An Open Letter I Probably Won’t Send, But I Need to Get It Off My Chest
She’s called “Grace” as a pseudonym. But she could as easily be “Alex”, or “Maggie” or “Stephanie” or “Louise” or “Kirsty” or “Sabine” or, yes, “Gracie”, or the name of any other woman or girl you love and want to protect. He’s Aziz Ansari, a famous comedian, but he could as easily be “Keith” or “Robin” or “Howard” or “Jeffrey” or “Mohammed” or “Norman” or “Scott” or the name of any other nobody known only as well as most of us non-celebrity laypeople are.
The story “Grace” tells could be mine. That is, if it had been me in those exact circumstances, I likely would have acted in much the same way. Perhaps I would have used different words. Maybe I would have said, “Sorry, not a fan of white wine” (I actually really can’t stand it, nearly spat it out the first time I tried it). But the story would have almost 100% been the same. I know this because I have undergone very similar situations. I see myself in her account.
Let me tell you about Keith. I was at my best friend’s 19th birthday party. I was 21 but had no experience in heavy drinking. I had my first shot that night (tequila, never again) and other than that spent it holding my friend’s hair while she vomited in the toilet and lay next to her while she slept, in case she stopped breathing. Earlier in the night, though, a fellow I didn’t recognize caught my eye. I smiled politely and said hi, but otherwise didn’t talk to him. He was a friend of my bestie’s brother.
The next night was more partying and at some point, when I went into the bedroom for some air from the crowd, the man from the night before came in and smiled when he looked at me. I was later informed by my friend that one of my breasts had popped out of my shirt. I quickly adjusted things and thought nothing more of it than a slight embarrassment.
A group of us went out and I found a shot I actually liked. We had pretty good time and were quite ready for bed when we stumbled in at 4 in the morning. The same man was sprawled out on the mattress the four of us had intended to crash on. It took forever to get him off and make him go to the couch, and then we crawled into bed. It wasn’t long before he crept back in, between my bestie and I. Her older sister was exhausted from dealing with the baby and we were too damn drunk and tired to try and make him leave again. So we didn’t. I turned over and locked my arms over my breasts. Then I went to sleep.
I woke up to the cat with her claws in me. I was trying to move them but couldn’t. I then realized his arm was around me. I pried it off, moved the cat, locked my arm again, and went back to sleep. I woke again to his hand under my top. He was trying to edge it under my arm but I just pressed it more tightly. He then slid his hand down to my skirt, and that’s when I jumped up from the bed. I turned to see him flop his head down and pretend to be asleep.
It was daylight by then and I went to the bathroom to think for a minute and then woke my bestie up and told her about it in the living room. She went back in and kicked him in the bed and made him leave.
Later, when she was warning other people about him, an on and off male friend of hers said Keith was a good guy. She told him she knew he wasn’t because of what he’d done to her friend, myself. This man then grew angry and said I’d “probably wanted it”. Asleep. Sure.
But why didn’t I just pull him aside and tell him I wasn’t interested in him when I learned he’d seen my breast? Maybe he thought it was an invitation. Why didn’t I put my foot down and insist he not be on that mattress with the rest of us? Why didn’t I move to the couch when it was clear he was going to be on that mattress? And finally, why didn’t I leave when I woke up the first time with his arm around me?
He couldn’t read my mind. How could he have known my locked arm was to stop him from touching my breasts? Mattresses are where sex takes place much of the time, especially after drinking. Was it up to me to make sure he knew that wasn’t going to happen? And since sex did not happen, since all that happened was an attempt to touch my breasts and my vulva, why should I even bother talking about it?
But perhaps you’ll point out that Keith and I were not on a date and so in context there’s no reason he could have believed I would want to have sex with him if he had not even asked. He waited until I was asleep. He’s an obvious predator.
Well then let me tell you about Robin. It was about a year after my boyfriend of six years had broken up with me and I was keen to be adventurous, to explore my sexuality, to meet as many men as I wanted before settling down with the right one. The first was mediocre, the second was amazing. I was optimistic about the third.
We went to a movie, which is how I learned it’s really not a good idea to go to a movie on the first date with someone you don’t know. He kept trying to hold my hand, which I would have been fine with I’d gotten to know a little, but was just really awkward in these circumstances. I don’t even remember which movie it was.
We ended up at the river afterward and talked a bit but I wasn’t really feeling it. At some point he kissed me. And it was at this point I knew I was just not turned on by him. He was decent-looking but there was just zero sexual chemistry. Still, I thought, this is what I came to do and maybe I’d feel better about it later.
We talked a bit more and I brought up condoms, insisting they were to be used. He agreed. He drove us to a motel on the outskirts of the city, saying he knew the guy who owned it. I remember feeling a little off at that point. It was probably just the fact that it was on the outskirts of the city, an area I didn’t know, at a place where he knew the owners and I didn’t.
He paid the owner and no sooner had we entered the room than he picked up the remote, asked if I wanted to watch pornography while we had sex and turned on the TV which automatically flashed porn before he even finished the sentence. I didn’t know then half of what I know now about the porn industry, but I have always had a visceral reaction of disgust to it. I said “No, that’s okay” and he turned it off.
We undressed and he kissed me on the bed and got on top of me. He was about to penetrate when I said, “condoms”.
