Hello Brian,
 
It's been a while since we've talked, hasn't it? I'm not sure you even remember me.

I met you at Mardi Gras last February on a cold New Orleans night. I thought you were so nice and clean-cut, the typical college student looking for a good time. You told me you were a senior, and you wanted to go to law school. Was that true? I guess I will never know.

I'll admit, I was attracted to you when we met. You sauntered up, wearing khakis and a Polo shirt, and asked me for a light. I obliged, and we began an animated conversation. We walked through the crowds, enjoying each other's company. You didn't seem interested in the chaos surrounding us, and I was impressed.

I remember when you first kissed me. It was a nice kiss, something you would expect from a guy at the end of a first date. Your lips were soft and gentle, and you blanketed me with the impression of shyness and honesty.

Do you remember my friend taking a picture of us right after we kissed? We were on Bourbon Street, and she surprised us by snapping a shot. In the picture, you are standing behind me, a wide grin on your face. You're eyes are that perfect combination of green and hazel, and your hair is tousled, almost unruly. I'll be honest, you're a good-looking guy. But when I look at that picture now, no matter how gorgeous you may be, I shake with loathing and fear.

You're pretty clever, aren't you? At about 2 a.m. I decided  to go back to the hotel. None of my friends were ready to leave, so it seemed thoughtful, Mr. Chivalrous, to offer to walk me back. I should have taken my chances getting mugged instead of trusting you.

When we got back to the hotel, you asked if you could use the toilet in the room because the one in the lobby was broken. Perhaps I was naive to think you didn't want anything more than that.

Do you remember what happened next? You told me you had finally gotten me alone. You took off the khakis and pulled off your shirt with a quick tug. I saw how big you were and began to shake. You're proud of those muscles, aren't you, Brian? I can picture you spending hours at the gym, looking at yourself in the mirror and flexing those strong biceps.

You ordered me to take off my clothes. I was drunk and scared you were going to hurt me if I disobeyed.
But, as it turned out, you hurt me anyway, didn't you? You pinched my nipples so hard it brought tears to my eyes. I told you to stop because it was painful, but you just smiled. You pushed me onto the bed and slowly climbed on top of me.

You were so deliberate, Brian, taking your time, as if you thought it was something I was enjoying right along with you. Did you think I enjoyed having my chest bruised? As you were thrusting yourself in and out of me, didn't you notice I was crying and begging you to stop? Did you really think it turned me on when you called me a 'whore'?

The truth is, I couldn't have been more repulsed. I was disgusted with you for the person you had suddenly become.
After what seemed an eternity, I decided I had to do something. My body screamed in pain, and I could feel myself beginning to bleed. I was drenched in your sweat, the salt stinging my torn skin.

Do you remember when I quietly asked if I could get us some water? You stopped and allowed me to get up. It's pretty ironic that you trusted me to leave the bedroom. Had you not noticed my tears and my cries?

I closed the bedroom door behind me.  I walked into the kitchen and, as if on automatic pilot, called the front desk.
The operator sounded far away as I tried to explain that I needed a cop sent to the hotel room. She must have noticed the fear in my voice, because she wanted me to stay on the line.

But I think I hung up, because I don't remember talking long. I walked back to the bedroom and found you still sprawled on the bed.

I remember looking at your face and feeling so ashamed for trusting you. You told me to get back on the bed, and I shook my head no. You started to get up with a menacing look on your face, but the bang at the front door stopped you.

I walked past you, barely missing your arm as you tried to stop me. The cop at the door ordered me to step aside so he could get in, but I told him no. For some reason, I felt the need to kick you out myself. I told the officer to wait at the doorway.
You were sitting up and looking at me with a confused expression on your face. By then you probably realized I had called the cops, and you were thinking an arrest was about to be made. But I didn't want you arrested. I just wanted you out of my life.
I suppose that's why you became nice again. I ordered you to leave, and you had the nerve to ask me why. There were so many things I wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. I just kept crying.

I still can't believe what you said when you left. "No matter what, I know you enjoyed it." There was such contempt in your voice that, for a moment, I thought you were going to hit me. But you just sauntered out, as if nothing had happened, and left me feeling completely destroyed.

