A ranty, funny, dead-serious intersectional feminist blog.

Posts tagged “Shame

The Night I Didn’t Get Raped

by Sid

[TRIGGER WARNING: rape, sexual assault]

Screen shot 2013-04-11 at 1.23.43 PMGather round, friends. I want to tell you a story.

When I was 22 years old, I went to a party at a coworker’s house. Between the alcohol and the intervening years, the night is mostly a blur of photos I saw the next day, but a few parts of the evening remain clear to me—particularly toward the end.

It was a party of the “we’re young enough to still be super excited about legally buying booze” variety, and I’m not even sure exactly who was there anymore. Toward the end of the night, though, I found myself in the garage with a few people—it was set up like an extra living room, with a rug, a lamp, and a couple couches. People slowly filtered out until it was me and two guys.

I’m sure they were both perfectly fine looking (I don’t remember), but I was particularly attracted to one of them. No idea what his name was or how old he was now—I knew him for maybe an hour out of my entire life—but I remember that I really wanted to make out with him. Not have sex with him. Just make out with him.

So three of us are in the garage. I forget the specifics of the conversation that led to this, but we were joking around and Other Guy asks some question like, “Why are you in still in the garage?” I said, “I’m waiting for you to leave.” It sounds mean, but I remember it not feeling mean in context, and we all laughed. I just don’t remember the context.

This ≠ "Undress me."

This ≠ “Undress me.”

They exchanged a knowing look and Other Guy left. I got off my couch and went to sit at the edge of the couch where the guy I fancied was lying down. We started making out. Yay me, right? Then suddenly, I remembered—my obligation.

I’ve never had sex, see. To this day. I have reasons, but they’re irrelevant to this conversation. The point is that I knew I wasn’t “allowed” to kiss someone for too long without telling him we weren’t going to have sex, because otherwise he would get super pissed off (whoever he was). I prided myself on not being naïve, see. I prided myself on “not being stupid enough” to expect someone to respect my not wanting to have sex right that moment.

Wait, what?

Yeah.

Let’s rephrase for just a second: I had already accepted that my role as “sexual partner of any kind” universally meant that I was expected to do whatever my “partner” wanted. I understood that I was a minority and a freak, so I felt it was my obligation to get it out of the way early.

I need to put this as plainly as possible: I was wrong on every count.

I sat up quickly and spat out, “We’re not going to have sex.”

The words hung in the air for a second, and he looked at me as though I’d said, “I like pie!”—not upset, not pleased, just…thrown. “Okay,” he said and, satisfied, we went back to making out.

Under a minute later, he was unbuttoning my pants.

I sat up again and pushed his hands away—we struggled gently for control of the button, and finally I refastened it and covered it with my hands. I looked up, and he was irritated.

“Just because we’re not having sex means you can’t take your pants off?”

My brain said, “Well…yeah,” but my mouth only stuttered. I finally managed to get out something like, “I don’t want to,” and he didn’t force it as such, but he was pissy as hell. And I believed that I deserved it, because I was the freak. I was the outlier. I remembered the look he and Other Guy had exchanged. They had both thought he’d be out in the garage getting laid. I had made them both believe that, and I had implied sex by wanting to be alone with a boy I thought was cute.

In case you’re just tuning in, let me be clear: I was wrong on every count.

But because he was now pissy as hell, I felt like I had to make it up to him. So I tried to make him not angry with me by going further than I actually felt comfortable—not very far, but definitely further than I’d wanted. And I felt ashamed.

I was ashamed that it made me uncomfortable.

Not that I was doing something that made me uncomfortable. The actual feeling of being uncomfortable shamed me.

I froze. The combination of discomfort and shame and the shame of being ashamed all spiraled together until I melted down and had a panic attack right there in the garage. I cried and apologized ten or twenty times before I ran out. He made no effort to pretend like he gave a shit about anything except the fact that I was no longer touching his body. I locked myself in the bathroom to collect myself—the house was dark with people sleeping on the floor scattered across two rooms. When the guy finally came out of the garage, Other Guy made a rude comment about how long I’d been in the bathroom (har har, asshole) and I just felt even more humiliated. I finally went to lie down on the floor in the other room. I wanted nothing more than to go home, but I was in no shape to drive.

After lying there for at least an hour, though, I knew I wouldn’t fall asleep. I didn’t want to see him in the morning, and what if he came over to me during the night?

I say night, but it was 4 a.m. when I finally walked out the door and crawled into my Jeep. I should not have been on the road. My last drink had been hours ago and I lived nearby, but neither of those are the point. I was too drunk to drive.

