It’s 1980 and the term date rape won’t exist for another 10 years. Even after it gets invented, it will always carry its own unique wink/nudge quality. It says, “everyone knows there’s no such thing as rape. It’s simply what a girl says to avoid looking like a slut.”

It’s possible I believe that too, as I walk into my first class at Portland State. It’s 8AM on a Tuesday; wildlife is cautiously funneling into the unfamiliar watering hole called ‘Critique of Capitalism.’ I’m drunk on the new sense of agency I have over my life: I’ve registered to vote for the first time, I’m paying for my own education, I decide what classes to take, I can take a day off without needing a note from anyone, and I’m responsible for making up whatever I miss.

This. Is. Amazing.

As I’m willing myself not to combust, a really cool guy walks in sits a few seats from me. He’s clearly not one of the nervous Economics majors or Young Republicans in their 20th century ‘Risky Business’ gladiator gear (pastel Izod shirts, Levi 501s, RayBans, penny loafers). This one’s tall, sandy-haired and attractive in an understated way. He seems confident, as if every day is like this in his world. My only thought as I actively don’t look at him: “I’m going to love college.”

And I did. After twelve years of what seemed like snarling tolerance, realizing that you love to learn is like figuring out you can fly. Or breathe underwater. That cute little sense of agency was eclipsed by the free flow of information and encouragement to develop my own opinions about things. As I get more comfortable with the campus, I revel in finding the best spots to study, that awesome underground shortcut between halls (we have a bowling alley!?) and creating my own routines. It feels like home. MY OWN home. My place. I find something worthwhile in every subject, even when the texts make sawdust look juicy. My favorite is still Critique of Capitalism. It’s kind of subversive. It challenges every assumption I have about money, power, social injustice – in short, it’s genetically engineered for me. I hammer away in the discussions (always taking the side of Socialism and aiming my pseudo-punky disdain at the Young Republicans). I take notes like I’m gettin’ paid, pull A’s out of thin air, and yes, learn how to ingratiate myself with the professor by lobbing his own writings at the rabid Poli/Sci guys (aging hippies are still subject to ego).

In short: Killing it. Top to bottom.

As it turns out, the tall sandy-haired guy’s name is Cory Widener (name not changed, not innocent). He had missed a few classes, so the professor asks if I’d be willing to share my notes. Of course, I’m thrilled. It’s worth noting I can’t flirt my way out of a bowl of pudding. Even if I HAD game, I’d gone all term without wondering about his name because I was too interested in everything else happening in my life to go on a pointless trek after a guy. He does turn out to be a pretty cool guy: Smart, articulate, funny leaning toward sarcastic, and —shock— seems curious about me (sizzling sounds of a brain shorting out). We both have a break before our next class, so we decide to go find an open copy machine in Smith Hall. We talk easily the whole way, laughing at the starchy Republicans and peppering in bits about ourselves (he’s 28… odd; not sure where to file that). We bump into my best friend Janet on the way; we stop and talk for a few minutes. She throws me the big eyeball ‘way to go!’ as we leave. I respond with the universal signal for ‘I have no idea what the hell is going on!’ Smudgeably fresh photocopies in hand, we spend another half hour going over context on the notes, clarifying my many shorthand vagaries. Finals are coming up soon and he asks me for help on his paper. We exchange numbers, all very above-board.

The following Thursday night, he calls. We make plans for a study session after our last class the next day. Yes, it’s just school stuff. But I’m also just a tiny bit excited about it.

Me One: Betrayal

Friday, December 5th. We meet and work for several hours, steering one another off the shoals of sentiment and knee-jerk nationalism (‘there’s nothing inherently evil about paying taxes, but your returns shouldn’t be taxed like last year’s income; you’ve over-paid the tax on that income and they’re returning it, right? Why are they taxing it again as income!’). Best day ever.

Finals are exhausting. At some point, I must have yawned or acted a little tired. He casually mentions he has some kind of speed people use for studying, calling them “crocodiles.” He asks if I want one.

