Impact (the first few chapters)

1

A woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a simple blouse, skirt, and heels, waits in a room. A room that looks much like a cell, with its concrete floor, its concrete walls. She sits at a bare table. In an uncomfortable chair. She pulls a folder from her bag and lays it onto the table in front of her.

Two young men, both in their early twenties, both in prison garb—pity it’s not bright pink instead of bright orange—are brought in by guards who sit them in the two chairs opposite her, then cuff their hands to the heavy rings set into the table. They stare at her.

“Who are you?” the first one finally asks.

She stares back. Disbelief on her face. “Who am I?”

“Yeah. Are you our new lawyer? Figures.” He snorts with disgust.

He doesn’t recognize her. She looks at the second one. He too— Do we really all look the same to you? Was it that simple? That horrible?

“I’m the waitress at Bud’s Bar.”

“Oh yeah,” the first one says, after a moment, “you do look a little familiar.”

“I’m the woman you assaulted. Sexually.”

“No,” he says. Casually.

“What do you mean ‘No’?”

“We didn’t sexually assault anyone. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he adds. Then looks at the second one. “Do you know what she’s talking about?”

The second one shakes his head, grinning slightly. He’d like to cross his arms on his chest, but the shackles prevent it. Instead, he leans back as far as possible and spreads his legs far apart.

“That night, after closing,” she—reminds? No, can’t be. Insists.

“That was you? Okay, yeah …” The first one smiles. As if remembering a rather pleasant day at the beach.

“But,” he leans forward slightly and expresses genuine confusion, “you wanted it. Didn’t she?” He turns to his buddy for confirmation. Because it wasn’t really a question. “You remembered it wrong,” he turns back to her, then leans back. “As we said in court.”

No doubt. Victims were no longer required, forced, to face their assailants. In a public courtroom, no less. It was finally understood that the shame and intimidation could be too strong, too influential, especially in cases of domestic abuse—a misnomer if ever, since there was nothing domestic about having your body beaten beyond recognition by the man you (thought you) loved, the man you married by choice.

Some had objected to the change, reasoning that if the victim didn’t have to look her or his assailant in the eye, she or he would feel free to embellish and fabricate.

But other arguments had prevailed, and now victims presented their testimony in closed chambers with only the judge, the prosecuting attorney, and the defendants’ lawyers present. In some circumstances, a friend or family member was allowed to be present for emotional support. A recording was made and, if applicable, shown to the jury during deliberation. Testimony seemed as honest, as accurate, and not nearly as reluctantly given. There was talk of extending the change to all crimes.

“I didn’t remember it wrong!” she says with some vehemence. “It was raining. You offered me a ride.”

“And you said ‘Yes,’” he says. Smugly. She is so naïve.

“To the ride! Not to sex!” Did they really think that consent to the one meant consent to the other? That when a woman accepted a ride—or an invitation to a party, or a drink, or dinner … Perhaps. After all, men defined … everything. She sighed.

“As I recall,” the first one continues, “you said ‘Yes, please’.” He grins. Case closed.

And yet, here they were.

“Did you hear me say ‘Yes’?” she asks. “To the sex.”

“Didn’t hear you say ‘No,’“ the first one snickers.

“But I did. Say ‘No.’ Several times. Loudly. Clearly.”

“Didn’t hear you,” he says. Cheerfully. Definitively.

“Besides which,” she ignores that, tries to ignore that, “it’s not like the default is consent. You don’t assume ‘Yes’ unless otherwise indicated. You assume ‘No’ unless otherwise indicated.”

“Well, maybe we can just agree to disagree about that,” he smiles. It’s such a patronizing smile.

She tries to ignore that as well.

“Do you figure you have the right to just walk into someone’s house without an invitation? Walk down their halls, into their rooms … “ She shuddered. Every time— She’d have to move.

He doesn’t respond. It was a stupid question. That was break and enter.

“Do you think the rules are ‘It’s okay unless the person says it’s not’?” she persists.

Again, he doesn’t respond.

“Then what makes you think you have the right to come into my body without an invitation?”

They refuse to accept the analogy. She knew they would. A woman’s body isn’t a house. It’s public property. That was part of why contraception and abortion were … issues.

Of course, she doesn’t accept the analogy either. Her body wasn’t her house. It was her. And after such a … violation, she couldn’t just move.

“So, what, we have to asknow?” He stares at her in disbelief.

What? She stares at him in disbelief. “Yes!” Why was that so … objectionable?

Ah. To ask for permission is a sign of weakness.

“Then again,” she reconsiders, “no. Because if you have to ask whether a woman wants you, she probably doesn’t. If she wants you, she’ll move toward you, rather than away from you. For starters.” How clueless were these guys?

And then it occurs to her. Neither one of them had probably ever made love. Or even made like. They had never engaged in simple, mutual pleasuring.

So they honestly didn’tknow. They genuinely thought this was the way it was supposed to be. Because it was all they’d ever seen. In the porn they no doubt watched. It was all they’d ever heard about. From their bragging buddies.

Why is rape something to brag about?

Even if they’d gone to a prostitute— Most are raped while on the job.

What these guys needed were a few sessions with a sex therapist.

Absent love, or even friendship, genuinefriendship, between young men and women, that might lead to affectionate sexual interaction …

But the male-female divide was so great now—walk into any toy store—it was nearly impossible to cross over and just talk to someone on the other side. Surely a prerequisite. What would they talk about? All they knew about the other, all they’d been told, by television, by advertisements …

Worse, all they knew about the other’s sexuality, informed not just by porn, but also, even, by the ubiquitous pop music saturating their lives, pumping them full of sexualized energy—it was a far cry from the Pointer Sisters singing about a slow hand …

’Course even back then, did menlisten to the Pointer Sisters? They laughed at Barry White.