I did, thankfully, but found it odd that he hadn’t asked that before or stopped to get some since I’d made it explicit that they were to be used, and that he didn’t already have some on hand if he was expecting to have sex that night. I didn’t have any illusions anymore that this was going to be a good time for me. I think I was just following the script. We’d come to have sex so we were going to have sex. It began not great and just went downhill from there.
At one point he told me to bend over and I thought it was going to be “doggy style” until he asked, “Have you ever done anal before?”
He then proceeded to try and fail. He never asked if I wanted to do it. He simply wanted to try. I won’t go into the details of that. I’ll just say it was awkward and humiliating and my perineum and vagina hurt for several days afterward. At some point he stopped and asked if I’d ever done 69 before.
I told him. I said, “that’s never been very good for me.”
“Well let’s try it,” he said and immediately climbed on top of me.
It didn’t go any better then than it had before. The condom had come off by this point too. No, he didn’t ask about that either.
What “saved” me was having to pee. He let me up and I had a few minutes to myself in that motel bathroom. I wanted to just end things. But I wasn’t sure if I could get a ride home from him if I did. The cab ride home would have been very expensive and it was after 2 in the morning. I couldn’t bring myself to wake up my grandparents. But I didn’t want this to go on for another hour or more.
I then decided I was going to fake an orgasm the first chance I got. It was a long shot. I didn’t know if he was going to want to keep going until he came. But I figured he might be getting tired too, and was looking for an ego stroke. My ex had been like that.
I don’t remember what happened when I got out of the bathroom, or long it took. I only remember that I got my opportunity when he began rubbing my vulva and I started making the sounds men want to hear. I remember being right. We got dressed after that. We talked normally on the ride home. At some point he mentioned being the kind of person who listens to people. He used the sex we’d had as an example of him listening to me and giving me what I wanted. I just nodded along.
I didn’t take any of his calls or answer any of his texts or private messages or emails. He gave up after a few weeks. Why did I go to the motel with him when I didn’t even like the kissing? As I said, I’d hoped things would get better. I thought I just needed to get in the mood. Why didn’t I put a halt to things immediately when he tried to penetrate me without a condom? Why didn’t I just get dressed and walk out that door? Late at night, in a part of the city I didn’t know, far from any bus lines, at a motel where he knew the owner and I did not? Why wasn’t I more forceful about saying I wasn’t interested in doing anal with him or in doing 69?
“Just say no”, they say, but there’s never a “no” in the script. “Just say no” isn’t a thing we do in most interactions, and yet people know what we mean for the most part.
Maybe you’ll say, hey, it was understandable that I didn’t want to be forceful given the situation, and you might gently add that I should have known better than to have gotten into that situation in the first place, but maybe you’ll agree I wasn’t in the best position to be able to enforce my boundaries once there.
Was it sexual assault? I don’t know. It would likely be very difficult to prosecute and I had no interest then nor do I have any now of trying to. I know I stopped having sex with my dates for a while after that.
I fell hard and fast for the previous “amazing” guy I mentioned and stuck with only him for about three months. Would have been longer if he hadn’t put some distance between us, as it was only a casual fling to him. He is not on this list. I do not regret my time with him. He was safe and honest and I always had a good time.
He is not on my list but Jeffrey is. Let me tell you about Jeffrey. We met online, a couple years later. He said he wasn’t looking for a romantic or sexual partner, but just friends. I wasn’t his “type” in any case, or so he said. That was fine with me. We met up and talked and he seemed okay, if a little immature. We added each other on facebook and would just chat from time to time. This went on for about three months until one ridiculously cold night in January.
He messaged me, saying he’d changed his mind about being sexual partners. I wasn’t seeing anyone at the time and thought why not? Though I informed him I was on my period. He didn’t seem to care but wanted me to greet him at the door in a sexy outfit. I told him my buzzer didn’t work and I wasn’t comfortable waiting in the lobby like that. And also I was tired and cold and didn’t want to go to the trouble.
When he got there someone let him in so he came to my apartment directly. He said he would wait in the bathroom while I got changed because he’d driven there in the winter weather. I was a little put off, but found a relatively easy outfit. He didn’t compliment it when he got out, just kind of nodded.
I remember he tried to knead my breasts and I had to tell him they weren’t stress balls. He said he was allergic to condoms at some point, and I told him intercourse was off the table. He agreed because he didn’t want to “get anything”. That wasn’t what he’d come for in any case.
I remember the taste was sour in a way I couldn’t place. To my closest friends I refer to him as Jeffrey Sour-Dick. He didn’t speak to tell me what he wanted. He just used his hands to direct my hands or my mouth as he wanted. When he did speak it was to tell me to talk dirty to him. I told him I wasn’t very good at that and it would be awkward. He insisted I try and then agreed it was awkward as I’d said it would be.
At some point he masturbated and told me he didn’t come easily. I’d met men with that issue before, and I also knew what it was like to feel pressured to orgasm. So I told him it was okay, there was no pressure. And that, apparently, was exactly the wrong thing to say.
“That’s not helping!” he snapped. “You can’t just encourage me?”
I was taken aback. He’d been coming off as a little rude before, but not hostile. I tried to diffuse with humour. I pumped my fist and said, “You can do it; I have faith!”
“Really not helping!” he snapped again.
So at this point my eyes were starting to well up and I looked away. He asked if something was wrong and I said, “I don’t know. Apparently I’m just insulting you.”
