The first time I had sex it was awkwardly unsettling. The timing didn’t feel right. The place was too dingy for anyone’s liking.
The first time I had sex, it was only my first time so I tried to shield my body. My shirt was all torn, my tights no longer stretched across my legs. My arms tried to fold themselves over my bare chest but his eyes roamed every inch of me like I was some fucking trophy he had somehow earned for the next 15 minutes. I had seen those eyes before many times. They were dark and deep. I had seen them on the corner of the street during my walks, the Subway where I bought my double chocolate chip cookies. I’d seen those eyes a million times. I had seen them outside my car window and across the road when I stepped outside my house.
Those eyes had seen me many times. They had undressed me unfaithfully, unapologetically. I always wondered how they could look at me this way when it was those same eyes that saw a mother, a sister, a wife, and a daughter.
The first time I had sex my legs were awkwardly angled because I didn’t know where to keep them. He tried his best to keep them open right. The knife in his palm made it easier. The first time I had sex I dug my nails into his body and he wrapped his arms around me. His strong figure overpowered me. He reeked of nicotine and rage.
The first time I had sex, he wrapped his slim fingers around my neck. The bruises have faded but his fingerprints remain deeply embedded into my soul. The first time I had sex we were both loud. There was a lot of loud screaming. I wonder how many people heard me and chose to walk away.
The first time I had sex, I bled. I bled from the side of my cheek; I tasted metal on my tongue. I felt a thorn prick my heart. I felt it ooze out of my right shoulder where a bare scar lies now. They stitched up my cheek but what about the insides where he once lay? Can they stitch my soul as well?
The first time I had sex the sun was fast asleep and the light inside me had long faded. The street light was flickering. Light. No light. Light. No light. I counted it 81 times. 107 times I inhaled and exhaled. 152 times I felt his hands over me. 87 times my heart broke. No amount of times can measure the disgust I taste in my mouth every morning when I look at myself in the mirror and see him smiling viciously as he abuses me.
Author’s note: This isn’t a sob story for attention. Rape isn’t a joke. There’s nothing like forcing self-awareness on other by making them realize it through their own answers.
Editor’s note: According to the War Against Rape Report in 2014, every day in Pakistan 4 women are raped(and these are just the reported figures). Less than 30 percent of these cases brought to a hospital actually lead to an FIR. In a society like this, incidents like the horrible assault of women during the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf rally in Lahore on May 1, 2016, are used for political blame game rather than conclusive measures being taken to prevent the violation of citizens’ privacy and the abuse of their constitutionally protected fundamental rights. The blame lies with all, government and opposition alike.
It is also the responsibility of citizens with regards to material spread on social media to not merely peruse it for pleasure. Until there is a demand for protection of rights that are enshrined in the Constitution of Pakistan in an assertive manner, there will never be any action.
Cover Image via: CBC News