I returned to Gainesville the next day and immediately got tested for STD's, pregnancy and AIDS. I was sure you had given me something, since you didn't have the decency to use a condom. But physically I was clean.

I may never understand why, but for some reason, I feel responsible for what happened, as if I could have stopped it somehow or seen it coming. Perhaps if I hadn't kissed you, none of this would have happened.

You repulse me, Brian, and I struggle everyday to remember that you're the one with the problems, not me. I have a hard time dating guys now because it's difficult for me to trust men. I guess I have to believe that your kind is few and far between, and that most men aren't rapists.

You're probably wondering why I wrote this letter. Originally, it was an attempt to tell you how horrible I thought you were. But I'm tired of being angry. I'm trying to forgive you and put this behind me, so I guess this was catharsis. But for some reason, I don't feel any better.

            —The girl from Mardi Gras

This letter was written by a UF student in an attempt to sort out her feelings about being raped. Although she will never send the letter to Brian, it helps her to see the victimization in print.

Like so many others, this UF student did not report the rape. In fact, she never really considered herself a victim, because she felt responsible for what had happened. In her mind, if she never had allowed Brian into the hotel room, nothing would have happened.

The young woman was tested for sexually transmitted diseases and HIV at UF's Student Health Care Cen-ter, and there she found out about CARE (Center for Sexual Assault Abuse Recovery and Educa-tion). Dr. Rochelle Hanson, a psychiatrist for CARE, was the first person to make her realize she had been raped.

Hanson encouraged her to verbalize the details of the evening and fully comprehend what Brian had done to her.

"The only way to get over something is to get through it," Hanson told her.

Because of the help she received from CARE, this woman now realizes that she is not to blame for what happened.
Unfortunately, there are many people who hold themselves responsible for sexual assault. Perhaps it's because the scenario is not as clear-cut as some rapes you may hear about.

Maybe a young woman was drinking or doing drugs and doesn't quite remember how or why she woke up to a man having sex with her. She might feel what happened can't be considered a rape, because she doesn't know if the sex was consensual before it began.

Many sexual encounters fall into a state of ambiguity. A woman may hold herself responsible for the situation she finds herself in and therefore is too embarrassed to report anything.

Because of the failure to report sexual assault, many men and women aren't aware of how frequently rapes occur and therefore don't take measures to protect themselves.

In Florida, the law is very clear about sexual assault. Pages of statutes spell out different assault scenarios and the penalties for each one.

Alan McMichael, an attorney in Gainesville, says the law wasn't always so clear and  tended to be gender-biased and chauvinistic.

"The law used language such as, 'A rape is when a man uses un-gentlemanly conduct and forces himself upon a lady,'" McMichael says. "It was ridiculous to ever think of a woman raping a man, a man raping a man or a woman raping a woman, so the law was gender-specific and rather crude." McMichael explains that now the language is gender-neutral and extremely detailed.

In examining the statute on sexual battery, the definition is clear: "Sexual battery means oral, anal, or vaginal penetration by, or union with, the sexual organ of another or the anal or vaginal penetration of another by any other object ..."

The law also explains that the way one is dressed, how much he or she may have drunk or any previous sexual conduct is irrelevant in determining whether a rape has occurred.

In fact, Gainesville police are investigating two men who allegedly sexually assaulted a prostitute. According to Lt. John Nobles, the men paid the prostitute money for sexual favors. When she was finished doing her work, the two men allegedly would not let her leave and raped her. Nobles says the Gainesville police are not charging the woman with prostitution but are aiding her by investigating the sexual assault.

"It's irrelevant that this woman is a prostitute, and that she may have had sex with the men minutes before," Nobles says. "No means no, and according to Florida law, previous consensual sex does not mean rape can't happen."

As far as the law is concerned, rape is clearly defined. Unfortunately the law can't mandate people's opinions, the stigma associated with rape and some victims' hesitation to deliberately put themselves into the spotlight.
• • •
Sexual assault and victimization will continue to permeate society until communication takes over. Advances can be made with acknowledgment and diplomatic words. The discussion of sexual assault need not be a battle between men and women but the chance to increase communication about a subject that exists because of misunderstanding.