He sighed in annoyance. “Just blow me and maybe I’ll come.”
I wanted to kick him out right then but I felt it would be a shouting match if I did and I didn’t want the hassle. So I did as he wanted, sour taste and all. He did eventually come.
Sadly that wasn’t the end. He ranted about all the people who had supposedly wronged him, including a friend who had called him “a meanie pants” for not visiting her when he was in her city. He wanted my opinion of this person or that person, mostly women, who had committed such terrible offences against him. I told him I was in no position to be able to judge and he confessed he had made fun of a past girlfriend’s weight when they were arguing.
As he was finally leaving he said if we became regular casual partners it would have to be just the two of us. I did say that wouldn’t work for me. I remember the first words out of my mouth after he had gone were, “What a fucking asshole.”
Why didn’t I just enforce my boundaries the second he got in, say I wasn’t putting on any special outfit? Well, to be honest I did kind of feel obligated since he’d driven in that weather, even though I knew I shouldn’t feel that way. Why didn’t I stop things once he’d literally left a bad taste in my mouth? I don’t know, what’s the polite way of saying “You taste gross, so we’re done now”? I would have felt terrible if someone had said such a thing to me, and I didn’t want to humiliate anyone that way. Why didn’t I kick him out the second he went from rude to hostile? To be honest I felt a little afraid in that moment. I wasn’t sure if he might hit me. I didn’t want a shouting match either. I find them incredibly distressing.
Was it sexual assault? I agreed to have sex with him. I didn’t say I wanted to stop. Then again, he never checked in and made things so unpleasant I didn’t feel safe telling him I wanted to stop. Again, whether we consider it sexual assault or not, it wouldn’t be easily prosecutable.
Does that mean I shouldn’t talk about it? Does that mean, should he ever become famous and claim to be a male feminist who listens to women about sexism, that I shouldn’t share publicly what he’s actually like in order to spare any women who may feel safe getting intimate with him based on his “feminist’ public persona?
Maybe you would agree. Maybe you’d say he was very obviously an asshole and you wouldn’t necessarily expect me to say a forceful no to a man whose tone has become menacing.
For what it’s worth, I told a trusted male friend about this encounter two or three years after it happened. He told me, “If a guy is ever like that with you again, tell him you’re texting a female friend to join in for a threesome, but you’ll actually be texting me.” So at least one man thought Jeffrey’s behaviour was not only not okay, but enough to seek the protection of another male for. Make of that what you will.
Let me tell you about Mohammed. Actually, I already did. Do you remember? You were so worried you went to my uncle, a police officer, and asked him to pay that man a visit. And yet it’s not really so different from the above, is it? It’s not really so different from Grace’s story.
Let me tell you about it again. My boss was on vacation and I was working late, as I often did. It was a Thursday. One of our regular customers had come by to get his order and started making small talk with me. He brought me an iced capp. Many customers tipped me that way so I thought nothing of it.
As I was scrambling to finish a few more orders he offered to drive me home afterward. I felt weird about customers knowing where I lived so I declined, saying the orders I was working on would take me a while yet and I also had to wait for another customer to pick up their order. He stayed, however, and by that point I was too exhausted to think of any other excuses and didn’t want to be rude to a regular customer, so I accepted the offer.
When we got to my building I thanked him and he said he would help bring my things to the door. I declined, but he insisted. At the door I thanked him again. He said he would help bring my things to my apartment door. I declined again, saying my apartment was very messy (which was true), but he again wouldn’t take no for an answer. He entered my apartment and sat on my couch and asked me to sit beside him.
Two things saved me. The first was that I said I had to go to the river to get food for my caterpillars and if my boots came off then they weren’t going back on that evening. The second was that I promised to meet him that Saturday. He did come by, but I met him outside the building. He wanted to go inside but I told him something had come up and I was waiting for my grandparents.
When I told you about this, you were very afraid that he knew I lived alone. You were glad to know he hadn’t contacted me after my uncle spoke with him. But did it really need police intervention? Sure I said no at first, but I acquiesced each time. He didn’t force me down on the couch, he didn’t try to argue against my feeding my pets. Couldn’t you say “he did nothing wrong”? Couldn’t one say, of the police visit, that “he was an asshole but didn’t deserve that”?
In fact, of every story I’ve told you so far, that was the only one that didn’t end in sexual activity I didn’t want. But you felt very afraid for me in spite of that. You didn’t like how pushy he was, that he wouldn’t take no for an answer the first time. You saw his behaviour as warning signs for worse behaviour.
So let’s say the promise of seeing him another day (“next time”, as “Grace” told Ansari) hadn’t been enough. Let’s say he pulled me down to sit with him on the couch. Sex would have happened. I know it would have as surely as I know fire will burn me if I touch it. It wouldn’t have been wanted. If it had, I would have been more than happy to accept a ride home, I would have invited him into my apartment myself, not resisted every step of the way. And yet sex would have happened if he’d gotten me on that couch. What form it would have taken and how long I would have had to endure it, I don’t know.
I can tell you this, I wouldn’t have screamed, I wouldn’t have fought. My nonconsent would have been expressed by pulling back, turning away, mumbling a thing here or there or trying to come up with some excuse or other.
