The truth about my first time.

*TRIGGER WARNING: content may be upsetting to readers* Everything was brand new when I started college. A brand new state, a brand new slate—away from the mess I was in high school. During my freshman year, I met a boy.

He was tall, handsome, and charming, and he took advantage of me when I was still trying to figure out who I am.

Back when I was still innocent. Clean.

I took him back to my dorm room one night because we ran out of places to go on our second date. I kept the door slightly propped open, to avoid sending the wrong signal. We started making out, and one thing led to another—his hands were on my waistband, eyes pleading.

I didn’t know what to do. I was internally freaking out.

I was 19. I was 19 and immature and young and confused. I know 19 is not that young, but I grew up in a conservative town, went to a Catholic school, and I did not receive any sex education. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never had sex. I didn’t know what consent was. I didn’t know it must be revocable, conscious, enthusiastic, verbal, and ongoing.

I nodded. Despite the nagging feeling in my stomach that something does not feel right.

He took off my pants and started touching, kissing me. I was just lying there, not sure what to do. I felt exposed. But I tried to like it. I tried to imagine how I should feel. Then he stood up and locked the door. He took off his pants, putting on a condom. Then he climbed over me and started… shoving—for the lack of a better word.

It hurt, but I thought that was normal. I read about it online. The first time was supposed to hurt.

He started shoving, but he could not get it in.

He started pushing and pushing, faster and faster, against me.

But he could not get it in.

At one point he just gave up trying to get it in, so he continued shoving and shoving against me, hard. And it hurt. But I didn’t say anything. How could I? All I could think about was something is wrong with me. Something physical is wrong with me. Perhaps a minute or two went by. It felt so fast, yet so slow. He came and looked at me, embarrassed. But he didn’t say anything else. He threw away his condom and lied down next to me.

I faked a smile and said it’s ok. I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed. Because I felt embarrassed. He kissed me for a while before he was ready again. He wanted to try again. But he didn’t have another condom. He went for it anyway. This time he got it in. This time it hurt, too. When he left, he asked me if I was on the pill.

I said I was. Since I did start the pill a month before for other reasons. I kissed him goodbye and closed the door. I turned on the lights, and my white comforter was stained with a small pool of blood. I panicked, trying to wash it off so my roommates wouldn’t see it when they come back. And It sort of worked.

For a while, I refused to see what happened to me because I didn’t know what happened.

For a while, I dated this boy because I didn’t want my first time to be a one-night-stand.

For a while, I let this boy break my heart and have sex with me every time he sees me. But not anymore.

I talked about this for the first time.

I wrote about this for the first time.

I recognize what happened is not okay.

But I will be okay.

The irony of it all was that he was the only boy I had sex with, yet he still managed to give me an incurable STI that will forever remind me of his presence for the rest of my life.