions and by my own confusion. There were seconds when it felt great, he was touching me in the right place, but when I came back to my consciousness and checked in with myself, I remember acknowledging, “Why am I here? I don’t want to do this.”
I tried to pull away, but he kept hugging, holding me tight, even when I told him I wanted to go home. I kept trying to push him away, saying that I wanted to leave (and maneuvering my body to actually leave,) but he wasn’t letting go; he was stronger than me. I realized that if I wanted to leave, I would have to become physically aggressive and fight him in order to actually depart.
I’m sure some people reading this might say, “Why not? You should have fought him if that’s what it took.”
But for me, it was easier to just go with it. I remember thinking, “FINE. We’ll do this and when he finishes, we’ll be DONE.” As in, I’ll never have to deal with him again.
I can’t say I was forced. I also can’t say he wasn’t using his power and my turn-on against me.
It was grey.
There were moments when I tried to talk myself into it. Like, “You enjoy sex, just get into it. C’mon Christina, you’re not trying. Just go with it. He’s hot. Why not?”