SIDE NOTE:  Desomorphine, known by the street name ‘krokodil,’ is not an amphetamine, but an opioid derivative of codeine. Like heroin and other opioids, it has a sedative and analgesic effect. While it’s most commonly used intravenously, pill form is available by prescription.

I’ve always been terrified of drugs (well, I call it a healthy disdain); didn’t try smoking pot until I was almost 30 and was way too worried about what would happen to have any fun. For the Just Say No part of me, these ‘crocodiles’ raise a red flag. But the newly-minted, sophisticated college girl shrugs it off with a ‘no, thanks’ and stays the course. He pressures me in a way that seems strange, so I throw out my artificial idiot voice with the challenge, “oh, are all the cool kids doing it?” looking over my glasses, heavy smirk.

This banter gets filed with the information about his age: Curious items that might mean something, but it’s probably just me being stupid.

Of course, it did mean something and I was being stupid.

We keep talking long after the books are put away, and suddenly it’s after 9:00. I’ve missed the last bus home. One of my folks will have to drive several miles ‘in the middle of the night’ to pick me up at the little transit station. (They reeeeaaaaly hate when I do this.) He says there are still buses going to Lake Oswego; we can go get his car and he’ll take me home. I make a fuss, calling it a lot of trouble. But it’s also been kind of fun and I don’t want it to be over yet. So, a plan is hatched.

We get to his house. There was some stuff he wanted to clean out of the car, so he asks if I want a drink. Being a newly minted, sophisticated college girl, I say ‘sure.’ He makes me a white russian or something girlie like that.

Drugs terrify me. Booze does not. I’m not a big drinker, but by this point I’ve been drunk enough times to know how my body reacts. A single – or even a very hard double – vodka and soda cannot do this on its meanest day.

Ten minutes later, a two-ton but strangely floaty sea cow version of myself is being liberated from the couch and steered toward a bedroom. Oh, I need to call Mom if there’s going to be a sleepover… dreams the sea cow.

Somehow, I had not actually had sex yet. Not for lack of trying; the first few attempts were with my gay best friend (such a cliche), the others with a guy I really wanted to believe was my boyfriend but I couldn’t quite close the deal. That’s a long, pathetic story for another time. I am, at least for the moment, still a virgin.

—
If descriptions of forced intercourse and lots of blood bother you, skip ahead to Humiliation.
—

Strange, floaty sea cow me can’t understand why her head won’t stay up as he’s pulling her clothes off. Punky pegged pant legs are too narrow to get over shoes, so he’s having to rethink the strategy. [Sea cows don’t have legs, silly. Or necks, so this lolling business shouldn’t be happening. …Try talking.] “Wait. No, I really …don’twanttodothis.” Certainly not when I’m feeling so weird. I have to be honest and say I wasn’t entirely opposed to having sex with him, I just want to be more here for it. Not like this. I’m dully aware that he’s taken his pants off, so that’s unfortunate. The sea cow hears something about ‘finishing […] started,’ but can’t sort it out. It definitely doesn’t sound like I’ve persuaded him against this course of action.

There’s a small thread of panic now, and I’m trying to grab onto it in hope of finding a way out of this mess. I attempt to give the universal sign for ‘let me give you a blow job,’ but I guess he hasn’t read that article in Cosmo. [Floaty sea cow is now grateful to be in some cool black water for a minute – wait, is this a stupid waterbed?] and then he’s on top of me, throwing my non-existent legs around. And suddenly, very violently, he’s in me. And it hurts. It hurts really, really bad.

I’m wishing sea cow me would come back, and I’m crying. I’m begging him to stop, and crying harder, but between the drugs and the waterbed, I can’t move or get any kind of leverage. Finally, I must have screamed for real. He slams his hand over my mouth. My whole world becomes teeth digging into burning lips as he pushes my head down into the pillow with a disciplinary snap. I hear him hiss, “Shut up! You’re gonna wake up my parents,” and he begins banging away at me again.