But that’s the choice. Stay in a house where I was deeply uncomfortable on a number of levels (some part of me was aware how aggressive he’d been, but I was too busy blaming myself to properly acknowledge it), or don’t stay in the house and risk driving home. (And yes, now I understand the concept of getting a cab, but I was 22 and lived in Southern California—hell, what’s a cab?)

I wonder sometimes—if I’d been more sexually active at 22, would things have turned out differently? To be clear, I am in no way making comment on anyone else’s life choices—those are your own, just as mine are my own. But for me, personally, I wonder if he would have pushed harder if I hadn’t blurted out that sex wasn’t an option. I wonder if I would have been too afraid to stop him from unbuttoning my pants. If I had already had sex, I think I was just insecure enough that I would have wanted him to think I was cool…by not protesting.

This knowledge scares me. Because I shouldn’t have had to stop someone from trying to remove my clothing. Forcefully stop, actually. I should never have had to answer a question like, “Just because we aren’t having sex means you can’t take your pants off?” Because honestly, what the fuck kind of question is that? If that’s not blatant manipulation, then I need to re-up my Merriam-Webster subscription.

The night I didn’t get raped came down to luck. It was nothing I did or didn’t do—I was so insecure at 22, I barely did what I did. It shouldn’t have had to come down to luck. I shouldn’t have had to push someone’s hands away from my pants once, let alone multiple times. I shouldn’t have had to struggle for control of my clothing.

I was lucky. So many women are not. And this, folks? This is rape culture.

This is our culture.


Read Sid’s previous MMAS articles in Sid’s Stuff. Follow her at @SeeSidWrite.


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The Awesome and the Ugly

This week I saw this dress on Facebook and I LOVED it. LOVED the image, the fact the dress exists, that the woman wearing it probably made it herself, the fact that I could possibly own such a thing or make something that clever or cool. I shared it with my beloved Geek Girls Book Club* (GGBC) because I knew everyone there (male and female) would love it as much as I did.

Image

It never occurred to me (and never would to anyone in GGBC) to shame this woman for her size. But I’m lucky that way–I hang out with a better class of people than the ones you’re about to meet. (Also, I think she’s gorgeous.)

Tardis Dress w/Comments

Yes it is.

Unfortunately, we all know they’re out there. And as this awesome blog post on The Teresa Jusino Experience articulates so eloquently, when it comes to these sorts of Internet “critics,” women find themselves between a rock and a hard place:

Apparently, a woman cosplaying at ALL, no matter what she looks like, is risking some kind of backlash. If she’s thin (and thus, “hot”), she’s criticized for being “fake.” If she’s overweight, she’s criticized for not being “hot” enough. It seems that women in the geek community just can’t win.

The article’s overall thrust goes deeper, though–to the core of one of society’s most stubborn prejudices: fat-shaming. Male or female, people who exceed our collective, unspoken, ever-evolving body-size limit can expect us to treat them as somehow undeserving of our respect simply because of the extra weight they (we) carry around.

I am overweight by medical and societal standards. Men have called me “fat bitch” or “fat ass” on the street (or in my back yard). I’m not obese (by the above standards), so women don’t usually get in on the act (though it’s always hilarious to have a thin friend sit across from me at a restaurant and talk about how fat she is–I don’t take it personally because it’s not about me). But I grew up with a father who disdained fat, shamed my mother if he thought she’d gained weight while he was away on one of his trips, made crude comments about “fat girls,” and started shaming me when I was a teenager as soon as my body began displaying some curves. Between that and what I saw in the media, it was always clear to me that I didn’t measure up. And for people larger than I am, the problem goes from a voice on the inside saying “I’m not good enough” to people saying “You’re not good enough” in so many ways both literally and by treating “fat” people like they’re somehow failing at life.

I’ve been guilty of making stupid assumptions about all sorts of people, including “fat” people. But I learned as a child the difference between cruelty and kindness, and as an adult I learned about tolerance, and acknowledging privilege, and that mistakes are part of learning and I can grow and be a better person. What I haven’t learned is how to reach people like the ones above who still think it’s ok to shame someone for any reason because, like with so many people who make asshole comments like this, it seems that anyone who calls them out on it simply has “no sense of humor.”

That’s all I’ve got in me for today, friends. Sorry for the sporadic nature of my posts of late, but in addition to everything else, my old dog left me this week and I’m trying to keep up with work and life one day at a time. I’ll get it back together sometime soon. Meanwhile, thanks for sticking with me. It’s good to know you’re out there.

Love,

Rosie

*GGBC is on Facebook and Twitter and has a blog. Men are also welcome. (You can also follow Sasha, the talented lady pictured above, on her Facebook Tardis Princess page.)