“We didn’t mean to hurt you,” the second one speaks up. “We just meant to have a little fun.”

What? She stares at him. Surely they’ve seen the photographs. (Though even absent physical injury …) Their lawyer must have presented that evidence during a pre-trial meeting. The prosecutor would surely have presented that evidence during the trial. Maybe they had their eyes closed. Their heads stuck in the sand.

She opens the folder and spreads the eight-by-tens onto the table in front of them. Like tarot cards.

“Does that look like fun? For me?” she has to add.

The first one glances at the photographs, then looks up at her. He shrugs. He has no idea what she considers fun. It’s not really his concern, is it.

The second one’s eyes widen before he looks away.

She repeats her question. “Does that look like I’m having fun?”

No, of course not. When people, almost always men, said ‘We were just having fun,’ what they meant was ‘We don’t want to be held responsible for what we did’ or ‘We didn’t think it through.’

“Sorry,” the first one shrugs. “Is that what you want to hear? Is this one of those victims’ rights things? Are you here to tell us what bad boys we are?” He laughs and grins at his friend. Who grins back.

“No, I’m here to ask why.” It was another change. These meetings, these confrontations, between victim and perpetrator, were permitted as part of the process. Any recommendations, by the victim, regarding sentencing, would be taken into consideration.

“Why did you rape me?” She asks the question.

“Because we could,” the first one says. The second one giggles. Sort of.

This is all just a big joke to them. She is just a big joke to them.

One of the guards happens to pass by the door, so she signals to him. She needs a break.

*

“We thought you were okay with it,” the second one said, perhaps a little too eagerly, as soon as she returned. “We thought you wanted it. It wasn’t rape,” he insisted. “It was just—sex.”

She selected one of the photographs from the folder. “You thought I wanted—this?” She stood, to lean across the table and shove it in his face. “Why in god’s name would you think anyonewould want this?”

“Okay, maybe we, maybe he,” he nodded to his buddy, “got a little carried away, but …”

His buddy smirked.

“Why would you think I wanted any of it?” she asked. Still standing. Still very much standing. “Why would you think I wanted some guys I don’t even know to stick their dicks into me? At all?”

“But you know us! We’re regulars!”

Well, that was true. She sat down. It was partly why she’d accepted the ride. They were regulars. And they seemed like nice guys. In fact, she thought they were students at the university. None of which, now, seemed to vouch for their character, their morality.

“That’s not—that’s not knowingyou. And even if I did know you, that doesn’t mean I want to have sex with you.”

“But you’re always smiling at us,” the second one said. With what seemed to be genuine confusion.

“It’s my job!” she protested. It was every woman’s job. To smile at men. To appease them. To make them feel good. But then— Damned if you do …

And no wonder men didn’t like it when women didn’t smile.

“I was just being friendly!” She saw that she had to spell it out. “When a woman is friendly toward you, that doesn’t mean she wants to have sex with you!” Were they so blind to nuance, to subtlety, to the whole spectrum of social engagement?

Perhaps. Thanks to cell phones and social media, society seemed to be devolving, moving backwards, from complexity to simplicity. Texting prevented full expression. Emoticons were essentially pictograms.

Men in particular seemed insensitive to … communication. She was going to say they weren’t as good with words as women, then she was going to say they weren’t as good with body language …

It would make things so much easier if we were open and clear, if we didn’t have such a taboo about talkingabout sex. Though, oddly enough, words like fuck and cunt seem to come pretty easily to most people. Most men. So why isn’t ‘Do you want to have sex?’ just as not-awkward?

Perhaps these two were just especially inept, misinterpreting social signals, failing to appreciate the multiple possibilities.

Or maybe there were no multiple possibilities for men. Men considered caressing to be foreplay. They considered kissing to be foreplay. In fact, everything but penetration was considered foreplay, was considered something inevitably leading to penetration. Because sex was defined as penetration, as penis-in-vagina. Women, on the other hand, might define a caress, or a kiss, or any of several other things, things other than penetration, as the desirable end point in and of itself.

Or maybe—maybe she was the one who didn’t know the language. The thought startled her. Maybe she was the inept one. Maybe accepting one kind of invitation did mean accepting another. Now.

No, maybe men and women just used different languages. And there wasn’t a word for ‘no’ in their language. Not that could be spoken by a woman.

“You didn’t scream,” the second one said. Trying to explain.

“I’m not a screamer. I use my words. And I did say ‘No.’”

And actually, she did scream. When the first one—

“‘No means yes, yes means anal,’“ the first one said. And laughed. “Didn’t you get the memo? Came from Yale even.”

So he did hear her. Say ‘No’.

“I also said ‘STOP!’ and ‘GET OFF ME!’ Tell me, what part of ‘STOP!’ and ‘GET OFF ME!’ didn’t you understand?”

“We thought you were just—”

“Did I look like I was just— What, bluffing? Kidding?” How could they know? They didn’t look at her. Not really.

“You didn’t fight back.”

“I did so! I tried to push you off me. I tried to get out from under you.”

He shrugged.

“And anyway, why should I have to fight back? Victims of other kinds of assault don’t have to prove they resisted or that they didn’t consent.”