In an electrical moment of clarity, I think: ‘You’re 28 with a waterbed and living with your parents? And you’re fucking a screaming girl with them in the house right now? How did this happen?’ Quick as it came, the lightning passes leaving a ghost of it on my eyeballs and a rough metallic smell. That might be blood. So much pain. Guts. Mouth. Head. Panic. Humiliation. Fear. More pain. The brain does what it needs to do to protect itself, so it went to Barbados for a while. As it left, I hear it say, ‘he didn’t even kiss me.’

That single thought would continue to plague me for years. I’d shout it down like it was Phyllis Schlaffly in the halls of Ms. Magazine, but it did its damage. ‘What? You think if the rapist had kissed you, maybe this was just a big misunderstanding? It would mean that he really cared about you, you IDIOT?’

Blaming the victim is so popular, even the victim does it. Some stupid part of me needed to see this as a failed romance. Clearly I didn’t deserve to be kissed. I did this wrong. I wore the wrong thing. Said the wrong thing. I made this happen. I let him believe he could take this from me. This is mine and he’s taking it. I must have done something to deserve it.

Back on the ocean/waterbed, these thoughts play on a loop. Miles away, unavailable for comment. Some undefinable amount of time passes and I know I’m cold. Really cold. Sea cow me is pushing back up to the surface to investigate, slowly realizing that I’m mostly naked on a floor in a bathroom. Inventory: There’s a towel under me. A towel with a lot of blood on it. Enough blood that it’s soaking through the towel. Clothes in a heap over the toilet, a shoe – no, both shoes, door opens suddenly and a sanitary napkin flies in. It’s the huge thick, weird kind with the long tie ends that go into a belt. From Barbados, Brain telegrams ‘it’s probably his mother’s.’ I hear him hiss through the small crack of modesty the door allowed: “There was blood everywhere – I had to wash the sheets,” I’m informed. He’s annoyed.

Do I wish I had a snappy retort? You bet. But when you’re just a bleeding sea cow trying to put her pants on, sarcasm is also unavailable.

I guess the laundry is handled. If the sheets are anything like the bathroom floor, they’ll not survive the dryer. But I’m now in a car. I must have told him how to get me home. The 20-minute ride had a quality like those animated flip-books: each page is another frame, so you can see the horse running, or Mickey and Pluto being Disney-esque. Now I’m out in a month of bitter cold driveways; the flip-book stutters over a few frames, now I’m pinballing down the hall to the bathroom which was loud enough to wake up the folks. Which I’d hoped to avoid.

Now these next few minutes and hours will have to count among the worst of our three lives, me, Mom and Dad. As Mom finds me on the toilet, crying, babbling, and hemorrhaging in equal measure, the rapist’s car dies in the driveway. (I learn later that Dad is out there in his boxers in December helping to get the thing started, undoubtedly irritated but having no idea what’s going on inside.) I’m only half conscious while Mom’s trying to decide between fury and terror. All I know is I don’t want this to be happening. Brain mercifully fucks right off again to the sparkling Caribbean and a plate of fish tacos.

The dullard sea cow is beached in the back seat of Mom’s Sentra on the way to the hospital.

Me, Too: Humiliation

Let me be very clear. There is no emotional violation or physical damage that an ignorant, selfish rapist can deliver that can be worse than what happened afterward. The rape was one individual committing an obvious wrong on another. What followed was straight up systemic disregard.

So, a quick status check: I’ve lost buckets of blood (not exaggerated). I’m punchy and stupid and humiliated, practically on my head with my knees around my ears and every emergency room technician gathered around me mumbling and buzzing things I can’t hear under water. There is a doctor jamming endless rolls of gauze up my cooch with all the grace of a Teamster. From between my legs he looks down at me, sort of confused and disgusted, and asks, “Weren’t you ready?”

