Broken Bones

A young man's search for warmth and affection on a cold and bitter morning. This story has themes of rape, sexual assault, and mental health concerns.

“You up?”

The phone screen’s blue light was the only thing cutting through the dark. I’d opened Grindr that night, not for sex, but because I was gut-level lonely. His message was a jolt. We’d met once, months ago, and it had been fine, but he’d been cold and distant whenever I’d messaged him since. I’d been locked in my room all day writing my dissertation and couldn’t stand another minute of it. I had to get out, and I desperately wanted someone to hug.

“Yeah, I’m awake. You okay?”

I checked the time: 3:17 AM. I hadn’t slept, running on coffee and energy bars. People up this late on Grindr were usually high. I asked him his poison, just to gauge if I was still interested.

“Been doing coke. Just a few lines.”

Coke I could deal with, though not for myself. High guys were typically a mess: rambling, unwashed, and full of nonsense. I avoided anyone who touched crystal meth or GHB. My ex-boyfriend’s drug use had scarred me—the slow descent into addiction, the horrific behavior, the gaslighting and abuse. I finally called it quits. My one defining memory of that relationship was him shooting up in a random Swiss Cottage kitchen, stark naked, being groped by old men who’d bought his drugs. I was not getting pulled into that environment again, even if I was just watching.

“I’ll get my shoes on and head over.”

Within minutes, I was showered, dressed, and out, climbing Crouch Hill, heading up the terraced streets. My breath misted in the cold, making me feel like a dragon as I hauled myself up the steep streets toward his flat. I checked my directions now and then, though I mostly remembered the route. I didn’t want to buzz the wrong door. I’d gone over a few months ago for sex, and we’d actually talked—about his Caribbean background, his job, and my studies.

I pressed the buzzer. As the latch buzzed and unlocked, I stood there straightening my hair. He lived in the loft. I made my way up, expecting a smile, but the door was on the latch, and I could hear music inside. I walked in and closed the door behind me. It’s funny looking back, but I can’t remember his name. Maybe my brain erased it. I’m not even sure I could pick him out of a lineup. I suppose that’s how trauma works.

“Good to see you. How’ve you been?” I asked. He stood at the entrance to his bedroom in just his underwear, groping himself through the fabric. He gave me a short smile and a few clipped words before stripping off his underwear and lying down on the bed. I undressed while he watched, making small talk to break the tension. I was happy to fuck, sure, but I was happier for the company and the break from my writing. We spent the next few hours having hard, intense sex, twisting me into all kinds of shapes. He was handsome, muscular, and very good in bed. It got hot, the window closed. His skin was shining with sweat—not just from sex, but from the coke. Every so often, he’d pull out, walk to the bedside table, and prepare another line.

I was used to people doing drugs, so I just lay there, enjoying the glow of the sex. After his second line, I asked what he was celebrating. People often buy coke with the excuse of a party or a ‘night out,’ but it’s easy to spot the addicts versus the casual users. He told me about a success at work, a promotion, and that he’d bought “some powder” to have fun. He must have mistaken my interest as a request, because he picked up the mirror, brought it to the bed, and offered me a line, credit card poised. “No thanks,” I said, smiling, politely shaking my head. I wasn’t there to judge; I was there for sex. Drugs had never appealed to me. I’d done coke once when I was young and hated the next day. Never touched it again.

He popped the mirror back on the side table and lifted my legs again. The coke was hitting him hard; his sweat was running down onto my chest. After we came again, I tried to be affectionate, trailing my finger over his abs and cuddling up. I knew better than to show too much interest, even though I’d been smitten since we first met. I decided to roll away from him for a while so I could rest and maybe prevent him from doing another line. I took the opportunity to get the affection I’d actually wanted.

We spoke about random things—my degree, living in London, why he was single—but many of my questions felt needy. I almost blurted out, “Wanna go on a date?” but caught myself, biting the words back. He understood. He rolled toward me, looked me in the eyes, and gave a diplomatic answer—it didn’t cut me down, but it didn’t build me up either. Then, he swung his legs off the bed, picked up the mirror, and did another massive line. The conversation was over, and so was any affection, however fleeting.

Hours passed. Dawn began to creep through the curtains. I was exhausted, and his smell had gone from manly sweat to hot and ripe. “I need to go home and get some sleep,” I said, trying to end things. “No, stay a bit longer, I want to cum again.” I wasn’t keen. He’d been thrusting for a while, the lube was wearing off, and after hours of it, my ass was begging me to stop. The coke was making him limp, but he was too high to care, using a condom from the drawer as a cock ring to try and keep the blood in his dick. It wasn’t working. I repeated that I wanted to leave, smiling, and started to slide down to the end of the bed.