“Well yeah. Because no one in their right mind would consent to be beaten up.” He laughed.

She stared at him. Waiting. In vain.

“We didn’t think you meant it,” the second one said.

Right. Men never took women seriously. Why should this be any different? What we say, what we do— None of it means anything. Certainly not anything important.

“Didn’t you notice that I suddenly went still?” She’d hoped that that would minimize the injuries. If she stopped moving, stopped struggling—

“Yeah,” the first one said. “We just figured you were frigid or something.”

She considered that.

“Okay, and what does that mean? Doesn’t it mean a woman doesn’t enjoy sexual intercourse?” Or that you’re not doing it right. Or that she’s just not into you. “So … wouldn’t that make you stop?”

He shrugged.

She sighed. Whether or not a woman enjoys sex is irrelevant. We have vaginas, they’re meant to have penises shoved in them, and especially if they’ve had penises shoved in them before, well, what’s the big deal. Though they hadn’t mentioned that yet.

And if the woman hasn’thad a penis shoved in her vagina before, then, what, they were doing her a favour? Helping her out? Breaking her in?

She couldn’t wrap her head around the logic.

Because there was none.

Or there was. And it was just so—

“Look, we thought you liked it,” the second one tried again.

“Most women do,” the first one took over. “You pretend you don’t, but deep down you do.”

“Most women like rape?”

He nodded. “I know for a fact that you like it when we hold you down, when we use force.” There. Let her deal with that.

She doubted he knew anythingfor a fact. It was just the way some people, mostly men, talked. It made them appear knowledgeable. Presenting opinion as fact was how people, typically men, achieved and maintained their status as authorities, experts, fonts of wisdom … ‘I know for a fact’ just meant ‘I’m guessing it’s true.’ Or ‘I hope it’s true.’

“It’s a turn-on. Admit it.” He was so smug.

She ignored the challenge. “And you know this because?” Because—wait, ‘Most women’? She wondered how many …

He rolled his eyes. It was common knowledge, wasn’t it.

“I want to be sure I understand you. You think most women like this?” She presented the photographs again. He refused to look.

“Oh no, you don’t get to turn away,” she said angrily. “LOOK!” She stood up, reached over, grabbed his hair, and forced him. To look. “Look at what you did to me!”

He tried to pull away. Couldn’t, really.

A guard appeared at the door, glanced inside, then stepped back, away from the small window.

She let go. Couldn’t stand touching him.

“You did this to me! And this! And this!” She pointed to the photographs, one at a time. “Can you honestly tell me you thought I’d like it? Would you like it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Then why do you think I’dlike it?” She sat back down. Suddenly exhausted.

“You women like this sort of thing!” he insisted.

“‘You women’? You’ve done this to other women? And they liked it? How did you know? When they struggled, you thought that meant they were having fun? When they begged you to stop? When they cried? When they screamed, you thought that meant they were enjoying it? And then when they just lay there, limp, hoping to get out of it alive, you thought they were having a good time?”

No response.

“Yes, many women moan during sex and cry out when they have an orgasm. Can you honestly not tell the difference between those moans and cries and my moans and cries?”

And that’s when she knew for sure.

“You’ve never had sex,” she said. “Real sex. Good sex. Sex with a woman who wanted it. Neither one of you. You don’t know what happens when a woman has an orgasm.”

The first one snorted.

She anticipated. “A woman who’s not acting in a porn film. You know they’re acting, right?”

Oh my god. They didn’t know.

“You thought porn was real?” She stared at them. How stupid were they? “They’re actors! Following a script! The director tells the woman to pretend she likes it. Pretend.Understand? It’s make-believe.”

All of their knowledge about sex was based on make-believe. Certain men’s fantasies.

And why do certain men fantasize about raping, about hurting and humiliating, women?

“Even prostitutes are acting,” she said. Just in case. “They’re saying and doing whatever they think will make them the most money.

“Many of them are acting for their lives. If they don’t keep their customers satisfied, their employer, their pimp, will punish them. Hurt them. Horribly.

“In fact, many of them are actual prisoners. They’ve been kidnapped. Specifically to be bought and sold. Against their will. Ever hear of sex trafficking? Prostitution rings?

“They’ve been told what to wear, what to say, what to do. It’s all an act.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure they’re enjoying it,” the first one grinned knowingly.

She just stared at him. And her whole body sighed into her chair. Because he would never acknowledge that he was complicit in a slave trade. That he enjoyed the enslaved.

And because quite apart from that, prostitution institutionalized the idea that men have a right—at least an economic right—to women’s bodies. The idea that sex is a female service. As Brownmiller pointed out.

“Then you’re easy to fool,” she finally said. Because you’re not interested in facts. You’re not interested in truth.

She doubted they watched any erotica. She doubted they even knew about erotica. Because the erotica industry couldn’t compete with the porn industry. Hell, not even the NFL could compete with the porn industry.

And why is that?

The closest they could come would be to watch some of the steamier scenes in chick flicks. So never gonna happen.

“You’ve never even seenconsensual sex, have you. You’ve never seen two people make love. Say, a man and a woman, caressing each other, lingering with their hands on each other’s body, kissing, touching, stroking, each of them getting more excited, until eventually, it might take half an hour, but that’s okay because it feels so good, eventually the woman comes, usually because the man has been tickling her clitoris in a crazy-making way, and then the man enters her, and moves in and out, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, and sometimes she comes again in the time it takes for him to come, and then they lay together, lazily, tangled up in each other, languidly, with such …”

Both of them were just— Staring at her. The second one had his mouth slightly open.