Ready? “READY?!,” I wanted to scream at him! Barbados Brain appears out of nowhere, fires up my lightsaber and immediately liberates his head from his neck. I watch it roll across the floor.

The actual upside-down sea cow could only manage a spit bubble.

As I rejoin our program already in progress, I realize Dr. Teamster had survived my attack; he’s explaining to someone, maybe my parents, that there is an inch-wide hole torn in the upper wall of my vagina where it meets the cervix. I’ve lost a great deal of blood; in fact (he says rather confidentially), if we’d have hit one more stop light I probably would’ve died. My addled brain thinks this is strangely self-aggrandizing in the moment; generating more guilt and fear in my parents for the sake of looking like a hero. [This just in from Barbados: Hey, Dr. Fuckwit, she survived because she’s always had a glacial metabolism along with low blood pressure which makes her topple over if she stands up too quickly after sitting cross-legged. Stop tormenting the parents.] Dr. Miracle managed to get a few stitches in, but the tear was rough and there’s still a good deal of bleeding. It will knit together on its own, but I’ll probably never get pregnant do to the scar tissue, and certainly couldn’t carry a child to term. They’re admitting me so they can monitor me for a few days.

On his way out, he says they found trace levels of barbiturates and opioids in my blood. It’s delivered as an apology with the verbal raised eyebrow. They will certainly understand his accusation that they’ve raised a junky, or that I’m – at the very least – culpable in this situation, if not fully responsible.

Me Three: Injustice

Saturday, December 6th. My shredded psyche/vagina and I sleep, mostly. Mom and sister come, not Dad. He was probably waiting in the car. Mom, unable to look at me, tells me it’s a good thing he didn’t know what was happening in the bathroom. She says Dad would’ve killed that monster with his bare hands. She’s five feet of fury as she says this. Not out of concern for my assailant. She’s saying Dad would’ve done the world a favor by murding this piece of shit, gone to prison, then we’d be starving in the streets and it would’ve been all my fault.

Other than that, we don’t talk much. Well, Mom chatters on about everything except the obvious. From her deeply pinched manner, I can see she believes the Dr. Dumbshit’s assassination of my character. She’s now layering new words over bad stuff as quickly as possible. Pretty lace doilies covering unsightly watermarks on our coffee table life.

Sunday, December 7th. It’s quiet. The dynamite in my belly is behaving like those trick birthday candles. Hoping for meds, I’m sifting through the Brain’s notes, I find an innocuous conversation he and I had about Pearl Harbor. His uncle or someone had died there, so it was sort of a Big Deal in his family. They’d go to Hawaii or do some sort of get-together. Interesting. Now I get to hitch my own disaster wagon to that already heavy star.

An indeterminable amount of time later, I learn my friend Anne’s dad is a doctor here, and she often volunteers on the weekends. When she saw my name on the admittance list, Anne shook the phone tree and a whole herd of my high school besties fell out – terrified and furious and verging on murder, but so unbelievably happy I was okay. It sounds cliché, but it truly was like being wrapped up in a giant Linus blanket. I am burritoed in bottomless love and, for a minute, I start to feel like I could be normal and safe and happy again. I cried quite a bit. The ugly, hiccuppy kind. They all stood there, some doing a pretty cry, holding onto whatever they could find of me – petting my head with the gross hair, shoulders, arms, hands, sequestered bumps of knees and toes. And I’m so lucky.

Then the Rape Counselor from the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Office stops by.

She’s in full uniform for a desk rider. Seems polite, but …careful. At first I think she’s being sensitive to the situation, trying to earn my trust. But it’s actually because I’m the career equivalent of a land mine. She asks me to tell the whole story as best as I can remember it.