I am assuming the reason you were so worried was that he might rape me. Would that have counted as rape? Does the story become not so scary now that I’ve told you what would have happened? Did you send my uncle after an innocent man? And if it would have counted, why that and not the others? Or, if the others do as well, why all of these and not “Grace”’s?
Let me tell you about Howard. It was Hallowe’en. My friend quit that night after new management had done a hostile takeover of that bar and had already fired two of his friends. I was going to go home but was invited to join a young woman and a man to go to another bar.
They didn’t know each other. She’d met him at another bar and he hadn’t been in the city for 10 years, so she had offered to show him around the bar scene. The three of us went to another bar, where some more of her friends were going to meet us. The place was crowded and loud, and I’d never been. I actually took a step, saying “Wow, I don’t know anyone here!”
We went up to the bar and ordered drinks and I eventually began to relax. The woman was nice and so were her friends. The guy was okay. Maybe a little clueless but I put that down to him having lived in another country for 10 years.
He said I was nice. I wasn’t going to be rude and say he was the person of the group I found the least interesting. I had to go to the bathroom at one point and he hadn’t heard and thought I was leaving and asked me to stay longer. I just repeated that I was going to the bathroom.
The woman and her friends eventually had to leave, but by this point I was into my sixth drink and singing along to the karaoke songs. It was when I began to tap my fingers on my glass - common behaviour for me as you’re well aware, I’m sure - that he asked, “You’re not getting silly on me, are you?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. I turned to look at him, and suddenly his mouth was on mine. Thoughts went through my mind rapidly. He was attractive enough, but did I want to be doing this? Not sprung on me like that, I didn’t. So why was he doing it? He hadn’t asked. I pulled away from him and went back to my drink.
“You don’t need that,” he said and tried to take it from me but I wouldn’t let him. I had paid for the damn thing. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
I thought he was maybe going to ask if I was okay or apologize but he kissed me again. I pulled away again and sipped my drink. He again said that I didn’t need it. He then chuckled and said, “Wait, was that your first kiss?”
Incredulous, I responded, “I’ve been kissed before, but I don’t know you.”
He kissed me again. I pulled back again and wouldn’t turn to face him. He commanded me to look at him, called me pet names, told me I didn’t need my drink, and I kept repeating that I didn’t know him in between sips of my drink.
Finally, he said, “I promise I’m not going to kiss you. Look at me.”
“I like you. Do you understand that?”
Once again, I replied, “I don’t know you.” I was about to turn my face away when he suddenly kissed me again, this time with his hands on either side of my face so that I couldn’t pull away.
I had large, heavy earrings in, and I couldn’t even pull back to say he was hurting me, his hand pressing into one of my ears. Then the earring fell out. It bounced off my chest onto the floor and I searched my chest frantically. It was my favourite pair of earrings.
He eventually noticed and stopped kissing me. He asked what was wrong and I said my earring had come out. I sank down off my stool onto the floor. He joined me there but I quickly found it.
As I stood up again I bunched all of my things in my arms. Something must have shown on my face because he asked if I was okay. I told him I had to go to the bathroom.
I went, drink in hand, and cried in a stall, dashing off a text to one of my besties. I planned my escape. I would put my scarf and cloak on and run up the stairs and out the door. I was afraid, however, that he would be at the top of the stairs waiting for me. I drank for courage. I could be rude. I could run right past him. I could scream in his face. It took about ten more sips and a good deal of muttering to myself before I was finally ready to make the mad dash.
A young woman noticed me and asked if I was okay. I replied simply, “I have to go,” I took one last sip of my drink, set it down on the counter, and flew up the stairs. Thankfully, he wasn’t waiting there and I ran all the way home, ripping out the crown of leaves I’d so carefully braided into my hair.
Why didn’t I leave when the other woman left? I’d wanted to finish my last drink first. Why didn’t I ask for help? There were people all around. Why didn’t I tell him to stop? I didn’t know anyone there. I didn’t want to make a scene. Would he have really responded to “stop” if he ignored “I don’t know you” and actually promised not to kiss me again before doing just that?
Reading “Grace”’s account of Ansari’s “gross, forceful kiss” after asking what she meant by “you guys are all the same” and cutting her off when she attempted to answer reminded me a lot of Howard.
Maybe you’ll agree that there was no excuse for Howard to promise he wouldn’t kiss me again, but then do so. But how is it you can excuse Ansari’s “It’s not fun unless we’re both having fun” followed by an offer to chill on the couch, followed immediately by him pointing to his crotch when she sat down? Or would you say that Howard, too, simply can’t be expected to “read minds”?
What is the significant difference between Howard promising not to kiss me and then doing so, and Ansari reassuring “Grace” that they could just chill and then immediately wanting fellatio?
Let me tell you about Norman. I met him while working at the call centre. We chatted at lunch and on breaks. He invited me to his apartment one day, and eventually we got to sex. When the topic of condoms came up, though, he got a little weird about it.
He wore it during penetration, but then removed it afterwards and wanted to do a “trust exercise”, which I failed because I was not remotely trying and did not in fact agree to do this trust exercise. It involved my trusting him to not penetrate me without a condom while he got close to doing just that.
How do you get up and leave when he’s on top of you? Should I have told him “stop” or “get off me” for him to know that wasn’t an appropriate game to play when I’d told I wasn’t okay with going condomless? Was my clamping my legs closed a clear enough signal?