That’s when he changed. “No, I want to fuck again. You can’t go yet.” He pushed me into the mattress and straddled my face, shoving his cock in my mouth and down my throat with his fingers. He tightened his legs, pinning my arms down. I couldn’t breathe. He shuffled up and continued to stuff, but he was soft, and he rocked back and forth on my face to make me suck. His cock smelled foul, bitter and sweaty. Hours of sex on drugs had made it intolerable, and combined with the choking, I started to vomit. Sick ran out of my nose and around my mouth; I was almost inhaling my own vomit. In a desperate attempt to break free, I wriggled hard, trying to push him off, but he held up a clenched fist and threatened me. “You’re making me fucking angry,” he yelled, winding his arm back as if to punch my face.

I managed to push his cock out and gasp for air, my face covered in snot and vomit. The slickness allowed me to slide out from underneath him. I stood up, wiping my face, trying to catch my breath. I felt strangely, terrifyingly calm. I silently started putting on my jeans, facing away so he wouldn’t react to my face or start again. When I pulled my t-shirt over my head, vomit smeared the inside as my head pushed through the neck. The smell of the room and now my own sick clung to me.

“Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling on the bed, watching.

The fury was gone, replaced by a wide-eyed, manic concern. Underneath him, the sheets were soaked in a puddle of sweat. I mumbled something short like “I’m fine,” and started putting on my shoes. I’ve learned that in sexual assault, your brain works differently. Instead of logic and emotion, it makes you placid and subdued to help you avoid further harm. My amygdala took over, flooding me with hormones and opiates, making me calm.

The only sound in the room was the birdsong and me tying my shoelaces. I picked up my things and looked at him, indicating I was ready to leave. He gestured for me to follow and led me to the door. I still didn’t say much, and neither did he; the atmosphere didn’t allow for jokes or the usual “thanks for coming” small talk. As I walked through the open door and stepped one step down the stairs, he blurted out, “I’m sorry,” and slammed the door.

I walked down the hill, watching the kaleidoscope of twinkling London lights through the glassy prism of my tears.

I closed my front door and went straight to the bathroom, spending a long time scrubbing my face with the nail brush to remove the smell and the sick. I avoided the mirror; I didn’t want to see my reflection. Once clean, I crept into my room. I ripped off my clothes, throwing them into the corner—they stank, my t-shirt stained. I didn’t want them near me, so I moved a box over them to try and trap the smell. I switched off the computer, got into bed, and went to sleep.

I woke in the afternoon. I could hear noise in the house, but I didn’t want to see anyone. I ate the few snacks I kept in my room and waited for people to leave the kitchen so I could sneak down unseen. All I wanted was to stay alone in my room and play computer games. The voices moved away, and I heard the front door close. My chance. I went down to get drinks and headed back upstairs.

I told nobody. I didn’t want to.

I’d always trusted guys. I went over every detail I could remember. Should I have just said yes? Did I give the wrong signal? Was I an idiot for going over? I ping-ponged between reassuring myself it wasn’t my fault and blaming myself. Over the next few days, my memory became clouded. I couldn’t remember his name. Years later, I learned that trauma impairs memory: when the amygdala takes over, the prefrontal cortex—the part that deals with logic—shuts down, flooding the body with hormones to make quick, instinctual decisions. It waters down the memory to protect you.

I picked up my phone and systematically removed and shut down my profiles on Grindr and every other app I used to meet guys. Then I deleted all the numbers and messages from guys I’d been talking to, and ghosted anyone who messaged me. If one guy could do this, maybe others could, too? I’d been lucky, but I wasn’t taking any more chances.

After a week of seclusion and many missed seminars, my housemate knocked on my door.

“Can I come in?” asked Peter.

“Sure.”

He looked around the room: the drawn curtains, the empty food cartons on the table, me in my pajamas in the middle of the day. He knew something was wrong. He stepped in and closed the door so the landlady couldn’t hear.

“You don’t seem alright. What’s happened?”

I hadn’t planned on talking to anyone, but I just blurted it out. Peter and I were good friends.

“I was sexually assaulted.”

It stung to say it. I felt small. I could trek through the Sahara, hang off trains in Morocco, and survive sleeping rough, but some guy I met online managed to assault me. I felt powerless. I told him what happened, minimizing the details. “It wasn’t a big deal,” and “Oh, I’ll be fine, it’s okay” came out of my mouth, but Peter frowned.