I give her the Cliff’s Notes version of the above. She asks a few clarifying questions as we go, starts collecting details: his full name, physical description, phone (fished it out of my bag), do I know his address (I know the street, could probably find the house), where had we been studying, how long we were there (4-5 hours), could anyone confirm that, how long was I in his house (I have no idea, but I do some math and guess a couple of hours of rape + laundry). Eventually she nods. Puts her notebook away. I remember the look down. I know this look. It’s what we do before giving hard news, and I think it’s not the first time she’s said this to someone:

I’m going to be honest with you. The fact that you were in his home and had been with him voluntarily for most of the day will make it practically impossible to convict him of rape. If his parents were in the house as you say, they may be able to claim legal privilege and refuse to testify against their own child. If they agree to testify that they heard or saw anything, it can be pretty easily managed by the defense as a kind of hearsay; neither of them knew the circumstances leading up to the incident itself, so they can’t attest to whether or not this was consensual. It’s possible that we’d find the stained sheets, but it simply confirms it happened – which we already know – but not that it was against your will. The traces of drugs in your system are a slight mitigating factor, but he’ll say you took them knowingly — either before the incident as recreational use, or after the fact to help with the pain that he ‘may have unintentionally’ caused. The amount of blood lost would make it difficult to pinpoint dosage amounts or how long they’d been in your system.

.

If you decide to press charges, given all the circumstances, it’s highly unlikely that the DA will take the case at all. If they did, we’d be lucky to get anything more than 3rd degree Sexual Assualt. It would be based solely on the degree of force required to cause the physical damage described in the medical report. It says he was ‘criminally careless in performing an otherwise normal activity,’ but did not intend harm. You also have the option of addressing it in civil court, and I can give you a few names of lawyers who can help you. Whether it’s criminal or civil, his lawyers will turn your entire life inside out looking for ways to discredit and humiliate you. Every embarrassing choice you’ve made, every other sexual partner, every casual make out session, every messy moment at a party, it will all be presented in court in front of your parents, in front of – and possibly involving – your friends. Unless your lawyer can dig up something similar in his past, it probably won’t go well for you. And if you lose, they’ll very likely counter-sue to recover costs, maybe even add a slander charge depending on how ruthless his attorney is and if this attention impacts him or his family negatively. 

Here she became very uncomfortable; an indepth floor study with a few glances from under her eyebrows…

It might also be something he could be …proud of, in a way. He can put it down to his being a ‘big man’ and you just couldn’t handle him. How much more pain are you willing to go through? It’s unlikely that Mr. [checks notes] Widener will be convicted, let alone serve any prison time. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve seen this before. I know what they do to women. I’d hate to see you go through all that. 

In the opinion of law enforcement, this was technically a crime. But the fact that I knew his name, voluntarily spent time with him, and was driven home afterward, eliminates all possibility of rape or any aspect of it being intentional (even though he had tried, and later succeeded to roofie me). This was all just a clumsy, unfortunate accident, and pursuing it would cause far more damage to me than to him.

I can’t read from her face where she’s falling on the issue; is this a kind of apology for the injustice? Is she trying to protect me, or hide her disdain?

To this day, I don’t know.

The Reentry Burn

I went home on Monday. My body was healing up well enough. The baby machinery hadn’t worked great to begin with, so this trauma essentially shut it down. I don’t mind. Since I’m telling big ugly truths, the idea of having babies was never that appealing to me. (I really like kids, but also like giving them back to their parents when they get difficult.) All told, the physical fallout wasn’t a big deal.

Emotionally, it was a bit tougher. I liked him. How can you be raped by someone you like? I was pretty sure that I’d done something to encourage it; sent the wrong signals, played with fire, teased him. It’s well known that men can’t be expected to endure us all walking around on our legs with our bodies, putting ourselves in front of their faces 24/7. They are, after all just “animals and they’ll take whatever they think is on offer,” repeatedly promised my mother.

I painstakingly sifted through every exchange, every word or glance, every wardrobe choice, looking for the trigger. This was my punky phase, so I was the walking equivalent of ‘fuck right off.’ My hair was cut kind of crazy. I was shopping vintage resale, and — at a generous size 16 — I’ve certainly never been proud enough of my body to wear anything too tight or revealing. It came down to my head and my behavior. I found him attractive. I enjoyed talking to him and hanging out with him. I must’ve done something. But even Janet declared me the most inept flirt she’d ever seen. My tragically low boyfriend numbers prove her out. But I was sure this was on me, somehow.