So what then is the difference between “bad sex” and sexual assault? Is there one at all? Yes, I think the very baseline of consensual sex - that is, where sex is wanted by both parties - could be “bad sex”. So let me tell you about Eren.
I saw him occasionally at the bar I go to. Now and then we’d chat a bit. He was a big man, but unimposing. Older than any other men I’d considered for a partner, but an easygoing guy. A friend of mine told me he seemed to be a pretty good guy from what she knew and what she’d heard.
He and I began to flirt one evening and exchanged numbers. We went on a date at a coffee shop which went okay. We eventually planned to hook up at his apartment. He was much bolder over text than in person, and I was enthusiastic about my agreement.
I insisted on condoms, in those exact words, and offered to bring some, but he said he had his own. He showed me around his apartment. He collected a lot of beer paraphernalia. I thought he might be on the spectrum, but he said he wasn’t. We got to his bedroom and out came the condoms which…didn’t fit him. He couldn’t maintain an erection. He wasn’t skilled with his fingers which became uncomfortable for me pretty quickly.
After a half hour of back and forth between fellatio and him wanting to try intercourse again, at about 5 am, he asked, “Can we just go without?”
I was getting dry and didn’t want to continue trying for another half hour, so I told him not to come in me and I washed it off me afterwards.
Why didn’t I just tell him no, and that we’d try again with better condoms? I don’t know. The thought didn’t occur to me until after. All I was thinking at the time was that I didn’t want to hurt when I peed.
I’d said in my text explicitly, “I insist on condoms”. He was 43 years old, how had he not known what condoms would fit him? Why would he tell me not to bring my own?
In all honesty, I don’t think he intentionally planned it at all. I do think he was irresponsible and had no excuse to be. I’m not calling it assault or asking if it is. I’m saying that having sex without a condom wasn’t something I wanted to do, had insisted in writing that it wasn’t something I wanted to do. Rather than asking at the end of the night after multiple times trying and failing to complete intercourse if we could have sex without a condom anyway, he could have apologized and asked if we could try again another night.
I don’t think it was assault. I do think it was inappropriate. But unlike every other man on this list, and unlike Ansari, at least he asked, and I did say okay.
Finally, let me tell you about Scott. He was a customer when I worked the overnight shift at the gas station. He asked for my number and despite my belief that it’s inappropriate for customers to put employees in that position, I gave it to him because I wasn’t really meeting anyone on my schedule.
Looking back there were a number of similar “yellow flags”, and perhaps some red ones too. For one, our planned walk along the riverside quickly turned into a ride to a specific part of the river where we didn’t even leave the car before he suddenly put his hand on my thigh and kissed me.
I was attracted to him and I figured why not. Again, looking back, I think it was my defensive switch flipping. As if I could prevent him from being a sexual assailant as long as I said yes, though he hadn’t asked.
I said we could go back to my apartment. I also said I had condoms. He asked if I had any STIs and I told him I didn’t and asked him the same. He said he didn’t and was proud of that and said he was definitely in favour of condoms.
So back to my place we went, where immediately before penetration he oddly asked whether I wanted to use condoms in spite of us having already had that conversation. I responded in the affirmative and he honoured that.
At some point afterward he made clear he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, that he’d just gotten out a dysfunctional relationship. That was fine with me; the sex had been good, but we hadn’t really clicked otherwise.
Several days later is when the phone calls began. He would call me at work, nearly always from a private number, and said he didn’t have a cellphone, something he was proud of. I took the calls while I worked organizing the freezer, mainly because I felt less isolated, but all he wanted to talk about was his issues with his ex, a kind of weird foreplay before the conversation turned to sex.
The subject of condoms came up, more than once, with me reiterating they had to be used because I didn’t want to get pregnant. He came in one early morning for cigarettes. He asked for a hug and I gave him one and he grabbed my breast hard enough to hurt. I winced and he let go and apologized. I later found a small bruise on it, but figured he’d just been excited and hadn’t been careful enough with his own strength.
The phone calls continued. During one, when the conversation had turned to sex, he asked if I’d ever wondered what it would feel like without a condom.
I’m not much good at lying for these sorts of things, which in retrospect I should have done. I process things slowly and spoken conversation often moves too fast to be able to think fully about what I’m going to say before I say it. And my instinct is nearly always to speak honestly.
I suspect you know this, though. You’ve known me my whole life. It was you, when you told me you strongly believed me to be on the autism spectrum, whom I first learned those hand movements I do had a name. And it was you who used the word “guileless” to describe me.
All this to say, when he asked if I’d ever wondered what it would feel like to have penetrative sex without a condom, I answered honestly that I had. I did, however, reiterate that in spite of wondering I didn’t want to actually try it because I didn’t want to get pregnant.
He came in another morning, and wanted to go to a back room for sex. I told him there were cameras but he wasn’t letting up, grabbing my breast hard enough to make me wince again. I led him to the bathroom and he pushed me to my knees. I performed fellatio and then stopped and told him sometimes my boss came in around that time. So he left.
During the phonecalls he often wanted my opinion on this or that thing his ex had said or done. At one point he told me a story where she’d said she’d been raped at a party and he thought it was just a cover for her cheating on him. One of the reasons he gave for this was that she hadn’t filed a police report. I told him it was rare for victims to do that, that I myself had only ever reported one (there are many other men who are not on this list, who have groped or grabbed me in much more obviously assaultive ways).
