It was not Sting's fault. It was also not mine.
But I have often thought that this song playing, as we danced toward the end of that New Year's Eve party, made that guy all the more determined that he not go home alone.
I'd said, so many times already, that I did not want to go home with him. I barely knew him. Call me tomorrow, I said. Ask me on a date.
He argued and insisted, argued and insisted. My gut said: The more someone pushes, the quicker you get away from him. And: He doesn't care what you want, what you don't want. His insisting is the sign. (What I wanted: to get to my bed, peacefully, on my own. I was 20 years old. Going home with near strangers was not my thing.)
I didn't listen to my instincts. I should have. But this is not on me. It's not on #Sting. It's not on anyone but that pathetic asshole who thought what he wanted trumped all.
It took a doctor to tell me that, without question, what had happened was wrong. I'd thought, I told him I didn't want to have sex with him, but I didn't punch him. I told him, but I didn't kick him. I told him before we got to his place, when we arrived at his place, and many times after; but then, finally, I just froze.
He was about 10 years older than I was. I went back to school and never had to see him again. I don't remember his face. I don't remember his last name. At a friend's encouragement, I did send him a #letter, telling him what I thought about what he'd done. Telling him, also, what the doctor had told me. Telling him a professional's opinion that not only had he broken the law, but he was a disgraceful excuse for a man. Clearly he wouldn't want to believe me about it; but the #doctor had said so. The male doctor.
He didn't answer the letter. I mean it when I say I didn't care.
I saved the #dress I'd been wearing, for a while. I thought maybe I could reclaim it over time. But I couldn't. In the end, I cut it up and donated it for art supplies. I couldn't wear that dress again, and neither should anyone else.