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.

Contest Winnings, Belatedly Reported

On December 31, 2010, "Aftermath" won second place under the pen name Sarah Darling. Steward House says that the piece is a "conversational discussion of trauma." The review further highlights sentence structure, noting that I'll "ruminate on a sentiment only to reflect on it anew with a paragraph break and pithy one-liner that catches the reader under the ribs."

On January 28, 2011, "The Claustrophobic Impasse" took first place. Looking back, this is my weirdest piece yet. I'm not even entirely sure how I managed to write it. But the placement speaks for itself - the review is simply icing. Steward House calls it "intense," "complex," "deft," and "subtle."

Aftermath

Today, I realized how much you had become a part of who I am. I thought about you, and I couldn't stop. I traced 'uruz' on my wrist for the first time in over a month because it suddenly started hurting again, just like I suddenly thought of you again.

I never wrote about what happened. I never put it into words. I just stopped writing about you at all, just like I stopped texting you, stopped being your friend on Facebook, and stopped seeing you. What would I have written? You screwed up. I screwed up. And maybe I'm screwing up all over again.

I think I was a little bit in love with you. Or maybe the fact that it hurts even now just fools me into thinking so. But we were years in the making, only to shatter within seconds. Unfulfilled. And it wasn't just the mythical "Us" that broke. I think it broke me a little bit, too, just like I think I was a little bit in love with you. After all, there's now this little fragment of me that was completely composed by you.

I can't seem to bring myself to hate that.

No, I never wrote about what happened. This is the closest I've come.

You're the second male to ever hurt me that way. The first listened to me later that night, seven weeks ago, as I spoke with quiet fear, and he sobbed out that he was wrong, that you were wrong, that it was never my fault. He was sorry, even if you aren't.

Between the two of you, I will never be the same in so many ways.

It's kind of terrible, really. That a woman as beautiful, confident, strong, seductive, responsible, intelligent, and no-nonsense as I am has only ever fallen in love with the two men who hurt her the worst. God. I am a melodramatic, prattling, fool.

I ignored it, both times, both men. I addressed the issue accordingly, and then went off with my life as though nothing had ever happened. I pretended that I still enjoyed being kissed with passion rather than sweetness and that I didn't want to jerk away anytime a male touched my wrists. I deluded myself that I'd always loved films and that I'd find a salsa partner who doesn't make me think of the way you whirled me about your living room. I imagined that the reason that tall, dark males now warrant second conversations is because tall, dark males are my type, even though my type actually has blond curls.

But something did happen, both times, both men. I feel nervous whenever guys kiss me more than softly and I am immediately turned off and even frightened when they chance to wrap their hands around my wrist. I held movies in contempt before you and I started discussing them like literature and I've only been salsa dancing once since that night. The only reason tall, dark males catch my attention these days is because, from the corner of one eye, I almost mistake them for you.

I don't really need to write about what happened. No, not really.

The aftermath - the way my fingers trembled a tattoo on the steering wheel on the way home, the way I winced through my essays the next day, the way that I am only now beginning to come to terms with it seven weeks later - is enough to write about. The aftermath says everything about what happened, without going into sordid details of betrayal and blame. What happened was never about the event.

Lost:

- My contempt for films

- My ability to see films without wondering what you thought of it

- A good salsa partner

- A pain-free right wrist

- A flair for rough play

- Countless good times with you

- Several good times with someone else

- At least a lifetime's worth of passionate kisses

- One friend on Facebook

- One Netflix customer

- One ounce of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence

- Three tons of faith in the goodness of humanity

Gained:

- An appreciation of films

- A new writing style

- An analytical mindset

- A new "type" of male

- The discovery that I am good at cha-cha

- Time that used to be spent trying to figure you out

- A penchant for cuddling

- A fresh start

- Countless good times with other people

- Countless opportunities to make new friends

- At least a lifetime's worth of sweet kisses

- One Netflix customer

- One ton of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence in the short-term

- Another two tons of confidence in the long-term

- Two pounds of faith in myself

- Three ounces of cynicism

- Recognition that what happened changed me

- The knowledge that what happened changed me for the better