During another rant about his ex, he used the old “nice guys finish last”. He didn’t just call me at work. He often called during the day as well, when he knew I’d be sleeping. He would ask to come over for sex, but then would bail.
He finally did come over and this time was stranger. Both the first time and this time he had me face down. This time he wanted me to say I loved him. When we’d finished he said we probably wouldn’t hook up again because he and his ex were trying to work things out.
I didn’t care too much by that point. I had just wanted something fun to look forward to now and then, and this was drama I didn’t want.
Now, concurrently with this is when I’d met, gone on a date with and eventually hooked up with Eren.
It took Scott all of three days before the phone calls resumed. It hadn’t worked with his ex. He wanted to know if I’d been with anyone else. Again, I answered honestly, but when he asked if we’d used a condom I surprised myself by lying. It just never comes that automatically to me.
He again wanted to know if I wanted to know what it felt like. I told him the reason why I was so afraid of becoming pregnant, that I hadn’t even been penetrated but became pregnant anyway, that they had to cut through my hymen in order to perform the abortion and that I can’t swallow pills so the only anaesthesia I had was valium and laughing gas. I told him that wasn’t something I ever wanted to go through again if I could avoid it. I told him, however, that if there ever was an accident anyway, abortion was the route I was going to go. He said he understood.
On a Thursday night he called wanting to come to my place of work for sex. I reminded him of the cameras. He inquired about a back room and I said there were cameras there too. He said some shady shit about stealing from the cash register and I informed him it would be impossible to get away with.
At some point he actually asked how I was doing and I told him my sister was having difficulties with the father of her daughter. He asked what race he was, predictably blaming it on “that’s how they are”. I reminded him that my niece was the same race, and told him I’d known plenty of crap white fathers.
This was the final straw for me. I’d already been leaning towards it, but now I planned to just slow fade him out once I was done working at that station in a few weeks. He just seemed like a train wreck of a person.
That Friday, which was my day off, I went to a job fair in the afternoon, on just a few hours of sleep. I was completely beat when I got back.
I was jolted awake at 6pm by a phone call, three hours before I’d intended on waking up. It was the number for my buzzer and I wasn’t even thinking when I answered it, nor when I let him in. He didn’t know quite how little sleep I’d gotten, but he did know I’d be sleeping at that time and he hadn’t called beforehand to let me know he was coming.
We got to my bedroom and once again he grabbed my breast hard enough to hurt and didn’t stop until I cried out in pain.
We got on my bed and I was face up this time, when he penetrated me without a condom, without so much as asking. And the words, “Hold on, stop, we need condoms” froze completely in my throat. My body went limp to the point where he tried to have me on top and had to hold me up, eventually propping me up against the wall.
I made sounds. They were a mix of fear and pain (I usually need lube, he hadn’t bothered with that either), but I’m sure he thought they were good sounds. I’ve been asked before, by men who weren’t sure what my sounds meant, if I was okay. Those times I was. This time I wasn’t but he didn’t ask.
I’d cut sex short with other men, when it got to be uncomfortable, but in this instance I could not get the word “stop” to leave my mouth.
He asked once, while on top of me, if I wanted him to come inside me.
I did cry and say I didn’t want to get pregnant.
His response? “It’s okay”.
I still don’t know what the hell that was. Because he didn’t stop, and then said shortly after that he said he was going to come in me. What was okay?
At some point he pulled out and used his fingers to penetrate me, and I thought I’d found my way out when I said, “I have to pee”.
That had always made men stop in the past, but not now.
His response was, “Do it. Pee right now. It’s hot.” And he actively kept up the irritation until I did.
That wasn’t the only humiliation. He made me say I loved him again and claimed to be falling for me.
“Have you ever been fucked like this before?” “You’ve never been with a real man before, have you?” “Are you going to fuck anyone else?” All this he asked with only one answer in mind.
I must have been closing my eyes a lot because he kept demanding I open them and look at him. I tried to think of ways to segue into getting him to let me grab my phone and “text a female friend for a threesome”, but the opportunity never came and I also feared I’d be stuck with him for longer if my friend didn’t see the text.
“I think I’m done for right now. Feeling a little raw,” I wanted to say. “Hey, I’m getting a little dry. Let me grab the lube and also we need a condom,” I tried to force out. I must have looked like a fish gasping for breath each time I tried to make the words come out and they wouldn’t.
He penetrated me anally with a finger and made me do the same with him.
Occasionally he had me perform fellatio and it was the only thing I actively participated in because I hoped to make him come that way. Twice he stopped me and penetrated me again.
One position he had us in was so painful I was wincing the entire time. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t bleed.
He finally did come in my mouth, and then spent the next twenty minutes ranting about his ex again before leaving at last. There were small dark bruises on my breast and thigh the next morning, and pissing for the next three days felt like fire. It hurt to sit and to walk.
I didn’t answer his call on Sunday while I worked, and my heart began to pound at 4am and I remained on edge until 5:30am, which was the window he’d come in before. I didn’t want to see him again. I would have told my boss but I didn’t think it would go over well that I’d initially accepted advances from a customer, and I only a had a few shifts left.
It was my two besties who called it rape. One of them told me to take pictures of the bruises. I still have the photos to this day. I didn’t think it would be easily chargeable though, given the sexual history between us and the fact that not once while it was happening did I say “stop”.