“And you’ll probably never have consensual sex,” she muttered then. “You’ll probably never make love.”

The first one was, she had noticed, rather good-looking by contemporary standards. Which was initially a bit puzzling. Surely he didn’t have to rape. But as one of the beautiful people, he would have received, throughout his life, better jobs, better pay, more credit, more attention … And those to whom much is given expect that much, and more. That is, he felt entitled. To whatever he wanted.

And it was quite possible he didn’t want real sex. He didn’t want a real relationship with a woman; his relationships with men were more important. Men were more important.

“What makes you say that?” the second one asked. In a small voice.

“Well, because I can’t imagine any— You’re not— What’s there about you to love?”

2

A week later, she was back in the room, back in the prison. Five minutes after her arrival, still a little unnerved to have gone through the rigorous security check and then to have been escorted by an armed guard, the two men were again brought in and shackled to the table.

“What I don’t get is,” the second one spoke up as soon as he entered the room, “if you’re not looking for it, why do you all go around looking like Miley Cyrus?”

What? She didn’t go around looking like Miley Cyrus. Though, she had to admit, many of the younger women seemed to. They’d bought the same shit these guys had bought.

“With your short skirts and your fuck-me shoes,” the first one added.

“Well, I can’t speak for other women, but I was wearing a skirt because it’s my uniform,” she replied.

“And now?” he asked.

He was right. Even then, there, she was wearing a skirt. And heels. Not so-called ‘fuck-me’ heels, but perhaps men couldn’t distinguish between those and regular heels. If they couldn’t even distinguish between one woman and the next.

So, actually, she could speak for other women. Wearing a skirt or a dress, and heels, a bit of make-up, a bit of jewelry—it was just normal, just convention. It was expected.

And why is showing your legs expected? Of women?

She dressed that way to look nice.

Right, but what does ‘look nice’ mean? Didn’t she look okay just as she was?

She wanted to be attractive.

But what does wearing skirts as opposed to pants have to do with looking attractive? ‘Looking attractive’ could only mean, then, ‘looking sexually attractive.’ Because the difference was showing your legs. And legs, women’s legs, were, had become, sexualized.

And, if it was a tight skirt, a sheath skirt, the difference was restricting your movement.

And that had become sexualized?

And heels made your legs appear more … shapely. Longer, essentially. Because … why were long legs more sexually attractive? Ah. Long legs accentuated the eye’s journey to the apex, the prize, the point of entry.

Valian was right: sexualizing our appearance had become normalized. It had become just as much a uniform— It was expected. Almost required. Even feminists were wearing make-up now. Well, so-called feminists.

Even so. Dressing to be sexually attractive didn’t mean she wanted to attract—yes, it did. It meant exactly that. Attractive. Attracting. Attract. Bring to.

Well, maybe for a look. Not necessarily for intercourse. Certainly not for violence.

And she certainly didn’t want to attract all men.

But how could she be selective? With her appearance. It was impossible.

So she was attracting all men, then rejecting most of them. What an inefficient way to—to what? Find a mate? Why was she doing that with appearance anyway? Didn’t she want a mate to be someone who liked her for what, for who, she was?

Well, yes, if we’re talking about a long-term partner. But if we’re talking about just a hook-up, just a one-night stand … Then why was she making herself sexually attractive as a matter of routine. Here. Now. Wouldn’t she do it just when she went to parties or whatever?

They were right, she realized. It was, at least, part of the big picture. The cultural norm was that women should look a certain way, a way that emphasizes their sexuality, a way that turns men on a bit, a way that makes men think they’re available to them. When she conformed to that norm, she was, to some small extent, complicit. She didn’t tease, but yes, she tried to be attractive. She tried to attract.

Then again, if she intended to turn down most of the men she attracted—because no, she didn’t want to have sex with most men—wasn’t that teasing?

“Well?” the first one challenged.

“I’m thinking,” she replied. “You should try it some time.”

He rolled his eyes.

But the make-up, that was just to make you look younger, generally speaking. To get rid of the wrinkles and the other imperfections that developed as one aged.

Imperfections.

It was a little disturbing, now that she thought about it. That evidence of age was considered an imperfection. That youth was considered … preferable.

But it was true: younger bodies weremore physically attractive. And therefore more sexually appealing? Wait, did that necessarily follow?

More importantly, did it have to mean endorsing pedophilia?

Because women shaved their legs. Yes, but just to make them smoother.

And their armpits. Yes, but again—

And now their crotches. The result was a prepubescent look. Yes, but it also just made things … more accessible.

She sighed. It was complicated. Worse, it was ambiguous.

And then something else occurred to her. The time and energy it all took. The shaving, the plucking, the make-up, the hair … Was that part of it? Women were supposed to spend a lot of time and energy attracting men? Pleasing men? What for? Seriously. Because what have they done for us lately?

Under the table, she slipped off her shoes. Only partly because her feet hurt.

And that’s when that occurred to her: women were also supposed to be willing to endure pain if it pleased men.

There has been more research on male sexual pleasure than on female sexual pain. Five times more. One in three women feel pain during vaginal penetration; two in three, during anal penetration. They just don’t tell their partners. Women often ignore or downplay their own distress so as not to upset others, typically men. All this, why? Because, as Loofbourow put it, “We live in a culture that sees female pain as normal and male pleasure as a right.”

“You all go around looking like hos,” the first one summarized, impatient, “then cry rape when we treat you like one.”

