10 months ago he raped me. We'd been hooking up for weeks, catching up ater the bar scene, driving home against our better judgement. I slept with him a few times, sure, but one night, I was just too drunk, and told him as much. He shoved his arm across my neck and raped me, telling me what a bitch, what a cunt I was. When he was done I didn't even cry. I went to sleep, and bade him farewell in the morning. I wasn't ready to call it rape. That morning, I told my curious friends about how "he got rough" that night, but I still didn't call it rape. I laughed it off.

Thing is--I'm a feminist. I'm an anti-rape activist. I know just about everyting there is to know about rape-- responses, rape trauma syndrome, denial, shame, coping, not coping, definitions, both legal and moral. But it just didn't click.... "I know how to protect myself, I know my resources, I know that if I'm ever raped, I would do X, Y and Z....but I did B, C, and D... so it couldnt have been rape."

Last May I saw him in his damn graduation gown. He came up to me looking for a congratulatory hug. I had made a point of not seeing him since that night, but here he was. I stood stock still, clearly not wanting to hug this man. And he barrelled over, wrapped his imposing body around mine (so tiny, so quiet), and I felt so enraged that he took that kind of liberty. I burst into tears and ran to the other side of campus. That's when it started pieceing together. Today, 10 months later, I'm calling him out.