My other bestie paid for my ticket to visit her in her city. The day I was supposed to leave, nearly a week after the fact, he phoned twice that morning and had been calling all week. I’d ignored all of them.
I made a post on Facebook: “This dude won’t stop calling me.” Shortly thereafter I got a call from the anteroom of my building and I knew it was him. And that triggered me into a panic attack where I was certain he would kill me. I can’t even quite explain it. It was just an overpowering feeling of dread that he was in my building and that meant I couldn’t leave.
A friend on Facebook told me to call the police, but I had no idea what I would even say.
Your daughter messaged me to say you had said to phone my uncle. I was barely coherent on the phone, sobbing, and he told me I would have to tell Scott I didn’t want any further contact with him. But I was terrified of hearing his voice again.
I didn’t answer the next phone call, which came that evening when I was at my bestie’s. I did answer the one after that, hurriedly saying I didn’t want to talk to him anymore and that I had to go. I ignored the next few calls and eventually answered again saying I didn’t want to talk to him anymore, that I didn’t want him calling anymore. He called back a minute later, which I ignored.
Two calls later I answered and finally managed to make my voice stern. He said he would stop calling but wanted to know why. I told him he hadn’t used a condom. He seemed confused as to why that was a problem if nothing had happened, never mind that I’d spent the last three weeks terrified I might be pregnant if there’d been any pre-ejaculatory fluid, especially when my breasts began to hurt much earlier than normal, and I had only just gotten my period that day.
I finally said I would involve police if he kept calling and that’s when he suddenly became very respectful of my wishes.
My aforementioned male friend held my hand when I told him about it, saying it sounded like a clear-cut case to him, but that he understood my hesitation in going to the police. He had some alternative ideas for what to do if Scott called again.
He didn’t. But to this today, two and a half years after the fact, every time I get a call from a private number my heart begins to pound and that feeling of being unsafe returns.
But was it rape? Why or why not? My friends based their opinion of it being rape on nothing more than the fact he’d violated the explicit terms of my consent. But they also added they’d consider it rape for other reasons as well. I wonder how you’d classify it.
Would you agree that violating the terms of one’s consent is sexual assault? And if so, what if I hadn’t made clear multiple times that I didn’t want intercourse without a condom? Would it have been okay for him to just go ahead and penetrate me without asking? And, I mean, he did ask if I’d wondered what it would feel like, and I answered in the affirmative. Would that count as “mixed signals”? Does it excuse him? Can it be said that he couldn’t be expected to read my mind when he had to literally prop my limp body up against a wall? Or when he had to keep telling me to open my eyes?
And if not, if he had no excuse, then why does Ansari? Didn’t you say it’s easy to just get up and leave? Shouldn’t it have been easy to say, “Stop”? Or better yet, “What the fuck are you doing? I told you we have to use condoms!” I wish that’s what I’d said. I wish I’d been able to say any of the things I’d thought to say while it was happening. I wish I’d had the presence of mind not to answer that call or let him in. I wish I’d gone with own damn opinion of such things and not given my number to a customer when he first asked for it.
There are women I know, who might have done any of those things. I envy and admire them for it, but that’s not me. It’s not many women. It’s not many women with mental illnesses/disorders, or physical disabilities, or histories of trauma, or who are neurodivergent. Maybe that makes us weak. I don’t know. I do know I’m alive. I do know I managed to get him not to come in me and therefore spare myself an unwanted pregnancy. Isn’t that the most important thing?
There’s no shame in being a victim of assault. So why should women risk their safety in trying to fight back in ways that don’t come naturally to them personally? Maybe we’re too passive. Maybe we’re pushovers. But are we hurting anyone by being that way? Why then should we have to alter our behaviour?
Don’t get me wrong. I do think women’s passivity is a discussion worth having. I absolutely support empowering women and girls to be more assertive about their boundaries. I would absolutely love to have heard that “Grace” just left the first chance she got. What I do not support is using women’s passivity, mine, “Grace’s”, and others’, to absolve men of any wrongdoing.
I ask the same question of male sexual aggression as I do of female passivity: are men hurting anyone by being that way? And the answer is yes, they absolutely are. THEY are the ones who need to change their behaviour. It is not acceptable to keep grabbing someone’s hand when they pull it away. It is not okay to promise to chill, and then immediately escalate. There is no excuse to suddenly spring a sexual activity on someone without knowing it’s okay.
There is a problem when women are held more accountable for lack of action than men are for action. Ansari did something wrong and absolutely deserved to be outed for the creep he is.
The point is, either “Grace” and I were both assaulted or neither of us were. As far as this case is concerned, she is me and I am her. You cannot acknowledge any of the above examples as assault without also acknowledging you were wrong in how you characterized hers. Nor can you claim she was not assaulted and that Ansari did not deserve to be called out without also saying that I have no right to speak of my experiences with the above men.
Now, it shouldn’t matter what percentage of men that Ansari and Scott and others like them make up. Because if it is most men or nearly all men, then men are nearly all or at least mostly rapists. The definition of sexual assault should not be narrowed in order to include less men as sexual predators. Rather men should be held to higher standards. But that being said, it is not all men. Not only do we have studies showing they do know that a soft refusal means “no”, but there are men who take soft refusals in sexual situations.