Janet had called me the day I got home. She told me he’d come looking for her, trying to figure out what was going on. [He knew she worked in the shoe department at Nordstrom’s.] Janet tells me the idiot had actually called my house while I was in the hospital; apparently Mom told him never to call again and hung up on him. Part of me was grateful. But I think I also wanted the opportunity for myself. I wanted to hiss my hatred into the phone. I wanted to slam the receiver down on his voice and his head. But that anger was all jumbled up with the fear and loss and humiliation and now confusion. Did he actually not see the horrible nature of this? Was this a misunderstanding? Was he genuinely concerned? Does he actually care for me? Maybe I’M the one who’s got it wrong!

Yep, that thought happened.

Fortunately, my gaggle of pals from the hospital had spread the news through through the rest of our people. More friends would call or trickle in to see me over the next several days. My head started to clear. Their love and care reminded me of what was right and all that was so good about my life. They helped me to feel grounded and whole again and worthy of love. Until Mom blew a gasket.

“Are you PROUD of all this? Does it make you IMPORTANT? Do you feel good about what’s happened? Is this a conquest? You tell everyone about your personal life like some kind of whore!” It was the same fury she had thinking about Dad going to prison. She mumbles to herself that I’ve always been selfish, but this rampant whorish behavior of mine going way beyond the pale.

Clearly I’d be on my own from here.

School-wise, we were at the end of the term. I’d put a ton of effort into my paper; it was good work and I really wanted to turn it in. Partly for the recognition and grade, but also because I needed to… I don’t know, defy him. I wanted to reclaim that territory, take back the home I’d made for myself at school. I had to be where this me was born. Since I’m persona non grata in my own family, I needed to belong somewhere and to something.

Got on the bus: I’m mostly fine. On campus it got weird. There was a low-grade anxiety that was counter to my whole way of being. Turning down another hallway, anyone roughly his height or hair color would send me into a panic. I remembered the electric fence around a horse pasture near my house; I’d accidently touched one day. You never forget what that feels like. Here I realized my vascular system had been replaced with the filament. It was a constant struggle not to bolt.

This oddly electric antelope version of me is back at the watering hole with all of the Econ egrets and red-billed Republicans. I’m a living, breathing knot of sizzle and No. The professor comes in, shutting the door behind him. For a heartbeat I think it will be okay. Then the window in the door darkens and I feel all the little springs and levers in the doorknob. I become the world’s quietest klaxon, screaming in every cell, teeth push into burning lips again without the benefit of opioids. One man enters, one brain leaves. Nothing now but raw exposed nerves with no one at the helm, I hear him say at my shoulder 3,000 miles away, “I need to talk to you.”

No, there would be no talking. I sat for an hour in my private red alert. I turned in the paper at the end and ran. It’s possible that he shouted down the hall for me, but can’t say for sure. All I feel is the wind of his jaws snapping shut so close to my right rear hoof and know that I won’t go back.

I did drop out for a couple of terms. When I registered again the following fall it was unsettling at first, but I managed. (Years later, I’d read the Harry Potter books to my nephew and really wish I’d had the ‘ridiculus’ charm.) I did see the boggart once. Spent the next couple of weeks beating my fucking fear into submission while composing what I would say to him the next time. More than anything, I wanted to shame him: rub his ignorant nose in what he did. I’d call him a cur, show him my boot, say the word rape a few times, (‘third degree sexual assault’ wasn’t very scary), police report and maybe toss out an ‘attempted manslaughter.’ Maybe I’d get my ‘Extremities’ on and make him fear me for a while… formerly introduce his balls to his tonsils. Maybe lightsaber them clean off since he doesn’t know how to manage them.