What? It took her a moment. “Prostitutes don’t want to be raped.”

Quite apart from they couldn’t distinguish between prostitutes and women who’d just made themselves sexually attractive? Maybe not. It was, after all, just a matter of degree.

She recalled picking up a guy at a bar one night. She’d begun the conversation, she’d made the suggestion. He’d thought she was a prostitute. Apparently the only women who could initiate a sexual encounter were prostitutes. Denied that active role, no wonder consent could be troublesome. Maybe for a long time ‘no’ had meant ‘yes’. Because ‘yes’ meant ‘I’m a prostitute.’

And if the screaming and struggling was also just a matter of degree, expressions of protest too similar to expressions of acquiescence—no, she didn’t believe they were that similar. But maybe that was just her?

No. Because what about ‘Stop!’ and ‘Get off me!’

And, the thought occurred to her, the difference wasn’t just a matter of degree in appearance. The prostitute expected payment in cash, then and there. Other women expected … to have their way paid. For the night. For the rest of their lives. She sighed.

No wonder they have such contempt for us.

Then again, not all women.

And then again, men often demandsuch dependence. They often insist on paying our way. Their masculinity depends on it.

Or does their subsequent use of our bodies depend on it?

At the same time, they seem to resent our dependence.

And they often become enraged when we become, or are, independent. When we leave them or don’t need them in the first place.

Go figure the logic.

“All women are hos,” the first one said. With such disgust.

Yes. That was it. It wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Because even when women were completely covered up, head to toe, in burkas, men hurt them. Because even women over fifty, over sixty, over seventy, were raped.

And the logic, again— They demand sexiness, and then, when we comply—or not, they insult, call us sluts. Hos.

“Even if my appearance didindicate that I wanted sex,” she backed up and made a turn, “that doesn’t mean I’m going to go through with it. I may want to eat a whole carton of ice cream. Doesn’t mean I’m going to. And if you offered me a whole carton of ice cream, I’d say ‘No thanks.’”

She realized then that that was another distinction they couldn’t make. The distinction between what they wanted and what they did. They just did whatever they wanted. Like two-year-olds.

“But you didn’t offer me anything. You just assumed. You made the decision for me. As if you know best. What I want and what I don’t want. Which wants I’ll satisfy and which ones I won’t. Who the hell do you think you are?” she glared at them. “You don’t know shit! About me!”

They stared at her.

“Or is it that you think women in general are unable to decide, unable to speak, for themselves?” She continued to glare at them. “We’re not stupid. And we’re not children.”

Despite what so many movies, certainly the ones these guys watch, say.

And not just movies, she thought with despair. In the real world, how many positions of power, of responsibility, are occupied by women? Somewhere between 20 and 30 per cent. And it’s the other 70 to 80 percent that gets media coverage. When media coverage is granted. To women. So no one sees, no one knows about, even that meager 20 to 30 percent.

“On the contrary, I can—and did—speak for myself. You ignored me.”

No surprise there.

So maybe— Maybe we’ve been looking at the wrong thing. For the wrong thing. We should be looking not for the presence of consent, but for the presence of coercion. MacKinnon once said, in Are Women Human?, that coercion has been hidden. Behind consent.

Still.

“Even if a woman does ask for it— Suppose she’s drunk or for some other reason isn’t acting in her own best interests— Are you obliged to do it? Might you not have a moral obligation to refuse? Take the higher road?”

“Okay, look, maybe we made a mistake,” the second one said. It was intended as a peace offering.

A mistake? No. Despite the porn, despite the ambiguities, she couldn’t quite believe they really thought that what they did was sex.

She thought maybe they really preferred rape. To sex.

Is that because that’s the way they’re built, biologically, or because that’s the way they’ve been made, socially? Studies suggest that exposure to porn eventually makes power, dominance, even violence, the only way to sexual arousal, to satisfaction. But maybe they’re wired that way from the get-go. Maybe sex, regular sex, for men, has always been all about power and dominance. That could explain why so many of them have been uncomfortable with her on top. Rape was also about power and dominance. Therefore.

And maybe they know porn’s fake. And maybe they just don’t care. Grisham’s The Appeal had opened her eyes on this matter. She’d realized that for most men, power matters. And she’d come to realize that truth didn’t matter. She’d also realized that money was important, because it could buy things. But she hadn’t put it all together the way Grisham had. Money can also buy friends. Not real friends, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what those ‘friends’ say and do. Whether it’s sincere or not, whether it’s motivated by genuine affection or personal gain, doesn’t matter. So the women are acting? They’re just pretendingto like it? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that men have so much power over them, they can make them say they like it. That’s the turn-on. The power.

And that’s why so many rapists insist their victims say they like it. Not to assure them that what they’re doing is consensual, but to prove that they have that power. The more obvious the lie—that is, the greater the pain—the greater their power.

“Yeah,” the first one chimed in. “It was a mistake. Get over it.”

Get over it? She turned to look at him. Get over it? She started to bring out the photographs again. But doing so would just show the physical trauma. Which, yes, eventually she would get over.

“You shouldn’t’ve gotten into the car,” the second one said, returning to the astonishing and indefensible overgeneralization of consent.

“Oh it’s my fault? My fault you raped me?”

Of course it was. Women were expected to take full responsibility for—what men do to them. Which required limiting their choices with regard to … everything.

“We were a little drunk, okay?” he added.

She stared at him. “So?”

