The night was supposed to be special; prom 2003. I was dressed to the nines: a handsome, black tuxedo, with a crisp, white, ruffled shirt and a pink tie, for my signature pop of colour. My expensive, black loafers, with a hint of white at the top, were shined to perfection. My longtime friend, Patrick and I had planned to take female dates, just to fool the small-minded administration of the high school, though all of our friends and most of the other peers were well-aware that we had been a couple for two years.

We danced with our dates, who were actually a lesbian couple, who were using us for the same facade, and for the most part, the prom went well. When it ended. My heart raced as Patrick drove us to a secluded area, where couples went to make out. We parked and finished the champagne and beer from earlier, and we talked and made out.

One drunken kiss led to another, and then he had me pinned in the back of the car, ripping the buttons from my expensive shirt in attempts to pull it over my head. This was not the violent or scary part, as we had talked about this night being both of our first times. In fact, the foreplay was brilliant, intoxicating, and gentle, making me not panic so much when the lower parts of my body were stripped bare.

The brutality came when my date tried to enter me with no condom or lube. After managing to scramble away from his first vicious thrust, and begging him to get a condom and lube, I was again pinned down and told to stop acting stupid. He told me that he had left both at home, and we didn’t need them, because he had never been with anyone else. After spitting in his hand, he entered me again, holding me down with his heavier torso. I clawed at the leather seat and fought for ways to free myself as my insides were twisted and battered for what seemed to be close to an hour.

Afterward, he drove me home in silence, not bothering to ask if I were okay, I held back tears as I lied to my parents about what a great time I had. In a bathtub of bloody bubbles, I cried and wondered if I could ever bring myself to talk to Patrick again. I stared at the phone as it kept playing his special ringtone, and after four times of him calling, I brought myself to pick it up.

“We still on for the movie tomorrow?” he asked, nonchalantly, not apologizing for the earlier brutality and humiliation. I swallowed and thought about what my reply should be. I wanted to never talk to him again, but then I feared the awkwardness that would come from explaining to him what he had done, since he clearly didn’t understand. I also didn’t want to explain to my friends why I was not talking to him anymore, so after sniffing back enough tears, I said, “Sure.”

Forty-percent of Gay men and 47 per cent of bisexual men have been raped or assaulted in some other sexually violent way, according to statistics from Sexual Assault and the LGBTQ Community. More of these cases go unreported because of toxic stigmas of masculinity forced upon males by society. Most cases of LGTBQ rape upon males go unreported because the male is closeted and feels ashamed to disclose his sexuality.

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