How My Coworkers Saved My Sex Life

After being raped on a study abroad trip, I was at an all time low. But my sex positive work friends helped empower me.

21 March, 2018
How My Coworkers Saved My Sex Life

​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.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a strange room in a strange bed, naked with a strange man inside me. A moment later, I drifted back into a state of unconsciousness and awoke a few hours later, the naked stranger sleeping next to me. Panicked, I wordlessly gathered my things and ran out of the apartment onto the streets of Paris. I tried to find my way back to the Metro in my bewildered state, but it was futile — after a few minutes of spinning in circles, I caught a cab across town back to my tiny attic apartment.

The rest of that day is a blur of shame, tears and confusion. I remember crying on the phone to my older sister, saying I felt like a slut and listening to her reassurance that one-night stands were not a big deal, that I probably just blacked out. I remember getting the guy's Facebook friend request and realizing he was a friend of a friend. I remember trying to replay the night over and over in my head, desperately trying to figure out what happened. Had I flirted with him? Had I drunkenly made out with him at the bar? I didn't know, but I knew, deep down, that whatever had happened wasn't OK.

To this day, that night remains a mystery. I don't know whether I blacked out on my own, or if I was drugged. But I do know that it wasn't OK and that it was rape — the kind of rape that often gets deemed "gray rape" because of the unclear circumstances. I also know that's the day my relationship with my sexuality changed.

After that night, I slept my way around Paris and Western Europe because if I hadn't said no to him, I had no right to say no to anyone else. Almost every time, without fail, I was drunk, or at least tipsy, to get through it. It was an act. I went through the motions, but sex wasn't something I enjoyed. I faked orgasms to end it quickly, counting on movie sex scenes to tell me what I was supposed to sound like. I think I hoped that I would get to the point where I could see my rapist as just another casual one-night-stand, not the guy who took advantage of me—that eventually, I'd get to the point where sex was just sex, not something that would make me feel empty and ashamed with every thrust.

When I moved to New York for an internship the following summer, the cycle continued. New to Manhattan, I figured dating apps like Tinder, OkCupid and Hinge were the easiest way to meet guys. These only fueled the problem when I realized most of the guys I was going on dates with were just looking for a hook up. I was afraid the guys would judge me for sleeping with them on the first date, and never call again. But when they asked if I wanted to grab a nightcap, I felt too powerless to say no. After all, who was I to turn down these handsome and successful men?

It wasn't until I started working as an editorial assistant at this very magazine — one famous for its sex coverage — that I realized I was supposed to have a say in my sex life. My coworkers talked candidly about their sex lives. I interviewed sexologists, attended a blow job workshop and called in sex toys for editors to test. It was when I brought home one of these vibrators to try out for a story that I had my first orgasm. The sensation of pleasure traveling through my body, tickling my brain was overwhelming, and I finally felt that sex could be and should be something enjoyable, not an act I consented to because I didn't think I had the right to say no. In this sex positive environment, I learned that it was OK for a woman to be sexual. And, it was OK to have casual sex, as long it was on my terms. After being raped, I had been ashamed of sex. Finally, I embraced it. I realized having sex and enjoying it didn't make me a slut — it's part of what made me who I am.

So I set about getting to know myself intimately. I took home bullet vibrators, Rabbits, even fingertip vibrators and oral sex simulators. I discovered my clit, and what it took to get myself off. I watched porn, read erotica and realized I was into BDSM (beyond 50 Shades of Grey). I finally felt sexy and confident.​

A few months after my sexual awakening, I went on a first date with a guy I met on Tinder. I typically like to stick to a drinks-only rule for first dates, but he suggested dinner at an expensive restaurant that I'd been dying to try but couldn't afford. As he blatantly stared down my shirt rambling on about all the luxuries being an investment banker afforded him, including his summer share in the Hamptons, I realized I was definitely not interested (and that I hate dinner dates).

After a grueling two hours, we paid the bill and left the restaurant. As we walked out, he asked me if he could come back over to my place for a "nightcap." Before I would have felt obligated to let him — especially after he spent so much on dinner — but I now politely declined. Rather than have mediocre sex with my date, I went home, crawled into bed and took out my favorite vibrator.

Credit: Cosmopolitan
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