He didn’t elaborate. Of course not. He probably couldn’t. How could he be so … stupid? And be a university student? Oh, well, no-brainer, as they say. This was introspection. Analysis of one’s beliefs and behaviours. Not something that came with a university education. Especially if one was male.

“You think that absolvesyou?” she asked. “You think getting drunk releases you from responsibility? For whatever you do while drunk? Wouldn’t that be convenient.”

At least she hadn’t been drunk or drugged. Though sometimes she wished she had been.

She remembered a video she’d seen showing a young man in close-up whispering to the viewer about what he was going to do to the woman in the background, who was passed out on the couch. He then goes to the woman and gently puts a pillow under her head and just as gently covers her with a blanket. What shocked her was that she was shocked. It was just a simple act of kindness. But—

“Works for me,” he grinned.

She got up. She had to get out of there.

And although she left the room, there was no getting out of there. She knew that now.

3

A week later, she showed up again. She would continue to do so until she understood. The first time, she heard nothing but denial. The second time, excuse. What would it be this time?

“What, you’ve turned into a dyke?” The first one sneered.

“Why do you say that?” She was truly mystified.

“Your clothes.”

She looked down at her sweatshirt, loose cotton pants, and track shoes. Yes, she had given all that some further thought. And had, obviously, come to several conclusions. But not that one.

“You think that any woman who doesn’t wear a skirt and heels is a lesbian?” she asked. “Why would you think that?” Again, truly mystified.

No answer.

“You also think that any woman who does wear skirt and heels wants to have sex with every man, yeah?”

No answer.

“So,” she put two and two together, “you think that to be a straight woman is to be sexually available to every man.” It would explain why they felt entitled to her body. To avail themselves of it without asking. “So it’s conceptually impossible to rape a straight woman.”

They were silent. They hadn’t followed the logic. Obviously Business students. No, that was unfair, she chided herself. Men of all stripes were notoriously lacking in logic. Logic was all about relationship. This therefore that.

“What if I was a lesbian?” she asked then. “Would what you did to me be rape then?”

“No, it would be teaching you a lesson,” the first one laughed.

She ignored the laughter. Had to.

“What lesson?”

He couldn’t say. Of course he couldn’t.

It was called ‘corrective rape’ in some countries. And it was, absurdly, intended to convert the woman to heterosexuality.

“That I’m supposed to be available to all men?” She stared at them. “Why would you think that?”

No answer.

“I think you’re lying,” she said then. Flatly. “You didn’t think I was okay with it, you didn’t think I wanted it, you didn’t think I liked it. You heard me say ‘No.’ You didn’t think I was joking, you knew I meant it. You didn’t just make a mistake. You knew full well you were raping me. So. Why?”

She looked pointedly at one and then the other.

The second one shrugged.

“That’s not an answer!” She raised her hands—as if she could shake him out of his complacence. “Why did you do it?” She shouted the question.

Silence.

Answering a woman’s question is emasculating. It’s acceding to her request. Paying attention to what she wants. It was beneath them. Even so, she asked yet again.

“Why did you rape me?”

Had they been victims of violence? That was the theory. A theory. What goes around comes around. Violence is a learned behavior.

But no, what were the odds. That both of them had been victims of violence, that both of them had been, specifically, sexually assaulted.

Besides, she didn’t buy it. Shenow had been assaulted, sexually, but she had no inclination, now, to go and assault, sexually assault, someone else. None whatsoever.

The first one shrugged. “It’s not like you’re married or anything.” He looked pointedly at her hand.

It took her a moment to connect the dots. “What, once I’m married, that would mean I’m off-limits? Because then I belong to another man? Whereas until then— I’m not a piece of property!” she said sharply.

But that is, after all, how it began. ‘To have and to hold’ was a legal phrase that referred to property ownership. Not physical affection. And until 1983—1983!—husbands could legally rape their wives. Because, after all, they owned them.

The ring? Remnant of the shackle.

The name change? Indicative of the transfer of ownership from father to husband, from one male to another.

How a man feels when his wife has sex with another man? Not sadness, for the loss of love. No. Rage. At the theft.

Then she saw another—

“Do you know what a false dichotomy is?” she asked them.

Of course they didn’t.

“You’re assuming that I’m available either to only one man or to all men. There is a third option. And a fourth.”

They stared at her. Incomprehension on their faces. That she might be completely unavailable had not occurred to them. Nor, apparently, that she might be available only to those she chose.

“It’s just physical,” the first one said then. Only slightly changing the topic. “Instinct. Basic needs and all that.”

Right. The myth that supports porn, prostitution, rape. Because we must, we absolutely must, provide whatever men need.

“First, no, it’s not a need.”

Despite what his Psych 101 text would have said. Because it was probably written by a man. Who either wanted to believe that sex was a need or who mistook what was true of the whole for what was true of the parts. On a species level, yes, sexual intercourse is needed, for survival. Of the species. But on an individual level?

“You won’t die if you don’t have sex,” she pointed out the obvious. “Oxygen, water, food, and a certain range of temperature are needs. Everything else is a want.”

But saying you need something makes it so much harder for others to refuse to give it to you. Because needs are, well, things one needs—they’re required. Needs take priority to wants.

But they aren’t, therefore, entitlements.

“And even if it were a need, even if you did have to ejaculate in order to survive, there’s nothing saying you have to do so inside a woman. Is there?”

Silence.

“So why not just jerk off when the desire overwhelms you?”

