agree or disagree: the intricacies of consent (a personal story)

TRIGGER WARNING - discussion of sexual assault

I don't remember his name.

That's not a problem; I'd rather not remember. Part of my mind obsesses, though, runs through generic lists of names, trying to discover it. I can't shut it off.

I didn't really know him - he was a friend of a friend, who happened to be in the same place as me at the wrong time, I guess. I was having a bad day. Week. Year.

I was sitting in my car in the parking lot of the liquor store when I decided I'd sleep with him that night. We were getting a hotel room, four of us, because we still lived with our parents and didn't have a secure location where we could drink, smoke, fuck, whatever. I remember standing at the ATM. I paid for that room.

Agree or disagree: someone is consenting to sex if they go to a private place with you.

I didn't like him, especially, he was unimpressive. I was bored, all evening. After the drinking and the smoking, after the lights went out, I was relieved. I thought things might finally get interesting.

Agree or disagree: someone is consenting to sex if they get drunk or high with you.

Apparently, he had never heard of foreplay. Even though I was pretty drunk, and stoned out of my mind, this was a problem for me. I tried to slow him down, guide the process a little. He was totally non-receptive.

Agree or disagree: someone is consenting to sex if they allow you to remove their clothing.

I tried to stop everything, completely. Told him to stop, repeatedly. He ignored me. I decided that I might as well just go along with it, because it wasn't *that* bad. I was fucked up, and my pain tolerance is generally pretty high. After a few minutes, I tried to stop him again. He ignored me. I let it go. Repeat.

Agree or disagree: a person is consenting if they agree to have sex with you at first, but changes their mind after you've already started.

It seemed to go on forever. I would try to stop him until it became apparent there was nothing I could do, and then I'd try to put up with it until I couldn't take it any longer. I felt the need to remain calm. I was terrified.

Agree or disagree: a person is consenting if they say yes, but their body seems to be saying no.

I eventually got away - I told him I had to use the restroom. He let me up. I was too stoned, or too scared, and I forgot to lock the door, and he followed me in. I shoved him, dodged past him, got dressed, left.

Sat in my car, freaking out. I knew he'd follow me, but he didn't. (He was too busy telling my friends what a bitch and a tease I was.) I called a friend who lived hundreds of miles away. She called a friend who lived closer to me, and he came and picked me up. It was light when he arrived. He took me out to breakfast. Didn't ask too many questions.

The bruises took weeks to disappear. One night, I got drunk and told my mom about it. She said, "Once things get to a certain point you can't expect to be able to stop them."

For years after, every sexual encounter came packaged together nicely with a panic attack. Sometimes, when I started to freak out, I asked my partner to stop. Sometimes I didn't bother.

Often they didn't notice.

Until very recently, this night was filed in my brain under the tab "bad sex." I had a therapist who tried to convince me it deserved another label. I didn't bring it up with any therapists after that.

I recently began the process of becoming a volunteer sex ed coordinator for a non-profit. I haven't done any real sessions yet, I am still in the training stages. Monday, I attended a class on consent.

Part of the purpose of these practice sessions is to address some of the comments, concerns, or issues that might come up in a real class. To plan what you'll say when a student says, "Of course s/he wanted it."

"It doesn't matter what you think someone wants," I said, maybe a little too intensely. "What matters is what they tell you they want."

One of the facilitators paused, looked at me, and said, "Oh, you'll be good at this."

It was a very triggering session, and I should have known it would be, but somehow, until that moment, I was interacting with consent as a concept, as a theory, an idea to explain.

But I wonder how my experience would have been different if, in 7th or 8th or 9th grade, someone had told me, "What matters is what you say. What matters is what you agree to. And you can change your mind." I wonder how my experience would have been different if, in 7th or 8th or 9th grade, someone had told him, "Everyone has the right to give consent, or not. Everyone has the responsibility to respect that."

Would that have changed anything?

Even now, I can argue the concepts and defend the importance of explicit consent, but in my mind, my experience is somehow different.  My own brain is like a rape apology greatest hits album.

I arrived at this conceptual struggle somewhat late in the game, so it's an ongoing process for me.  But might there be one kid, in one of my sessions, one teenager who hears it? One person who learns to pay attention, to back off if they feel their partner hesitating? One who learns how to communicate their own boundaries?

One who doesn't watch all of their own feminist theory collapse in the face of the ways they blame themselves?

I really, really hope so.

creepy dudes see the world as their daughter

This may be incoherent; I am sleep deprived.  You have been warned...

With some regularity I am caught between biting my tongue and pointing out the danger inherent in certain thought processes, ideologies, movements, etc.  Usually I bite my tongue, because a) I really hate conflict, and 2) I often don't have a really solid example to justify my fears that right-wing politicians and conservative evangelicals and random douchebags (Venn diagram of that one looks quite like a circle from a short distance, BTW) are OUT TO GET ME and RUIN MY LIFE.

Ahem.  See here .  The Daughter Test?  Seriously?  The government should outlaw everything that you don't think your (female)* kid should do?

Like crossing the street with no hand to hold?  And leaving veggies on the plate at the end of dinner?  And wearing the wrong length/type or skirt? Sitting too close to the television?  Running with scissors?  Dating that person you don't approve of?  Generally being strange in any way that offends your personal aesthetic?

Really, think about that - the government should have the same rules that you do for your child? 

And I'm the crazy socialist hippy liberal.  I thought I was supposed to be the one restricting your freedoms and such!  I just wanna take away your assault rifles and your SUVs, not tell you that you can't go hang out with Jimmy because his daddy's an atheist.

So, thank you, random douchebag contingent, for contributing a concrete example to the paranoia vault.  It is muchly appreciated.

Thing two, from the political/religious side of the fuckery, is this.  Inspirational pro-life movie about how abortion is SO EVIL that it's less evil to lock up girls in a basement dungeon until they give birth, or something.

Self-described pro-life.  Self-described horror.  I haven't actually seen it, just the trailer, and I think there might be some disconnect there what with the "Don't have an abortion because we are scary and will come get you!" not really helping their case, so much.  I mean, when was the last time you saw a locked in a basement movie in which those doing the locking were supposed to be the hero?

Logical disconnect = not my problem.  People who like to fantasize about locking women in basements and forcing them to give birth = everyone's problem.  Everyone who happens to have a uterus, anyway.

So how's that for you?  People who want the government to be your parents (literally), and people who want to kidnap women pursuing legal abortions and lock them in basements.  SCORE.  At least I get to be increasingly smug in my insistence that we are TOTALLY FUCKING DOOMED.

Zombie apocalypse sounds better every day.


* Because, of course, it's the girl children that need to be protected and legislated over.  There is a whole separate level of creepy to this which deals with the actual relationship between fathers (with their protecting and controlling) and daughters (with their helplessness and silly woman brains) in our culture, but that wasn't the point of this post.  This note is simply to point out that I understand that angle, and it's totally worth discussing, but I am not going there at the moment because I've had almost no sleep in the past 36 hours and I need a nap.  And I didn't even need the government to tell me so!

Quick note: "You look great!"

Why are you required to say this anytime you see a woman that you haven't seen in some time?  I am getting tired of all the "you look great!"s.  I look exactly the fucking same as I did last time you saw me.  Move on with your life.

Is it just me?  Is this required for men, too?