This is my midterm for my women's studies class. Please do not read this if you are easily offended, if you feel that you might be triggered, or if you are too young. Seriously, there is nothing for you here if you are too young except for fear and confusion. This contains explicit rape, and I hope that no one has actually had a similar experience.

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“Nah, you’re too pretty,” he says.

What’s he talking about? “Um, thank you,” I stammer. “But what does that have to do with medical school?”

He shrugs, as if all of this should be crystal clear. “Girls like you don’t need to go to med school,” he says, his head cocked to the side. “But don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

“Um, okay,” I say, frowning. Well, he thinks I’m pretty, which is nice. The last guy my grandmother insisted I go out with was much shyer, and so I at least like that Michael isn’t afraid to tell me that he thinks I’m pretty. And unlike Mark, Michael has brought me to an upscale restaurant that he likes, and the food has been fantastic all night. I don’t like how he’s written off my hopes for medical school, though. Unlike this date, I’m trying for med school for me, not my grandmother. You know, she wouldn’t have set me up with Michael if she knew he didn’t think I should pursue the stereotypically Jewish career.

But the bill is here, and the date is almost over, thank God. I reach over to have a look at my expenses and the total, but the leather check presenter is suddenly torn from my hand. I dumbly look up to see Michael frowning at me. “I’m paying,” he says forcefully as he opens the check presenter to read the bill.

“It’s not a problem,” I say, and I don’t like how childish I feel. “I don’t mind paying for my part of the meal.” He glares at me as if I’m implying that he’s not man enough to pay or something. I sigh. “Look, at least let me chip in twenty bucks or so.” I know that my entrée alone was definitely more than fifteen dollars.

“I’m paying,” he says, and this time he seems angry. He continues to stare at me until I put my purse down. “Don’t worry about the bill.” Now he’s smiling, and he seems normal again. “Finish up your dessert. I’ll handle it.” But the chocolate cake tastes pretty bitter to me now. I’m not going to tell my grandmother when I’m home for vacation; at least when I’m at school, she doesn’t try to set me up with every nice Jewish boy she’s even heard of.

As we finish dessert while making small talk, I find myself rethinking Michael again. He is much more refined than Mark was, and more successful, even if he’s a little old for me. Part of me sounds like my grandmother as it points out that Michael is a wealthy law student, and he’s not bad-looking at all. Maybe if I go out with him a few more times, I’d like him more.

But another part of me keeps saying no. There won’t be a second date. Who cares if I’ve been single for so long? And besides, I could always tell my grandmother that I might be interested in my friend Robbie from school. I know I shouldn’t settle for someone who makes me feel so. . . I don’t know, actually. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with Michael. Besides, aren’t all law students pretty weird?

Soon, dinner is paid for, and Michael insists on helping me into my winter coat. I remind him that I am twenty years old now; I learned how to put my own coat on years and years ago. He doesn’t laugh or look sheepish at all, only annoyed that I was about to do something so independent, I guess. Oh, no! A woman who can put her own coat on? Call the press! I slip my gloves on, and I’m grateful that he doesn’t feel some strange need to help me do this simple task, too. As soon as I reach for the car door, though, he shouts at me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he cries as he rushes to my side. “You never open your own door,” he says as he does it for me.

I guess I should have expected this, although I thought he was just being sweet when he opened the door for me earlier. “It’s really not a problem,” I tell him. “Besides, who’s supposed to open your door?”

He isn’t amused, and I feel a little scared. I’m already conforming to the Jewish student stereotype, with the med school aspirations, the nosey grandmother, and the search for the “nice Jewish boy.” I don’t know how many more stereotypes I can take, even if they mean that someone will open my car door for me.

But there’s no use arguing with him, I guess, but I won’t go out with him again. I just. . .I just don’t like this feeling, this vibe I’m getting.

He’s at least trying to make small talk; I think he knows I’m not his type. Maybe he won’t even ask for a second date, and I smile at this possibility. I’ve been concentrating so much on not going out with him again that I’m not paying attention to what he’s saying, and apparently he’s just asked me a question.

“I’m sorry; what did you say?” I ask politely, trying to cover up how rude I just was.

Michael doesn’t seem too annoyed. “I wanted to know if we could stop at my place briefly before I drop you off at your house. It’s right on the way.”

“Um, all right,” I say lamely. I can’t for the life of me think of why he would need to stop by his place first, since I figure he’s going back there after he takes me home. I’m anxious to get home for some reason, but what are a few extra minutes? I mean, I’m not going out with him again. I might as well be nice to him now.

“I have to feed my cat,” he adds.

“I said it was all right,” I say, hoping that he doesn’t think I sound annoyed or anything. “I didn’t know you had a cat.” And then he launches into the cat’s biography. I’m a little uncomfortable, and soon enough, we’re there.

I offer to sit in the car while he runs inside, but I think he hasn’t heard me since he’s coming around to open my door. Once the cold air is pouring over me, I repeat my offer. After all, he’s only going to be there for about a minute.

“No, no, it’s warmer in the apartment,” he says. “Come on, it’s going to be freezing in the car.”

“All right,” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt and push myself out of the car. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed something slimy, and the anti-grandmother part of my mind says I shouldn’t have gotten up. As Michael leads me into the building, I wonder why I didn’t just stay in the car; after all, what could he possibly have done to me if I hadn’t gotten out?