He snorted.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Seriously,” she continued, when it seemed he’d thought she’d asked a rhetorical question, “I don’t understand your response. What’s snort-worthy of masturbation? Real men don’t masturbate? Is there something insulting about doing it yourself, about not having to need a woman to do something? I would think it’d be the other way around. Real men don’tneed women. Isn’t that right?”

Surprise flickered across his face. He hadn’t considered it that way.

“So I guess it’s not about sex. The need for sex. Because I’m sure there are, or could be, sexual aids, moist, warm, tight somethings, that would feel as good, probably even better. So … what is it about?”

No response. Were they truly that oblivious?

Perhaps. She’d read that when young women in a university classroom described what they did to avoid rape—be aware of your surroundings at all times, choose carefully when and where you go alone—the young men in the class “gaped in astonishment”.

“It’s about the need for dominance,” she told them. “So-called need. Because you don’t need dominance either. You won’t die if you’re not in power over someone. Will you?”

No response. No surprise.

If anything, sex was a social need. For men. A socially constructed need. Real men had sex, real men wantedsex, lots of sex. Their identity as men depended—depended—on having sex. And if they had to use force, all the better.

“You want dominance. You want to have power over. At least, over women. But why?”

No response. My god, it was like having a conversation with molasses.

“Because that’s what real men— You have to keep saying ‘I’m better than you, I’m one-up on you, I’m higher in the hierarchy than you.’ Because … if you don’t keep saying it, what, you’ll forget?” She laughed.

The first one’s hands curled into fists. She saw that. It actually looked involuntary. Atwood famously said men are afraid women will laugh at them. Whereas women are—

“No, because if we don’t keep saying it, you’ll forget!” the first one spat out.

Okay, good comeback, she had to give him that.

“That’s why you didn’t just assault me, why you didn’t just beat me up. That’s why you did it sexually. You wanted to send a message to me, to women as a group. You wanted to express your feelings toward women as a group.”

“I don’t have feelings toward women as a group.”

She rolled her eyes.

Then continued. “So you raped me to put me in my place. To remind me that I’m subordinate to you.”

She took the absence of denial to mean confirmation. It was as good as she was going to get.

“And what makes you think that?”

He snorted again. It passed for ‘I don’t know.’

“The fact that I’m a waitress? Because I’m also a student.”

The second one’s eyes widened.

“What, waitresses can’t go to university? University students can’t be waitresses?”

She turned back to the first one.

“But that’s irrelevant, isn’t it. Even if I were a professor, you’d think I was subordinate to you. That I’m female trumps whatever else I might be. And why again are females subordinate to, inferior to, males?”

They had no answer. Of course, they didn’t.

*

When she returned, she decided to try another approach. “How would you feel if you were raped?” Apparently empathy wasn’t one of their strong suits. No surprise, really. We don’t encourage our little boys to feel. Let alone to think about what others feel. In fact, we discourage it. Big boys don’t cry. So the tears of others? Not really on their radar.

“It’s different,” the first one said.

“Agreed. But—”

“You’re used to it.”

What? Not the difference she had in mind.

She supposed he was trying to say that a vagina was built for penetration but an anus wasn’t. Where to begin? Perhaps with the point that having a particular capacity doesn’t necessarily mean one wants to use that capacity. But no, one’s wants, at least herwants, were irrelevant. They’d established that.

“I assure you, I am not used to this.” She spread the photographs in front of them again.

“And even if I were—even if I werehurt this badly on a regular basis, how does that make it okay?”

They seemed to have no understanding of ethics. No idea about how to determine right and wrong. And it would take years to— Not her job. Not her responsibility.

So whose responsibility was it? Why were so many men apparently so ethically-challenged? Because being concerned about right and wrong makes you a wuss, a boy scout, a sissy. How, when—why did ethics become a sign of weakness, childishness, effeminacy?

“Well, you should be used to it. It’s all you’re good for.” Again he spat the words out.

“It’s all we’re good for?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She could give them a few lessons in women’s history. No doubt it would be the first time they’d hear that a woman discovered pulsars. ’Course, they may not know what pulsars are. Okay, she could tell them that a woman invented Kevlar. But no, it wasn’t her job to educate them. Women got suckered into that far too often. We are not responsible for them. It is not our duty to make them better people. She had to remind herself that that wasn’t why she was here. She was here merely to understand. Them.

Besides, it wasn’t that he thought that that was all they were good for because he was unaware of women’s achievements. He didn’t consider women capable of achievements.

When he looked at a woman, all he saw was a sexual … thing. A cunt.

When he’d first come into the room, he hadn’t recognized her. This wasn’t personal. Just the opposite. It was impersonal. That is to say, he didn’t even consider women to be persons. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any pers—any female, any cunt, would have done.

“I’m a person,” she said. “Just like you. Well, not just like you. Not anything like you, actually. What I mean is I’m not just— Women are not females. We are human beings who happen to be female. Consider it an adjective, not a noun.”

Their faces were blank.

She tried again. “We’re not women, ladies, girls, chicks, birds, cows, bitches, whores, cunts. We’re people. Just … people.”

Still blank.

“Okay, let’s try this. Tell me about some of the women in your life.”

“What do you mean?” the second one spoke up.

“I mean tell me about them. What are their likes, their dislikes? What are their dreams, their aspirations? What do they think about?”

Silence.

They didn’t know. She sank back into her chair. They truly didn’t see ‘person’ when they saw ‘female’.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised. Her own father didn’t seem to distinguish— There was Mike, her brother, and then there were ‘the girls’, her and her sister. They were undifferentiated. In his mind.

