To Judge Smith: 

It all began Friday night, December 16, 2016, at 6:30 pm. The doorbell rang and in mobbed a crowd of girls. Within minutes, my room became a war zone, soldiers trekking over the mountains of clothes disguising my boring tan carpet, black dresses flying overhead. Mascara, blush, lipstick, and fake eyelashes covered my white tiled bathroom sink. Drake music was drowned out by the plethora of blow-dryers on high speed. Why all the commotion, you ask? Well, it was girl’s night!

We walked into the club at 9:35 pm. Techno music blared into the depths of my ears, shattering my poor ear drums. My eyes scanned the crowded room until they locked upon exactly what I was looking for: the bar. I pushed and shoved my way until I was face to face with my long-time friend. After ordering my exotic drink, I noticed I had lost my girls in all the commotion. Without thinking too much into it, my liquid courage and I proceeded to the dance floor.

I danced the night away without a care in the world; that is, until I felt him pressed up against me. I knew he was male, for obvious reasons. Fear and pleasure collided in my mind. Helpless, I did what girls do in those situations. I took another sip of my drink and kept dancing. It was fun to get attention.

My senses started to fade. I was heavily intoxicated. But we were having fun.

That’s all I remember of that night. I woke up Saturday morning on the floor of an apartment. At least I wasn’t left on the side of the road somewhere. My favorite skirt was torn down the seam to enable easy access and my underwear was nowhere to be seen. But don’t worry, it’s not a big deal. I can easily buy another skirt. I did what girls do in these situations. I quietly grabbed my visible belongings and left. No harm done.

I guess that’s how things work nowadays. It’s a perpetual cycle of going out excited and waking up confused.

I don’t blame my perpetrator for the events that happened on December 16. I’m the one who decided to wear a shirt that hung a little low and a skirt that easily rode up my thick thighs. Boys will be boys; they are incapable of keeping their eyes above my neck long enough to hold a decent conversation before giving in to their animalistic temptations.

At the end of the day, my perpetrator’s intention wasn’t to hurt me. He was craving sexual stimulation any female body could provide; I just happened to be the proud owner of the vagina that got him lucky. He just wanted some fun.

He’s just doing what he’s supposed to do. He saw an intoxicated, pretty girl at the club dressed provocatively and made his move. Maybe if I was sober I would have said yes. Maybe I did say yes and just don’t remember.

I shouldn’t have told anyone about what happened that night. I never intended for this to become a big deal. The last thing I wanted to do was get my perpetrator into trouble. He is the starting quarterback for a D1 football team. His life shouldn’t be ruined because of the fact that I was drunk and stupid.

He had never committed any crimes or sexually assaulted anyone before that night. It just happened once. Everyone makes mistakes, and he shouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of my drunken Friday night for the rest of his life. My bruises have all gone away and my battle wounds have become a part of me. I harbor no anger. In fact, I am happy to be a trophy on his shelf.

Sincerely,

Victim, Sexual Assault Case 0028