Important Note: Out of disrespect to the real-life predators whom the fictional characters were based on, traumatic events and situations were told exactly as it happened to raise awareness and for prevention of Sexual Assault.

I woke up to the blaring sound of an EDM track. I think it was about 6:30 AM. I was in one of the private booths of some underground lap dance party, in Hell’s Kitchen in Work Island(Manhattan). The private booth itself is pretty small, with a black leather loveseat attached to the wall, big enough for a john to sit down and receive a lap dance from the stripper. As I stood up, I noticed that my boxers and my pants were down- I felt confused, I pulled up my garments. Then on my way out, I passed by one of the strippers, Chance, who’s always pursuing me each time I come into this kind of party – event when I blatantly indicated to him that I’m not interested and I like him as a friend only. He’s about twenty four or twenty five, he’s a Gen-Z fucker no doubt. He exudes with sex appeal and masculine energy, something that he probably needed to possess since he’s not buff or athletic, he’s not fat or chubby either. He’s tall enough, about 6 feet tall, with a slender built, moved here from the Dominican Republic when he was five and is now a proud resident of the Lower East Side . He’s got tattoos all over his body and his head topped with dread locks.

“Leaving so soon?” He asked.

“Yeah, I don’t feel so good…” I replied.

“You were a pro! I’m just sayin’”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember me fucking you?” He playfully asked.

I shook my head, clearly I don’t fucking remember.

“I came inside you twice!”

“I don’t fucking remember.”

I immediately left that goddamn party and went back to Bushwick. As I got the L train subway station on Jefferson Avenue, I walked my way to Nook Cafe on Irving Avenue. It was a good thing that I got there early morning, it was probably 8:05 or 8:10 AM when I checked the time. There I ordered some Irish coffee and sat down, I attempted to write something, but my mind itself was so fucked. I realized that I was raped. I got sexually assaulted. It’s pretty fucked up because I never expected it to happen to me, not at this stage of my fucking life. And not at some fucking gay bar, and not from a fucking stripper. To call out sexual assault that happened between yourself and a stripper, is like calling addressing the issue within the production of a porn movie set. This is where the grey line is… If you’re in a situation like this, how would you handle it? How would you react? How would you defend and recover yourself? And the short answer is, I don’t fucking know! Knowing that something like this happened to me and knowing that I placed myself in that situation, is a goddamn mindfuck! I realized that I was almost catatonic for two minutes, looking at the froth of my Irish coffee. When I looked up, I saw the baristas staring at me looking concerned, I partially smiled at them just to ease the scene that I’ve created. I also realized and remembered that I was drunk out of my mind, the last memory I remembered was Chance talking to me at the bar while I sipping on a glass of rum and coke. And then after that – it was a fucking blackout. What I don’t understand is, why? Sexual assault is NEVER OK. No matter what your sexual orientation is, no matter what your gender is, no matter where you are. It dawned on me, the he never even asked me for consent. He just assumed that because I’m a patron of that establishment and that he’s a stripper, he doesn’t need to ask for consent, and everyone who sees him dance his ass off around the silver pole, wants to be fucked by him. I also realized that sexual assault isn’t about sex, it’s about power, and in that fragile moment, I had none. I wasn’t sober enough to make that judgement. But still, he proceeded. What the actual fuck?!

TO BE CONTINUED…