But nope, never saw him again.

Thanks, Susan B.?

Here we are, 40+ years later. Nothing much has changed. We know that the rapist is really only an icon of the larger cultural problem. The problem is the deep sense of male entitlement and possession that’s been part of humanity since the first cell divided – or that whole snake/apple thing, whichever you think came first. The problem is countless rape kits overflowing so many police evidence rooms that they’re shoveled into huge warehouses with little bookkeeping and no follow-through.

But for as horrible as that is, the DNA proof that a man was inside of you will never, ever prove that you were raped. Even the worst serial rapist has an escape hatch. Of course everyone knows that women secretly want to have sex with every stupid, drunk, desperate, or threatening man with a rager on. There’s even a new classification of men who, in being seen as unfuckable through no fault of their own, feel they’re entitled to some kind of state-mandated sexual services. The Involuntarily Celebates (InCels) cite the reduction of crimes against women as a legitimate incentive for adopting the program. ‘Just give us sex and we’ll stop hurting you.’ You’ll spend millions to kill a national healthcare bill for every other purpose, blithely deny a woman’s physical autonomy, but your access to sex on demand should be covered by the state.

How ‘bout, ‘you’re unfuckable, so just kill yourself.’ Yeah, I like that better. Goes right to the heart of the problem. 

And look, even I keep conflating sex and rape without even thinking. Rape is a cultural problem because it has nothing to do with sex; it’s about POWER. It’s why ‘fuck you’ is the most disrespectful insult we have: it says ‘you’re weak and mine to violate at will.’ And lately the semi-deified White American Male (I’d call him a WAM, but it feels too ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’) is starting to believe he’s an endangered species. Women are running things, and expecting to run things in increasing numbers. There’s also a long, slow reckoning coming his way from people of color. The poor guys also seem to be DEEPLY troubled by women who are still physiologically male. WHAT HAPPENS IF HE’S ATTRACTED TO HER?? DOES THAT MAKE HIM GAAAAAY? (I don’t care what anyone says, THAT’S the only reason why Conservatives are so disturbed; it can be anyone!) In short, his long centuries of carefree subjugation are winding down, and it’s making him nervous.

Sure, if we believe Mrs. Schlaffly, my rape was probably one of the unintended consequences of suffrage, the Equal Rights Amendment, and the sexual liberation movement of the 60s and 70s. Women admitted we like sex, so men gave themselves permission to believe we all want it all the time just because they do. If we say no, we’re lying prick teases. If we claim rape afterward, it’s because we’re a) bitter bitches trying to get him in trouble, b) embarrassed that we got too drunk to control ourselves, or c) just mad because we don’t have a dick. The ghost of Schlaffly lives inside every new TradWife, and they think we’ve brought all of this on ourselves.

Except we can’t blame it on our demand for equal rights. Rape and sexual exploitation existed loooooong before we got the vote. The only thing that’s changed is our expectation of being believed and protected by law. Even having exposed SO MANY of these predators, women have an unrealistic burden of proof to show his history of bad behavior. A man needs to victimize multiple women, all of those women need to somehow find out about one another, and then we’ve got to publicly hook arms before our word is taken seriously. And heaven forbid one of us has concerns about becoming part of a media spectacle. One woman’s reticence calls the validity of all the others into question, and then we become as bad as the men villifying the victim. We get angry at the one who won’t speak up. We heap claims of disloyalty on top of her shame and fear

The situation is further complicated by the idea of sexual harassment. This is an ephemeral basket of everything from ‘there are conditions to my new title?’ to ‘put your dick away.’ It’s all those stupid things men do and say to reinforce their power, but stop short of actually forcing us to have sex. Here’s where I’ll be dragged into the public square by some of my sisters: It hurts the larger cause when we go back and socially convict someone for stupid shit they did a million years ago. If it was actually criminal or you were measurably hurt in some way, if you were raped or physically abused or the situation cost you your job, of course you should speak up. But if some dickhead told a stupid joke or made a sexist remark – even repeatedly engaged in sexist behavior – you can’t tar and feather him now. You had your chance but were afraid to speak up. Get over it and teach your daughters how to deal more effectively with this shit.

