Ed. note: The following includes a graphic description of the author's experience with rape.I was raped. This is a very hard thing to say, and I have struggled for decades with the un-sortable Pandora’s box of emotions that are released after I say it. The myriad feelings, insurmountable, insuppressible, unspeakable.Yet I must try today to describe the indescribable. I must speak, because right now, women are being told that we can be raped , without consequence, behind a Dumpster. That it’s okay for a judge to ask a rape survivor why she couldn’t “just keep her knees together.” That when a man is “a star,” it’s okay for him to grab us wherever he wants — that a man like that is fit to be president. Time and time again, blame for sexual attacks falls on the survivor, for their lack of strength and their inability to prove complete and utter moral perfection as a human being.To speak as a rape survivor is to speak of things one shouldn’t speak of — or so we are taught. It makes people uncomfortable. It’s too graphic for conversation, too lewd to publish. But how can we solve a problem we can’t discuss? If we whisper it, then it must mean that it’s something to be ashamed of. And I’m done with that.When I was 15 years old, I was invited to a high school keg party at a house where the parents were out of town. Invited through a friend, Jane*, who went to the same all-girls Catholic school I did, I knew no one at the party — which was made up of mostly boys. On the way there, Jane swooned about the host that I was soon to meet. Let’s call him Blaine*. He was hottest guy at the public school that she used to attend before coming to ours. He was rich, popular, drove a brand new Nissan 300ZX, was captain of the lacrosse team, and lived in a huge McMansion — notable to me only because, although I was a private school kid, I was like a white, female version of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I had a troubled home life, was poor, and had moved in with an aunt who was generous enough to pay for my education in hopes of steering my future in the right direction. I wanted more than anything to be like my peers from happy, normal homes.Blaine was a senior, soon to be 18, which to the average sophomore is the equivalent of a Fortune 500 CEO or a rock star. Like most 15-year-old girls, cars, popularity and fame impressed me. My friend’s description of Blaine had me dreaming of a steady boyfriend who picked me up in his 300ZX and let me wear his letterman's jacket. I knew my mission before I arrived: Make Blaine like me. I had started to model locally, and my physicality (leggy, strategically buxom), meant I was usually popular with any teenaged guy I set my sights on. And I was again that night when we arrived at the party. Blaine beelined to the door to greet me. In typical teenage fashion, under the influence of several watery Midwestern light beers, we flirted over the next few hours with tall tales and juvenile jokes. Blaine kissed me in the kitchen when no one was looking, and I liked it. I kissed him back, because I wanted to. Someone said, “Get a room!” We were making people feel uncomfortable.We mauled our way from the garishly lit kitchen into the vastly boring and tackily chandeliered foyer, and again, I liked the way he kissed. Passionately. I felt important. Desired. Loved. New partygoers arrived through the foyer, and Blaine steered my body toward the stairs, which led to the bedrooms. I knew what that bedroom steer meant, and I resisted. “No, I’m not going upstairs,” I said, “I’m not having sex with you. I’ve known you for, like, an hour.”The reality was I was on my period; I was no virgin. And I probably would have wanted to have sex with him on a different day. But not today. The heaviest day.“C’mon,” he said. “I’m not trying to have sex with you. Everyone is watching. I promise. We won’t have sex. Let’s just go upstairs.” He kissed me sweetly.“GET A ROOM!” someone yelled again. I giggled, rolled my eyes, and reluctantly went up the stairs and into his room, where he laid on top of me on his bed and kissed me. And again, I liked it as he pressed his body against mine. But I did not want to have sex with him. Not now. Not like this. Because I actually liked him. When he went for the button of my shorts I said, “No,” and pushed his hand away, but he didn’t listen and swiftly brought it back, ripping the button and the zipper open with one swift gesture. His dexterity alone was shocking. “I’m serious,” I gasped, and pulled my face away from his.“I said, NO! For fuck’s sake. I’m on my period. Stop it!”It was at this point that everything changed, and we began a serious struggle. He lifted himself and, in another quick gesture, yanked my Bermuda shorts to my knees. I tried to get up, and he pinned me back down. “Stop it!” I yelled at him, while music blared on the family stereo downstairs. No one could hear me. I was now frightened. He smiled, wickedly mocking my No's, and grabbed my wrists harshly as he pinned me down and tried to kiss me. “No! I don’t want to kiss you anymore! I mean it! Stop it!” I twisted my face away from him as he reached between my legs, ripped out my blood-soaked tampon, and threw it across the room. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was horrified. Again, I tried to get away from him, but he pushed me back down and pinned my wrists above my shoulders. I fought for what might have been a minute or two, as his star athlete body weighed down my waif frame, and my thin arms managed only to lift millimetres from the bed.