The First Time I Said ‘Stop,’ He Laughed.

by María Del Mal 

The first time I said it, it was quiet, a soft plea on my lips, “Stop, I want to stop.” He chuckled. He leaned back down kissing my neck and I pressed my hands against his shoulders, “No, I’m serious, stop.” 

“Come on,” he sighed. “Don’t be a tease.”

I remember freezing, my brain splitting with the decision to stay and play it safe or run, trying to find my best chance at survival. I remember when he shoved his tongue down my throat, my protests died between his one-sided fight for dominance. I still hate myself for this decision, for not kicking him in the balls or biting his tongue off. I hate myself for not being brave enough to at least fight back.  I was just a “tease” because he felt entitled to me, to my body. 

For months after, I carried the guilt, shame, and pain that should’ve all been his. I found out my “stop” was his foreplay, his pleasure came from my resistance. The moment I laid there and submitted, while he got what he wanted, I gave up in the middle of the war. 

To this day, I replay that night in my head. I wonder what would have happened if I had done it. If I had bit his tongue off or kicked him in the balls, maybe I’d be a different person. Maybe I wouldn’t be too scared to be touched by a man, or maybe I wouldn’t flinch at the thought of being left alone with one. 

Or maybe I’d be dead. 

I’ve seen so many stories of so many different women who said no, who fought back, who died at the hands of men who told them they were safe to be alone with. 

After it all happened, I went looking for danger. It was like I was trying to prove something to myself, to the world. My friends were angry they couldn’t stop me, my parents were disappointed every time I dragged myself in the early mornings. I grew so accustomed to the manipulation, that it became part of my everyday life, I needed it to feel stable and normal. 

I hunted for hands to touch my body and give me the love back, the love he stole. It was meant for a beautiful moment, with a wonderful person of my choosing, but instead it became a game of survival. 

Lay there.

  Be a good girl.

Moan when you’re supposed to. 

  And get the hell out of there. 

I let other strangers take more pieces of me, because at least it was my choice. I used my body as currency, the same way society saw it. Sure, they touched me and saw parts of me only my mother knows, but they’ll never have me. 

There’s no scripture or parable to read about moments like this. There’s nothing in the bible to teach about healing from other’s evil, men will sin and are forgiven by some magical being that created life, but women? We survive and aren’t even deemed more than females. 

I don’t talk about moments like this because I want pity, I do it because silence is how they win. I will never be silent again.