I was gang raped when I was eighteen.
I don’t know how many men there were, because I never saw all of their faces. I heard voices and laughter, felt different fists, different hips. But I couldn’t tell you their names. I couldn’t tell you their eyes. It’s unlikely, but there’s always a chance that I’ll encounter one of these men again, maybe exchange pleasantries, and never know.
That’s what I think about on my worst days.
So when I stumble upon abstract debates in my Facebook news feed about whether or not rape jokes are funny, or whether or not Daniel Tosh was justified in speculating, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that girl got raped by like, 5 guys right now?” that’s what I think about.
Those hands. Those voices. The way that colors faded for me, as if watching my life from behind a screen.
The way I trembled in my sleep, and still do.
Rape isn’t abstract. And it isn’t a joke.