Editor’s note: Lovefraud received the following story from a reader whom we’ll call, Susana20.
“They’re not going to believe you. Sign here.” That is what she told me when she gave me the pen and the custody agreement. “This is your best bet. Sign here. They are NOT going to believe you!” How did I get here???
It was the summer of 2016 . . . . After exchanging phone numbers online sometime before, we went out on a date. We were incompatible from the very beginning. Early on, I talked about waiting until marriage. He talked about how often he needs to masturbate. I talked about keeping his hands off of me. He talked about how arguments over sex made his brother nearly get a divorce. I talked about going OUT while he wanted to come over late and “chill.”
The date was dinner and a concert. The same night, I found out my uncle was really, really sick and unfortunately on death’s door. Even with my own experience coping with grief, I didn’t know how best to help or console my cousins during this difficult time. Instead of condolences, the dater relished in my discomfort over the topic. During dinner, he played the Devil’s advocate and pushed me to mourn both future and past funerals. Holding back for as long as I could, choking on my tears, he blurted, “I just wanted to see how you’d react.” It was in that moment, the date felt dead. I was sitting across from a man who took a perverted pleasure in inciting grief the same way a hungry hyena eagerly gnaws on a bone. For me, it ended right then and there. Were it not for my heels, I would have begun walking. Would he make a scene? The concert venue felt a million miles away in my painful shoes. Would he follow me?
I felt uncomfortable and got in the car. When we arrived at the venue, I stood in line in those heels. He followed. I tried to walk as far as possible from him. He followed. I moved seats. He followed. During the performance, I stared straight ahead and ignored what little conversation he tried to start. Towards the end of the show, the venue allowed the audience in the back to move closer to the front towards the stage. Despite my uncomfortable shoes, I stood on those really high heels for I don’t know how long. At this point, he didn’t follow me and I hoisted myself upfront on those digging straps until the end of the concert.
The drive home was relatively unremarkable. Unfortunately, that was a stark contrast to my arrival at the doorstep. I already told him before, “It’s a little late to be coming over.” But he entered anyway . . . “Never [too late] for me” was his mantra.
It didn’t take long for him to try to kiss me. After a few fumbled attempts, I was able to dodge my face away from his. “No! I don’t want to,” only resulted in him trying to put his hand up my dress. He positioned himself between me and the exit. I tugged my dress down and tried stepping towards the front door. This ignited him pushing me in the opposite direction … towards the bedroom. “I don’t want to.” He went for my lips again, then my dress, then another push. This time, I stumbled nearly to the ground and panicked. Oh my God! With no traction, the effing heels were impeding my escape. The struggle escalated. I fought with all the strength I had, but he was determined to get what he wanted, regardless of my protests. I had no time to think, just sheer panic, fear and humiliation and a complete disbelief that this was happening to me.
When he was done, his grip let up and I was able to get up and get to the front door. He followed. I grabbed the knob and swung the door open to have it act as a shield. He paused for a moment with the door open. In the best voice I could muster, I said, “I don’t want to see you ever again.” He smirked, with a corner of his lip going up.
I was blinded by panic and felt paralyzed after the assault. In my mind, it was not even an option to go to the hospital afterwards. After all, I am an ER doctor. Can you imagine showing your stretched underwear and privates to your co-workers on one of the worst nights of your life? As for going to the police? Something wrong/immoral/unethical happened, but I had not completely processed that a crime had been committed. In that moment, I convinced myself I would never see him again, so what’s the point?
It was weird when he texted me to hang out the next day. I dismissed him with one-word answers or short phrases. “Nothing’s changed from Saturday L” His response, “You are holding an extremist (and a bit religious fanatic) view on our interaction with each other by taking this stance.” He calls, he texts, and I’m not interested. More time passes, and . . . , I’m pregnant.