He lets me into his clean, first floor apartment, and he offers me a seat in his kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks as he pulls out a couple wine glasses.

“I’m all set,” I say nervously. “I’d really like to be getting home soon,” I add hastily.

He nods, although unhappily. “All right, all right. I put my cat in my room so she would only have a few things to tear up,” he says with a wry smile. “So I’ll be right back.” He walks down the short hall, but stops halfway. “Hey, do you like cats? Do you want to meet her?”

“Um, it’s fine.”

“No, come on. Come meet her.”

“Michael, I’d really like to be getting home.” I don’t know how much clearer I can really be.

But now he’s walking back and pulling me by my arm. “Come meet my cat. She’s nice, I promise!”

I don’t like this rough handling! “I believe you,” I say, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation. But I’m scared. “Let go of my arm.” He doesn’t hear me as he pushes open the door to his bedroom. He pulls me into the darkness.

I hear the door shut, and the sound of the light-switch being flicked just barely precedes the light itself. I don’t see a cat. I don’t even see a litter box, or a bowl of water. Michael didn’t even bring in a bowl of food for the cat anyway. Michael. . .

. . .is grabbing at me. I shriek and push at his chest as his hand attacks mine. I hear my voice shouting to stop it, stop it! But he starts to pull at my shirt and push me to the bed. When I hit the too-soft mattress, I seem to come back to a normal consciousness, and I can hear him talking as I fail to keep him from ripping my clothes from my body.

“Come on,” he’s saying, his voice frustrated. “I paid for dinner. I was polite! Wasn’t I polite? I opened doors for you, pulled out your chair, helped you with your coat!”

But I keep saying no, over and over, telling him to stop as I try to cover my increasingly naked body. He grabs my wrists with one of his hands and presses them to the bed. “Look, I paid for dinner!” he shouts.

“I offered to pay!” I shout back, and he takes his other hand and smacks me across the face.

“But I paid,” he says coolly. “And judging from this shirt,” he says, holding up the garment that I should still be wearing, “you want to get some action.”

“It’s just a shirt!” I shout back, only to receive another slap. My eyes are pricking with pain now, and I begin to shake as I realize that Michael doesn’t care about the truth. If he thinks that a low-cut shirt means that I want to “get some action,” trying to convince him otherwise will result in something worse than a slap in the face. He’s already dragged me in here.

For the first time in a long time, I find myself praying to God. I never pray anymore. God, please let me live. Please let me get back home. Please let me live so I can see my family again. So I can see my friends again. As I hear the worst sound in the world, the sound of Michael undoing the fly of his pants as he pins me down with his leg, I burst into tears. I don’t want to do this. No, no, no, no, no. I hear the tearing of a condom package. No, no, no, no, no.

I’m no virgin, but it hurts, it hurts. The grunts he makes, the feel of his cold chai necklace, the smell of his sweat. But worst of all, worst of all, my breathing grows rapid, and not from crying. I haven’t hit a climax in a while, and no, no, no, why is one building now? Just don’t think about it, just don’t think about it.

And not soon enough, my body’s betrayed me, and he’s reached orgasm as well. My eyes are swollen shut from crying as he pulls his sticky body from me, and presumably heads to the bathroom to throw out the used condom. I, his used date, shiver on the quilt.

And then he’s back. “You have to get dressed,” he says to me, his voice completely normal. He chuckles. “Come on, your parents expect you home before midnight.” I hear the rustle of clothing, and I pull my eyes open to see him tugging on his shirt. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

I shake my head no as I reach for my underwear and my skirt, which are hanging off of the bed, and my trembling hands make it difficult to even get my feet through the holes in my panties. I feel empty, but my mind is flooded with what the hell I’m supposed to do.

We’re both dressed, and he’s leading me back to the car. He’s got a pleasant smile on his face, not unlike the ones I’ve seen on the face of my ex-boyfriend after a night of intimacy. But I don’t feel the same way. I feel something else, something bad and sticky and slimy. What should I do?

Nothing. I can’t do anything. Michael is an intelligent and promising law student. I could ruin everything for him. And it’s not like he just. . . destroyed me or anything. And what about me? I’ve worked so hard in college to gain the respect of my peers and professors. They’ll think I’m just some dirty prostitute. I just had sex on the first date, didn’t I? And I must have enjoyed it, obviously. And Michael doesn’t seem to think anything’s wrong. Besides, my grandmother wouldn’t believe me. And wouldn’t it hurt her? I mean, she’s best friends with Michael’s family!

I can’t. I won’t. I just want to go home and take a shower. I can see the layers of grime covering my skin. I can’t share this with anyone. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. And they would, too.

And then Michael pulls up in front of my house, and before I can run away from his car as fast as I can, he asks me what I’m doing next weekend. I say I’m busy, and I practically run into my house, locking the door behind me. My mom is in the kitchen, in her bathrobe and holding a mug of tea. She smiles as she shuts the fridge. “Hi, sweetie! How was your date?”

Time freezes as I feel his hands again, and more than that. I come back to earth with a jolt, and my mother waits expectantly. “It was fine,” I say, my voice as normal as it could ever be. “But I’m tired, so I’m gonna get some sleep.” I head to the stairs.

My mom knows from my lack of the usual gushing after a good date that I’m not seeing Michael again. “Well, did he at least offer to pay for dinner?”

I pretend I didn’t hear her.