Your Body is a Temple
By Sarah Pyrce
Image Courtesy of Sarah Pyrce
Oldest daughter, Catholic school, straight-A student. Sheltered girl. I came of age surrounded by nuns and rosary prayers between class periods. My “sex education” went as far as a one-hour session in seventh grade taught by our alcoholic science teacher. I heard the phrase too often throughout my upbringing – “Your body is a temple.”
When I arrived in college as a shy freshman, I wanted to reinvent myself. Freshly 18, I dreamed of embodying coolness, exuding sexiness. I had changed my wardrobe, got rid of my acne, and finally grew into my body. I had made it to college. I could finally be wild, whatever that meant.
I purposefully sought out a roommate who seemed to fit my vision board of a college experience. Amy was not the usual type of friend that gravitated towards me. I could tell she was popular in high school. She had probably already drank a lot and maybe done a good amount of drugs. She was captivating. If I had Amy by my side, no one could possibly suspect that I had never been to a party or kissed a stranger.
September 25, 2021
Amy and I stumble upon another frat party. This has become our weekend ritual. I spot him across the room. He makes his way over. Joel, I discover, is his name. He is in his third year in college. I give him my number and promise to come back the next night for another party. Amy had found a crush too, Evan, so we became instantly dedicated to the pursuit of these men.
Joel and I began a casual, exciting relationship. Older and confident, I could tell he was looked up to. He played hockey, he was a musician – he seemed well-rounded. When he asked me to be his date to his frat’s semi-formal, I nervously accepted.
October 10, 2021
My heart is racing and my heels are uncomfortable. The door opens and Joel is smiling, clad in a navy blue suit. I scan the room. Several guys and girls who I don’t recognize. They are all older than me.
Arriving at the event, I realize it is just another apartment on Mission Hill. The suits and dresses feel a little excessive. We walk in and are instantly greeted by the pledges, who are holding platters with glasses of sangria. I grab a glass and grip it tightly. I sip the sweet drink until my lips are tinted red.
There’s an announcement. Each pledge has written a poem of some significance to the frat, and the best ones are about to be read. They are what you would expect – silly stories of drunken, drugged-up nights. The alcohol is settling over me like a fog. I’m not really listening, just smiling and nodding and laughing along in unison with everyone else. I’m jolted when Joel turns to me.
“Hey, you might wanna leave the room for this one.”
“What?” I responded.
“I just think you won’t wanna listen to this one.”
“Well, now I want to listen to it even more.”
“Alright, suit yourself.”
I’m narrowing my eyes to focus on the freshman boy in front of the crowd. I’m curious, but unsuspecting. He opens his mouth, and the words shut off all the lights. There’s a shining spotlight on me. Suddenly, I’m naked, and everyone is staring at me, inspecting me, sizing me up. My heart is in my stomach and my mouth is dry. Get me through this moment, I tell my brain and body and heart.
I smile when the boy describes my looks and my body for the crowd. I laugh when he begins a graphic narration of Joel and I having sex. I crack up, actually. You would think I was begging for more. Don’t shed a single tear, or dare to slip into a frown. You already feel belittled for being a freshman, I think to myself. All of these boys know how naive you are, they find this amusing. All of the girls are looking at you, whispering, “poor thing” to each other. The poem finally ends, and I whip out my phone to text Amy.
Sarah – 8:41 p.m.: U should come PLEASE.
Amy – 8:43 p.m.: If it’s not weird I’ll literally come. I want to make sure you’re ok.
An hour later and she’s outside. My mind is racing. A moment of relief. Thank God she’s here. I bring her down the hallway and pass some boys and a girl snorting cocaine, rubbing the remainder into their gums. A sinking realization – Amy can’t help me here. I’ve just fallen down a tunnel into hell and dragged her in too, because I wanted some company. Selfish, selfish girl.
Things are getting blurrier. Where is Amy? I spot her black hair in the corner, kissing Evan. If only I could get to her. We can go home. But I’m glued to my chair. How long have I been sitting here?
I can’t walk. My knight in shining armour, Joel carries me. In his apartment, it’s dark and quiet. Everything goes black.
I jolt awake in the middle of the night. I’m naked. I see my dress and my heels laid out on his desk chair. I feel sick. I run to the bathroom and throw up. The noise wakes Joel. He’s right behind me. He’s helping me. I knew he was well-rounded.
“Get in the shower,” he tells me.
I’m rinsing off the vomit, out of my hair and off of my chest. I feel the urge again. I hardly drank, it was just sangria. What is happening to me? Just breathe. I’m facing the shower head, feeling the stream of water on my face and dripping down my hair. I have one hand on the cool tile of the shower wall. I’m bent over, with that vile feeling in my throat coming to the surface.
Then, another feeling.
It’s Joel. He’s having sex with me.
You can try to predict how you’ll react in a moment. You can tell yourself you’d fight back. You’d never let yourself be a victim. But he waited for me to be at my weakest.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the tears slipping out of my eyes and down my cheeks. Why is he doing this to me? We could have normal sex. Nice sex. Whatever this is, it doesn’t even feel like sex. I just wanted him to like me. Is this how he likes me? Just let it be over. Get me through this moment, I tell my brain and body and heart.
October 11, 2021
Sarah – 5:35 a.m.: i literally don’t remember anything are u ok
Amy – 8:56 a.m.: Where are u girl
Sarah – 9:16 a.m.: I have no memory of the majority of last night
Amy – 9:17 a.m.: Oh my god sarah that’s not good
Joel – 7:06 p.m.: Recovering from all that wine?
I told Amy about my experience. She shared a parallel one, with the boy she had a crush on – Evan. We didn’t have that much wine. Wine has never left me immobile.
I spent my first New England winter under the covers, scared to ever expose myself to the world again. I drifted from Amy into complete isolation. I willed the shame to leave my body. I prayed for ignorance. I let loneliness embrace and cradle me – my only comfort. I returned home to
California that winter like a soldier back from war. I collapsed into my family’s concerned arms. My cheeks chewed up and my fingers picked raw and red. My face, void of color. My body, frail. A damaged canvas that used to be so beautiful.
In my sleep, I mourn that plaid-skirt, pleated-hair girl. Four years gone and I still toss and turn until I’m out of that poem reading. Until I’m out of that shower.
I’m trying to unlearn what that night taught me. That I’m most beautiful at my weakest. That I should indulge male fantasies, no matter how horrifying. That I should just play the part and they will love me.
I have rebuilt my persona at school like slipping into a new costume. To my new friends I am fun and kind and unburdened by life. I never mention Joel. They didn’t know that version of me and I don’t want them to. When I run into Amy at the bar, I flash a wide smile and wrap my arms around her. She does the same. “How’s it going?”s and “Long time no see”s slip out of our mouths, but when we lock eyes, there’s a knowing beyond what words can communicate. And the urge to be very, very far away from what the sight of one another is reminiscent of.
I close my eyes and there she is – the little girl genuflecting at the altar. Running home with purple-dyed hands from picking fresh blackberries. So curious of what the world had to offer her, so trusting that it would be kind. If I had known not to trust – if I had known anything at all – maybe that autumn would have unfolded differently. But I am grateful for the naivety of that little girl. She allows me to recall softness, sweetness, and purity. I call out to her when I need an answer, when I need strength.
About the Author
Sarah is a fourth-year Communication Studies major with minors in Journalism and English. Writing has been at the center of her life as long as she can remember, providing solace and comfort amidst an uncertain world.