The Culture of Rape

There was a moment - a solid, shining, crystalline moment - when I could have delivered him a square kick in the balls. Everything was moving so quickly - it's really all just a blur - but that moment was slow and painfully logical. I remember being on the floor, him bent over me, hands on my wrists above my head, and I remember looking straight at his groin, wide open and exposed, and my foot just a few inches away, a clear shot. I remember understanding that he did not understand what he was in the process of doing, and that he was ignorant, a boy more than a man, and that I cared about him and did not want to hurt him, even as I could feel pain blossoming in my wrist beneath his fingers. Most of all, I remember that I could have knocked him back, sent him stumbling, articulated to him an even clearer message about my stance on his current activities - and in that solid, shining, crystalline moment, I decided not to.

I don't remember how it all started. I don't remember why he finally ended up stopping. I don't remember how I got back to my car. I don't remember how I got home. But I remember that moment, because at that point, someone could have told me that it was my fault, even more than it already seemed to be, and I might have actually believed that person for a minute or two.

I remember lying naked in bed, being awoken by a man looming over me, and feeling groggy and fuzzy as he nuzzled my neck. "Just go with it," he whispered. I remember I was tired, and I'd slept with him earlier, and I thought it would somehow be unfair if I said "no," at that point, that it would somehow be unreasonable to deny him. I remember that I did not want to send mixed signals, because that would be cruel, evil, bitchy, the worst of the worst.

I know I apologize when I don't want to go all the way, am quick to take the blame for getting a guy "all riled up," and then not being willing to release the energy with him. It is as though, just by being there, and being even partially agreeable, I have consented that anything that happens is somehow my fault, and that stopping the interaction at any point beyond that is somehow taboo. To kiss too deeply has become a promise, a contract that I will be made to feel that I have breached.

I remember that moment, and I tell men I get involved with that if I feel threatened, that if they are not listening, I will fight back. I tell them that I will not pull my punches, telling myself as much as I am telling them, thinking that since I provided a disclaimer, that since I warned them, that I will not hesitate when the time comes, that I will not feel guilty for defending myself. I warn them that no means no, and I quietly rage that I feel it is necessary to give them such a basic language lesson.

I feel the need to escape when men are too persistent in getting close to me on the dance floor. When they wrap their arms around me, and bump and grind against me, making me glad that I am wearing tights underneath my skirt, I have to resist the urge to violently throw myself from their hold, dashing myself against the freedom the music offers. Instead, I artfully twirl away, breath still hung up against the pulse jackrabbiting in my throat, and I prepare to slip out of the club if the same man corners me again. And I berate myself for my fear, because that's just how men dance at clubs - most don't know any other way. But their ignorance is dangerous - if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.

I tried to explain it to him, but to this day he does not understand. He refuses. He likes to think that he's grown from the experience, that because I left him and refused to see him or talk to him again, he's become a better person. But he cannot see it. He cannot comprehend why I was upset that night, why it seems that I cannot forgive him. He still thinks that I am holding a "pointless grudge" because he "accidentally sprained" my wrist. No does not mean no to him, is not simple, was invalid because I had just kissed him. No did not mean no to him because I was sending mixed signals, because I had that solid, shining, crystalline moment where I could have kicked him but didn't want to hurt him and so let the moment pass.

Never mind that I was squirming and screaming and doing whatever else I could to get away from him. Never mind that I was crying, that I don't remember how I managed to get home, only that my hands were trembling and every bump jostled my wrist and sent fresh pains down my arm. Never mind that there was so much that reminded me of him for weeks, that I just couldn't stand, see, do. Never mind that I was skittish around males for a good year following that night, couldn't let them touch my wrist, panicked if they kissed me too deeply. Never mind that I am still afraid, still having to deal with the aftermath, still feeling that it is somehow my fault, even though it's not. Never mind that he has permanently altered the way I relate to men, that he has done his best to transform me into a victim.

I am angry that I am afraid. I am pissed that I am apologetic. I am enraged that I feel obligated. I am furious that I feel even the tiniest shred of guilt for something that was never my fault, no matter what stupid things I did or didn't do leading up to it, because I shouldn't have had to go through that - he shouldn't have put me through that!

But this is our culture. We make villains out of victims and victims out of villains. We turn kisses into contracts, and condemn mixed signals as malicious. We encourage ignorance and take silence for consent. And worst of all, we normalize terrifying behavior, teach no other ways, so that if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.