Yesterday, I came back home late, and with a headache. I was exhausted. I wish I could say that my partner's face cheered me up. But for the first time, I understood what it was like to be one of those people who said "not tonight honey. I've got a headache". And I hated to be that wimp.

I wish I could also say that I got very drunk, at least. Redeem myself of the embarrassment I had brought upon myself, maybe. I had picked up a pint of beer from the fridge. But I barely finished it. A few sips down, I'd abandoned it and fallen asleep. I slept so deeply, that it seemed like the weight of it had dragged me right into the past. I woke up suddenly, in a dark, ungodly hour, clutching my head and nearly tearing my hair out. It wasn't my headache.

It was my past. It wouldn't leave me alone. I woke up to a strange mixture of desire and guilt; to the memory of an unfamiliar body within intimate distance and pointless aggression violating the fabric of the night. I had suddenly realized that I had been a sex offender.

It was nearly two years ago when this happened. I had taken my "being single" status seriously and used it to get laid as much as possible. I even had a partner in crime.

You and I worked in the same office. When we had the chance to talk to each other, we flirted outrageously. We made "your place or mine" jokes, and we knew fully well that it was possible, given that we lived in the same housing complex provided by the company. When work got hectic and I didn't have the time to go out, I would consider the possibility f***ing you. Then I told myself that I wasn't quite as desperate yet. I would save you for another day.

That day came sooner than I thought it would. I was out with some friends and all of them were talking about their girlfriends and boyfriends. They had things to talk about and I couldn't contribute to the conversation at all. It had been my biggest dry spell yet. I had never imagined that such a thing would ever happen to me. I had the charm, you know? I could turn anybody on. I could make anybody get into bed with me. I was bitter and I couldn't show it. I was in the company of my friends and I didn't want them to know that I had no new "conquests". So I drank more than I should have. I tried to keep my false cheerfulness intact. I dodged many of their questions and gave them mysterious answers. I said there was "sort-of someone". I was thinking about you. I told them what a tease you are and how you keep me on my toes. I wanted you so badly that night. After all, you sounded like you were game.

It was late when I took a cab home. By the time I reached, my buzz was wearing off. I was beginning to feel even more s****y. I got into the elevator. Instead of going to my floor, I pressed the other button and came to yours. It was a Saturday night and I knew you would be awake. I also knew that you always had a small stash of alcohol at home. I would take some from you and get back the high that I was losing.

I rang your doorbell. You opened the door. You were slightly surprised to see me there, all dressed smart. I told you that I had gone out drinking. I was losing my buzz. Could you fix me a drink?  You obliged. I knew then that we were "good friends". You were cool. I liked you.

You gave me your whiskey. I don't remember what we spoke about. I really don't. But I hope I was telling you something that made you comfortable around me. I hope my "effortless charm" was working in some way. At least, I hope I was being honest about how sexually frustrated I was. Because the next thing I remember, I had you pinned against the wall and we were making out.

You were shocked at first, but of course, I had expected that. But soon enough, you were kissing me back. You were. I remember. You told me that it came as a total surprise to you. I didn't let you talk very much. I continued making out with you.

You didn't resist. You didn't push me away. And I misunderstood that for willingness. I misunderstood that for consent.

Soon enough, I had taken your shirt off, and everything else came off too. I was aggressive and I was still fully clothed. You were naked and we were on your bed. I went down on you to prove my skills and to get you in the game. I tried harder, tried to get some more enthusiasm out of you. But you had suddenly stopped reacting. You were limp.

You pissed me off so bad. How could we have sex if you were clearly not into it? I'm not a rapist. So I yelled at you. I told you that you weren't being game. How could you do this after all this time? You sounded like a wild animal every time we flirted. And now you weren't living up to the expectations you had given me.

"Sweetie, sweetie," you cajoled "We just need to make out a little more, maybe?"

You were begging for more foreplay. I had no patience. I looked at the extra weight around your waist that you cleverly manage to hide under your clothes. Suddenly, I began to lose interest. I threw a disgusted look at you. I told you what a disappointment you turned out to be. I was still sexually frustrated and extremely angry. I left you there naked, and stormed out of your apartment.

The next time you saw me, you were embarrassed. I was haughty. I thought you ought to be uncomfortable. For all the loud mouthed dirty talk that you did, you were a total noob in bed. I didn't even bother to apologize or make amends. I just carried on as usual, and I loved feeling superior to you. I even made tangential jokes about how "asexual" you were, with our friends.

My dry spell broke soon after. I went on to greener pastures. I changed partners like I changed clothes, each one better than the last. Soon, I forgot all about you.

Last year, we worked together on some project. It was fine. We carried on as if nothing had ever happened. We didn't flirt or anything, but it was not even remotely awkward. We were great work partners. By then, you were seeing someone else and I was seeing someone seriously as well. Everything has been fine since then.

But last night, I realized that I had forced sex upon you. Even though I was exhausted and comatose, and even though I was oblivious to everything around me- the movie that was playing on the laptop, the dogs howling outside, and the mosquitoes feasting on my blood; the jolt from the past managed to wake me up. At about 4 in the morning, the power went out. I was beginning to get a little uncomfortable under my blanket. Suddenly, there were hands inside my shirt.

I stirred awake. My boyfriend was kissing me, trying to wake me up and make me reciprocate sexually. I turned away. I was exhausted. He was persistent in coming on to me and I was getting increasingly uncomfortable. How could I say "No" to him? I did love him and everything, but I really didn't want to have sex. It felt strangely weird- the feelings that I was having was unfamiliar. How could that be possible? I knew this body, and I had made love to it.

You know, the mind works in strange ways, and sleep is a tricky state to be in. But as soon as I had connected the dots, I woke up and sat bolt upright. I was shocked and speechless. I had been a sex offender. I had made you uncomfortable just as my boyfriend was making me uncomfortable. No, I wasn't protesting or resisting, but I was definitely feeling violated. And right now, I feel so incredibly ashamed of myself that I don't know what to do at all.

I called up my best friend this morning and told her "I think I molested someone". And I wasn't even sure if "molestation" was what I did to you. When I explained what had happened, she said "Chill yaar. Boys actually dig this s***."

You have only, and only been nice to me ever since then, even though I bad-mouthed you in bitterness. Are you the kinda guy who would "dig" it? I am somehow not convinced that you are. I don't know how to apologize to you. I have no idea how to bring it up with you again. Especially now that I see how happy you are with your girlfriend, I don't know if I should disturb you with that memory.

I feel so sick in my stomach. I am the kind of person who ferociously fights against people who harm women. I am such a keyboard warrior about what "consent" is, and I'm always abusing the rapists in the news. I cannot believe that I am one of them.

What do I do now? I could come right now and apologize, but I don't know how I would ever forgive myself. Do I turn myself into the police? But then, who would press charges against me? I see now that there are so many flaws in the way society and law looks at the world. I can't get punished even if I wanted to. And really, I know you would never accept to having been molested by a girl. But I promise you, I am very ashamed of myself and I'm beyond sorry. I don't know how the hell I will ever make up for what I did to you. I hope you will forgive me.

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