“You need to speak to the police about it. That’s not okay.”

“I just want to forget it ever happened.” My excuse was that I had university work to do, and I didn’t want to deal with the police in the middle of my dissertation.

Peter left. I switched on my PC and started up EVE Online. I’d played it for years; it was my sanctuary. EVE was set in the fictional galaxy of New Eden, where mankind, trapped by a collapsed wormhole, formed four unique races. I played as the Gallente, a democratic society that believed in freedom and the right to live without fear. It mirrored how I saw life. I began to doubt myself.

I Googled ‘gay male sexual assault’ and felt sick that I was now one of the 45% of gay men who’ve experienced it.

The figures shocked me:

12,000 raped a year

76,000 sexually assaulted,

but only 4% ever go to the police.

I felt ashamed and guilty, wondering if this guy had done it to anyone else, but I was also scared of the police. I’d been on police bail for the first two years of my degree due to a fraud case, and once I was cleared, I wanted nothing to do with them. What was I going to say? They’d ask if I went there willingly, I’d mention the drugs, and some officer would probably laugh and say “you deserved it.”

I wasn’t going to sit in an interrogation room again.

I flew around in my spaceship, pretending to be someone else. In the game, I was Mino Noud. People would comment on my journalism for the game, commending my writing and thanking me for my work. I was respected and listened to. I played for hours, immersing myself in New Eden. Cutting myself off from reality was better than sitting in the dark under the duvet. I was happy here.

It had been a while since I’d been to uni. I made an effort one morning: showered, put on my best clothes, and headed to Elephant and Castle. I was apprehensive all the way, my hands slick with sweat, rubbing dark patches onto my light blue jeans. I got out of the tube, blocking out the noise of everyone else, retreating into my headphones. Since that night, I struggled to go out, avoiding crowds. Shopping for food was difficult, so I’d started ordering takeaways and shopping at quieter times. Being in a crowded tube station was horrible. I looked down, trying to avoid people’s eyes.

I’d missed the morning lecture, but I planned to arrive just before lunch to catch the afternoon lectures and a seminar. I crossed the road, approached the front of the university, and froze. The great open door felt like a maw that would swallow me whole. I couldn’t make myself walk in. I knew people would ask where I’d been, friends would ask what was wrong, and I’d either clam up and be weird, or overshare, cry, and be weird. I started having a panic attack, turned around, and headed home as fast as I could. The lectures weren’t the most important, but the seminars were crucial for the dissertation.

The tube ride home was awful. My skin was crawling, the noise made me dizzy. I closed my eyes, trying to disappear into my music. I’d never felt this way before. It was alien, awful, and unlike me—I was always so in control. This arcing electric feeling zapped my senses and made me sick. I almost ran from the tube to the house, marching so fast I was out of breath, but it was better than being outside, around people.

I shut the door and climbed the stairs, creeping so I wouldn’t be heard. Peter occasionally offered me food; I would reluctantly agree, but I was losing weight, and he kept telling me how thin I was. Peter’s company was okay; I felt safe around him. He was the only person I saw for weeks.

One day in EVE, I had a breakthrough. The small space empire I was building got a helping hand from a massive alliance called TEST ALLIANCE PLEASE IGNORE. They helped us claim our first systems and made us their only +10, the highest level of friendship. It felt good to achieve something, to feel in control for the first time in a while. I focused hard on the game; it gave me power when I felt I had none in the real world.

“Hey Mino!” A bunch of voices said as I logged into the TEST voice chat. I was becoming a minor celebrity on their comms, telling outrageously sexual jokes and threatening people with a “good old fisting.” The laughter was encouraging, and I used my humor to deflect any personal questions. I kept my headset on, using their voice chat as a way to feel attached while simultaneously detaching from everyone else. I wasn’t the best pilot or the richest, but I had a gift for diplomacy, which I used to strengthen bonds.

The alliance, which I created with Sapporo Jones, the leader of TEST, was named ‘Sock Puppet Federation’—a subtle joke about how we were their pets. I was realistic; I couldn’t have achieved it without their help. I threw myself into planning the alliance, recruiting, and setting up our architecture, spending every day online. By this point, my best friend at uni had sent me a few ignored messages. Linh and I were always together.

“Where are you? Are you not coming to uni anymore? Why won’t you respond?”

I picked up my phone, knowing I couldn’t keep fobbing her off.

