Trigger warning: This article talks about sexual assault.
“I’m not having sex with you.”
I have not always been so blunt. It started with “I’m pretty tired,” then turned into “I don’t really, like… want to do anything,” until the euphemisms used to protect feelings just resulted in situations even more uncomfortable than the one I was trying to avoid- sex I did not want to be having.
I enjoyed talking to guys during a night out, followed by showing them my weirdly giant fake tree named Lance and laughing on my couch while eating frozen pizza. But every time 2am would come around I’d become more and more nervous. I’d check my phone every minute. I’d send desperate eye signals to my friends in an attempt to get them to stay downstairs with me. I dreaded the moment when a guy would give me that ‘look’ and I’d have to think of some acceptable reason as to why he could not come up to my room, as though the fact that I did not want him to was not enough. I’d pull out my book of “I-don’t-want-to-hurt-your-feelings-but-I-also-just-want-to-go-to-bed-alone” phrases that I had been using since first year. What followed was usually one of two things: either a dejected sigh followed by an awkward goodbye, or an acceptance of an imagined challenge; an opportunity for conquest.
I eventually grew tired of the convincing that would follow my gentle hints.
For the past year, things have been different. I decided it was fairer to both myself and the guy to be upfront and honest as early as possible. If I straight out said “I don’t want to have sex with you,” there is no way I would be put in that all too familiar and uncomfortable situation again, right?
Not exactly.
Do not get me wrong, that line works well most of the time. It’s always met with a charmingly earnest “Of course that’s fine! I’m not expecting anything.” Unfortunately, actions speak louder than words.
This line is far from a vaccine against inappropriate and non-consensual sexual advances and behaviour.
After a night out in Spain, I used my line on a sweet and hilarious American college student. He shook his head and replied “I would never pressure you to do anything,” and I felt safe. I felt safe until he did the opposite. I called my friend and met her on a corner so we could walk back to the hostel together. I did not sleep that night. Every time I thought about what happened I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed.
A few months later, I found myself in a similar situation. I used the line on a fellow Queen’s student. He was cute, smart and interested in the same things as me. My statement was at first met with confusion and questions, but a satisfactory response followed. I felt safe again.
I felt safe until I found myself in a similar situation as before.
Both situations were wrong. Although they were not rape, they fit the definition of sexual assault. Yet I am still hesitant to call them that.
Once I classify my experiences as assault, I become a sexual assault survivor and the two charming boys become perpetrators of sexual assault. Part of me feels like it would not be right to make this classification. Why?
Is it because as a woman I’ve been socialized to accept violence against myself, or is it because what happened was not actually wrong? Is it because I’ve been made to believe that the goofy guy who compliments my eyes can’t perpetrate assault against me, or because he was actually just confused?
I am realizing it is the former for both questions.
Nobody wants to have experienced sexual assault. With the onus being on the survivor to call situations assault, incidents of assault are often not classified as such. This is especially true when the survivor maintains a feeling of composure and stability after the experience.
But our tendency to tolerate assault against us does not make that assault any less wrong.
If something that seems like assault happens to you, it’s ultimately your decision as to whether you want to classify it as such. Nobody else can define your experience. With that being said, we need to get angry, we need to call experiences like mine out for what they are: wrong.
My experiences and feelings are far too common to continue to be downplayed. It may be easier to brush things off and move on, but until experiences like my own are taken seriously they will continue to exist, and that is not okay.
Accepting that you’ve experienced sexual assault does not have to be life-changing or terrifying; any way you react to and process the experience is valid and legitimate. You’re allowed to be okay afterwards; I know I am.
That isn’t to say I’m unchanged. I now approach situations with a higher degree of caution, and question whether the responses I receive are as compassionate as I once thought. I wonder how I can clearly communicate what I want and don’t want without causing confusion. I’ve found out that, surprisingly, “I don’t want to have sex with you” does not always do the trick.