Let me now tell you about the “amazing” second guy I dated. You remember him, right? You were hoping it would progress further. Well, the first time we had sex I was pretty excited and having a good time. I was panting pretty heavily at one point and he asked if I was okay. He didn’t have to. I had initiated as much as he had, I’d gone back to his apartment willingly, I’d taken off my clothes myself. But he wasn’t sure if my sounds were good or bad, so he asked. It didn’t ruin the moment; I just told him I was fine and things were that good. And then I felt even more comfortable because that clearly showed he gave a shit.
Let me tell you about the last boyfriend I had (not the ex I’ve referred to). I felt safe and comfortable with him and got adventurous. I wanted to try anal with him. It was my idea. It took some time but when he finally managed to penetrate, something felt wrong. Now my immediate instinct was going to be to try for a short time and see if it got better, but something in my body language must have told him what was up. He asked if I was okay, and I said no. He asked if I wanted to stop and I said yes. And he did. Again. It. Was. My. Idea. And yet, when he had the slightest doubt he asked if I was okay, and he stopped when I wasn’t.
Let me tell you about my friend. When I showed up at his bar I was obviously inexperienced and made no secret of it. So he introduced me to his favourite shot. Friendliness turned into flirting. The attraction was mutual and we exchanged numbers. He massaged my neck and shoulders at one point. Shortly after he announced last call he slid me a glass of water and asked if I would stay past closing and he would walk me home. I agreed. Between the shots and the fruity drinks I’d ordered, I was nine drinks in. I knew I was drunk and really didn’t care. After everyone else had left he asked for a hug and I melted into it. He walked me to the door of my building, asked for another hug, and I kissed his cheek. He kissed my lips, closed-mouthed, two or three times and then wished me a good night and left. Because although he was attracted to me and although I was obviously into him, I had gone to that bar sober with the intention of getting drunk, and he made sure that was all that happened.
Of the men in this other list only the second one identified as a male feminist ally. You don’t have to have followed third wave blogs or read second wave literature to care about whether your partner/potential partner is as into it as you are.
Let me tell you about me, and the number of times I’ve backed off texting someone when he wasn’t responding as much, just in case I was making him uncomfortable. Or how often I’ve stopped and asked if this or that partner was okay when he made an expression I couldn’t quite read or a sound I wasn’t sure of or said something softly that I hadn’t understood. And most of the time everything was fine, but occasionally he clarified the muttered words into something like, “Maybe not that hard” during a massage, or the sound I heard turned out to be a hiss of pain. I could have kept going until they more clearly expressed their discomfort, but I believe my partner’s comfort is more important than my getting laid, no matter if he’s my boyfriend or a casual partner or a one night stand.
Because it’s about what’s important to each individual when it comes to sex. And if consent, true, ongoing consent, is of utmost importance you will never be an Aziz Ansari.
There are men, like Ansari, for whom consent is nice if they have it, but not something they feel they should go out of their way to make sure they have. If they end up with a partner who does not feel safe expressing their discomfort loudly and clearly and taking immediate action to remove themselves from the situation, how is it the fault of the woman who didn’t leave rather than the fault of the man who got more forceful when she moved her hands away?
Eren, above, is the absolute minimum standard for obtaining consent. That is, it was clear both partners wanted sex, and he asked before doing the activity I had initially refused. It wasn’t good sex, because I had not changed my mind about not wanting to go condomless, but I don’t actually expect he should have read my mind when I told him we could. Ansari did not meet that minimum. One does not have to be a mind reader to know to know that someone moving their hand away means “no”, to know that “next time” means at the very least “slow the fuck down”, to know that “I don’t want to feel forced” means she’s in distress. And this goes doubly so for a man who claims to be a feminist, who claims to have listened to women and learned of the many examples of sexism in our lives.
It seems people think sex is consensual by default unless one party expresses nonconsent. Though, apparently not even that is enough unless that expression is forceful, repeated, and backed up by action. I disagree. Since sex can be so hurtful, both physically and psychologically it must be treated similarly to other things that can cause such harm. By default, sex should be considered nonconsensual unless consent is explicitly given.
You may fear that this removes the presumption of innocent until proven guilty, but it really doesn’t. It’s still a she-said-he-said situation. She still has to prove she didn’t consent and he still has to prove she did. And I promise you most men accused of sexual assault, guilty or not, will still walk almost as often as they do now. But the attitude toward the victims may change and that’s what I’m interested in.
She doesn’t have to be expected to say “no” forcefully when unwanted sexual acts have been sprung on her without asking. Rather he has to be sure to ask. And if that means some men don’t get laid out of fear a woman will go to the news or to the authorities over his behaviour? I’m more than fine with that. And if it means men go to extra lengths to make sure their partner’s consent is unambiguous? So much the better. And if some people fear it will make sexual interactions awkward? Well it’s not that awkward if they both genuinely want sex with each other. It’s only awkward if you’re expecting the answer, “No”.
Anyway, I don’t think I can say much more to you about this issue. I’ve been upset over your response - your continued response at that - for over a week. You keep saying Ansari “didn’t deserve” to be publicly called out and “humiliated”. I say if Keith, Robin, Jeffrey, Howard, Mohammed, or Scott ever become prominent, and especially if they ever claim to be feminists, I will go public with their actions. I will warn women about them. So make of that what you will. Whatever you think of “Grace”, the worst you think of her, I am the same. So either those men did nothing wrong to me or you thought wrongly of “Grace”. I’m done.
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