“Hey, I went to uni today but didn’t feel like it so went home. Shame I didn’t see you! X” I lied, hoping she’d accept it. But the dots flashed—she was replying. I flew into a station, docked up, and got ready to deal with the real world.

“Do you want to come for food with me? I’ll take you for Vietnamese. I miss you!”

I reluctantly agreed. I met her outside uni the next day. We sat down in the brightly colored restaurant. She spoke to the waitress in Vietnamese, then turned to me.

“Why haven’t you been at uni? People have been asking about you.”

I squirmed, giving a flippant answer that made her screw up her face. Linh was direct. She immediately called me out.

“What’s happened?”

I knew she’d just get annoyed if I kept dodging, so I started talking, giving her enough detail without telling her about the sex. She didn’t need to know that part. Over our noodles and bubble tea, I explained how he had turned violent and how worried I was about myself. I looked down at my food and took a deep breath.

“You didn’t try and do something? Why didn’t you hit him?”

“Erm, Linh, he was really big and I was scared of him.”

She shook her head and stuck her chopsticks into her food, breathing through her nose and exhaling like a dragon. “You shouldn’t have gone over. You were stupid for doing that, so it’s your own fault really.”

It stung me like a wasp. She berated me for my decision, asking why I would meet the guy in the first place. I shrunk into my seat, imploring her to drop it. I knew she wasn’t being vindictive, just insensitive. Linh was a strong woman, traditional in some ways, and she sometimes forgot about real-life situations like being pinned to a bed. She’d never been assaulted, but she’d often yell at people who gave her unwanted attention in the street.

I sucked hard on my bubble tea. I managed to move the conversation on to our mutual dislike of a girl at uni, and she launched into a rant. I put on my best painted face, shifting my discomfort to the back of my head, laughing at her jokes. I promised I’d go to uni more. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, hiding my disappointment at having shared. For some reason, the trip home was better than the last time. My anxiety had been replaced by annoyance and anger as I replayed the conversation. It was my companion all the way home, running it line by line, wondering if I had just been sensitive and silly.

Eventually, I returned to uni. A chorus of people were surprised to see me; many thought I’d quit. I started seeing a university psychologist who recommended I resit my third year. After one session, I left and emailed my course director, explaining that I needed to stop and come back next year. I was declined. The short response was: “You’re so close to the end so I’m afraid you cannot retake your third year.” That was it. I didn’t have the fight left in me, so I handed in my dissertation and waited for the inevitable fail. Thankfully, my panic attacks had subsided after I started antidepressants. I felt more like myself. I could untangle the mess of my feelings. I even felt brave enough to reinstall Grindr and put my picture back up. I still didn’t trust guys, often suggesting coffee instead of going straight to theirs, but it was progress.

I gradually started playing EVE less and reconnecting with people. As I felt happier, I wanted to spend time with guys again. I sent messages to guys I liked and chatted with others. As I slipped into bed that night, my phone buzzed. The Grindr sound pinged from the table.

It was him. His face sent with his first message.

“Hey, how’ve you been?”

I read it, astounded that he would even message me. I’d blocked him the night it happened, but my new profile let him message again. My stomach flipped, my fingers flew across the keyboard.

“Why the fuck are you messaging me? You assaulted me and I said I didn’t want to. You are a rapist.”

My breathing was fast, my skin clammy. The upset rose up my throat.

“What? I can’t believe you’d say that to me. My mind is blown.”

“Do not ever message me again. I do not want to see or hear from you at all.”

I blocked him and burst into tears, hopping out of bed and turning on my computer to start EVE. I dried my eyes, put on my headset, and turned on Mumble. I joined the voice channel and said hello, telling a dirty joke. Familiar voices responded, “Hey Mino! How’ve you been?” offering the kindness I so desperately needed.

Graduation came around at the Royal Festival Hall. I considered not going, but my Mum and Stepdad really wanted to, so I went. My time on the stage was brief. I collected my degree and slipped outside onto the balcony above the river. Classmates celebrated around me as I looked down at the river, lost in thought, trying not to cry. Before long, a hand pulled me away from the wall and into a hug.

“Don’t worry about the grade, you finished. Most people would have given up, and you didn’t. You should be proud of that.”

Peter was right, as usual, jostling my shoulder to make me smile. When we think of trauma, we often say, ‘It’s alright, I’ll get over it,’ but we never really do. We carry trauma with us like invisible scars, just more baggage. I’d never understood why people minimized their experiences of sexual assault, but now I knew they were just coping. The oft quoted saying, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,’ isn’t true. Just as bones can be broken and put back together, we’ll never be exactly the same again. We learn to cope.