This account is the first part of the first Sex Diary, “The Cardinal Letter.” Read Part II here.

I had only ever had sex with one person. I was never in a rush to do the deed, and after I started at age 18, I quickly made up for my dry years with my one sexual partner. We escalated from a tender first time to rough after-class quickies, and perhaps my greatest moment of relief was when we decided to ditch, in good faith, the condom; with it, he would last sometimes upwards of two hours, a pain that only those who have suffered will understand. But this story isn’t about my ex-boyfriend.

I’m pretty self-conscious about my body and don’t tend to let go of my inhibitions, so showing my naked, vulnerable self to someone else took a lot of getting to know each other. So by the time I was halfway through Stanford and newly single, I had still only had sex with one person when I met Creepy Hot Guy.

Creepy Hot Guy (CHG) was, in a word, sublime. Tall — 6 feet 3 inches, to be exact (I know because I asked) — and slender, a swimmer’s build, CHG could have been out of another time when men still smirked and wore their hair elegantly, but without pomade. He was older and I was young, and his hands were large around my waist, his lips full, his coloring consistent from his hair to his skin, like Jude Law out of “The Talented Mr. Ripley.” Striking most of all though, were his eyes.

They were tiny and blue, tilted and always meaning something. When he looked at me, I felt sexy, wanted, powerful and violated at the same time. It wasn’t just me; other women in my dorm commented on his charm, but always eventually pointed out his icy glares and his certainly ill intentions.

When CHG moved into my dorm, I had already declared to myself my sexual freedom and vowed to be more adventurous, sexually and emotionally. It didn’t take much for me to fall hard. I saw him twice and decided I wanted him. After I talked to him, I thought I might even like him, too. His interests included a manliest of sports — something like soccer — and one so sensitive I was certain he was an imposter — something like morning meditations.

He went to a prestigious American prep school, came from money and was party to a group of men known not for their gentlemanly ways — a detail that enticed me even more. And when he mentioned his favorite restaurant, the same as mine, my heart almost exploded out of my chest. He was too good to be true!

Sadly, he actually was. It turns out his most striking feature was not his eyes but his reputation. After one dormmate tipped me off to his record of being “really aggressive with girls,” I started to ask. I couldn’t sleep that night, so I biked to my guy friend’s room, to inquire further.

Also party to CHG’s band of men, my friend informed me that CHG’s reputation, even within this rowdy group, was of a male whose sexual audacity had earned bitter spirits among the brothers. I asked others, without mentioning any names, if there were particular men at Stanford that I should know to stay away from. CHG’s name consistently dropped.

I should have stopped. I should have known then and there that he was trouble. I rationalized to myself: I believe in second chances. I believe that people can change. I know that people talk trash that’s not always true, for the sake of a story. But the truth is, it turned me on more.

A mix of my sadistic fetish, pure sexual frustration and pity for someone I convinced myself was innocent or rehabilitated created the perfect storm for what would be a total submission. What started as an innocent interest turned to a truly burning sexual desire.

I finally posted an email to the dorm’s list serve with my phone number, in hopes it would spark the flame. He took the bait and texted me, made casual plans that I broke, after which he mentioned that I should stop by his room later. This invitation I could not deny.

By this time, I should mention, I realized the entire dorm knew who he was and of his past, so I was sure to keep our communication discreet, for my own sake. I stopped by his room and it didn’t take long to make it through the polite small talk before he was shutting the door. Even now I want to tell you, I don’t usually do this. And I didn’t; I had only ever had sex with one person, and I wasn’t very good at it, to be honest. But CHG could pick me up. And when he did, and more placed than threw me on the bed, it was all I could do to make him stop.

I had to know. And so I asked him. Did he know what other people said about him?

“That I raped two girls?” he answered.

In all the nosy prodding I had done, no one had ever used the word “rape.” I was instantly shocked, frightened and — it pains me now even to silently think — turned on.

He denied it; meanwhile, I denied him with my words, but clung to him with my body. I still wanted him, maybe even more. I knew it was wrong. I still know it’s wrong. But he was the most attractive guy I’d had the opportunity to fuck.

He asked if I was scared now, and I admitted that I felt scared, out loud.

This is part one of the first sex diary. The story is to be continued.  This true account is told by a current Stanford student who identifies as a woman. Details have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.