“We really aren’t people to you,” she said, slightly amazed. “None of us. We’re just … we really are just walking cunts. The only thing about us that registers with you is our sex. We have breasts. We must have a vagina. So we can be fucked. End of story.”

“What more is there?” the first one laughed.

“Well,” she said, and knew as soon as she started that it was a mistake, “I’m actually a grad student at the university. I just waitress on the weekends because I don’t make enough as a teaching assistant to pay for rent, tuition, my bus pass—”

“In what, women’s studies shit?”

“No,” she said levelly. “But I’m curious as to why you consider women’s studies to be shit. Oh wait. Because everything to do with women is shit. Because … Help me out here. Oh wait. You can’t.” Said not so levelly. She glared at him. At his inability, his refusal, to think.

“All right,” he seemed to switch a gear, “you’ve had your fun. Guard!” He looked toward the door, then back at her. “Play time’s over.”

At that moment, she—well, she already despised him. But the patronizing tone, the implied trivialization of what she was doing—and he was younger than her! It was unfuckingbelievable how men could do that. And of course, they’d been doing that to her all her life. Infantilizing her. All her life.

Perhaps because the more they infantilized others, the more mature they themselves felt.

No guard appeared at the door. She smiled.

“You are utterly and absolutely … unaware,” she continued, truly a little amazed. “You have no idea why you think the way you do, why you act the way you do. You’ve avoided introspection all your life, so you have no self-knowledge whatsoever. You’re just a robot. Completely bereft of consciousness.”

He tried to shrug off her criticism. Failed. His shackles dragged across the table as if he was getting ready to—

“If you only had a brain.” She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and stared at him.

“GUARD!” He screamed. No fucking way he was going to put up with this.

And yet, he wouldn’t’ve been able to say why. Why he wasn’t going to put up with this. He was angry, yes. But whywas he so angry?

Even if he did know, even if he could say, he wouldn’t. Because explaining something to a woman is considered a favour. Not an obligation. Let alone a duty.

Though of course he wouldn’t be able to provide that explanation either. For his behaviour.

So much sexism. So much of it unconscious.

They don’t intentionallykeep us out of the loop, she realized. They don’t intentionally hoard the power that knowledge provides. They don’t intentionally take the lion’s share of … everything.

Nor, apparently, did they intentionallyrape us.

*

“Look, you’re making too much of this,” the second one said when she returned. Trying to … appease? By telling her she was exaggerating the importance, the consequences, of what they’d done to her? “You’re overthinking it,” he added. Helpfully.

Hm. She was overthinking it. Would he have said that if she hadn’t told them she was a student? How quickly they can turn the other’s advantage into a disadvantage. Damned if you do.

But no. She’d heard that a lot. Usually from men. Men who didn’t know anything about her.

Because any thinking at all would expose their lack of thought. The absence of reason, intent, consciousness.

Or the psychopathology. That is male. That is, masculinity.

“It’s just what guys do!” There was exasperation in his voice. Pity, no despair. “Happens every day,” he added.

Well, he was right about that. But he seemed to think that that made it inevitable.

“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” the first one piled on. “Everybody does it.”

“Everybody does not do it,” she said. “Besides, so what? At best, that’s an explanation, not a justification. Do you know the difference?”

No response.

“I didn’t think so. An explanation is simply that: it’s something that explains why or how something else happens. A justification is a line of reasoning that explains why the something is okay. Typically, morally okay. So unless you’re saying that you did it because other people do it— Areyou saying that?” she had to ask. “Do you do what you do because other people do it?” She looked at one and then the other. “Do other people run your lives?”

The first one turned his gaze to the ceiling. Maybe she’d get the hint.

“Regardless, it’s an inadequate response. Because many men have not raped a woman.”

But one in five have. One in three college-aged men say they would if they thought they could get away with it. And okay, that’s not even half, let alone most. But if you interact with, say, only a dozen young men during the course of a day, you can infer that four of them would rape you if they could get away with it. Every day, four of the men you talk to would like to hurt you.

And one in three is enough to make it normal, she thought. So these two, they weren’t sick, they weren’t broken, they hadn’t been abused. Or they were all of the above, and that was the norm. For men. To be sick, broken, abused. God knows, we raise them to be less than full human beings.

And because of that, it was the norm for women as well. To be sick, broken, abused. To consider themselves to have fulfilled their potential if they were attractive.

“You put up with it,” the first one said. Giving an explanation? A justification? “I wouldn’t.”

She looked at him.

“How would we not put up with it?” she asked. “What would you do?”

“Carry.”

She thought about that. He was right. Absolutely right. If packs of wolves were roaming the streets and thousands, tens of thousands, of men were attacked every year, they’d organize an extermination campaign. They’d shoot every wolf on sight. Whether or not it, individually, had shown signs of violent behaviour.

“But how would you prove that you shot in self-defence?” Because it was more like living in an occupied country.

He shrugged.

“So your ‘not putting up with it’ wouldn’t work, would it.” She stared at him. Because people in occupied countries don’t get a trial. Let alone a fair trial.

He didn’t say.

“I think if you carried a gun, if you shot someone who grabbed you, his buddies would just take care of you.” Odd euphemism. ‘Take care of you.’ Leave it to men to say exactly the opposite of what they meant.

“Kill you,” she clarified. “Probably with your own gun. Just to make a point.”

Silence.

“So I ask again. How would you not put up with it?” Because she really wanted to know.

(free download of complete novella at pegtittle.com)