My 21st century ask

Here’s a request to all women:

• First, to Mothers: Teach your boys what it means to be respectful to girls. Not the opening car doors, damsel in distress kind of respectful, but how to be considerate of their personal space. And listen to me, grown-ass woman electing to populate the world, you can fuck right off if you fear ‘breaking their spirit’ with too many rules. Teach our boys how to behave, and sexism is extinct in 2, maybe 3 generations.
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• Career Girls: If a guy sniffs your hair, be direct, honest and polite. Keep it light. “Hey, it’s not a big deal, but please don’t do that, okay?’ If you have a good relationship with them, have a little fun with it: ‘Hey, dude. You’re not a creep. Sniffing my hair is kinda creepy. Knock that shit off, K? In either case, close the matter by pretending your talking to a large toddler: Get to his level, look him in the face, expectantly, and nod gently until he starts nodding back, then let it go and simply move on. Keep in mind, if you’re a coworker and he’s got a decent job, he may believe this freedom is part of his benefits package. They’ve been getting away with this for years, and many of them aren’t all that bright. It’s going to take time to retrain them. We owe it to each other to break their bad habits.
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• If the afforementioned hair-sniffer does it a second time, or a different dick-waggler, smile-monitor or massage-giver has authority to end your career, have the same candid talk/nod session with him. Then immediately let HR know: write yourself an email from your work account (good way to date/time stamp it), CC it to your personal email, (maybe to your personal attorney, if you have one), or tell your best friend. Have some kind of documentation of it in case there’s fallout. IMPORTANT: Do not rely solely on whatever anonymous reporting tool you may have available. Those tools are purchased/licensed by your employer to protect THE COMPANY from any possible claimant action. Please believe me. I worked for one of the largest providers of those services; I’ve heard the sales pitch many times, including how much easier and less expensive it is to weasel out of complicity and the assessment of injury (money) by simply having it available.
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• Women, Generally: When it comes to sex, take your power back. Have an idea of what’s right and wrong for you, know what you want, what you will and won’t do, and communicate it clearly and calmly in advance. Then be prepared to step your pussy up if they don’t comply. If sex is somehow back on the table after you’ve already cleared the plates, explain it by jamming your knee swiftly upward very hard between his legs. Smashing balls has a way of changing the conversation.

For the rest of you:

Before you complain about the rules always changing and how ‘it’s not safe to say anything at all,’ here are some strategies:

• First, you don’t know anything about not being safe, so shut that down right now.
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• When you’re at work, simply assume no one wants to date you. Period. Problem solved. This is not a potential gene pool. Nobody secretly wants you, no one is sending signals. You’re all just there to do a job, and that’s it. If you are receiving undeniable, legitimate signals, be concerned. This can be considered sexual harrassment against you. Don’t tell your friends or coworkers. Tell Toby (HR) that this seems inappropriate and ask his advice.
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• Here’s an easy method for choosing topics of conversation: Would you tell Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson that the blouse he’s wearing is pretty? Would you tell Jason Statham that his perfume smells good enough to eat? How about asking your gym buddy to smile more because he’s so much cuter when he smiles. If it’s not something you’d say to a man, don’t say it.
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• If you’re about to mention something of a personal nature to me, ask yourself if you’d mind a stranger saying the same thing to your mother, sister, or daughter. For example, none of us are interested in your recent visit to the urologist, or your being involved in human trials for a new kind of Viagra. We really don’t care if your hot neighbor gets naked at her poolside whenever you mow the lawn. Reminder: If you find us politely nodding at one another in a few seconds, you’ve bungled it; apologize immediately and pivot to something like, ‘hey, what about those TrailBlazers? They’re getting sold! Wonder if they’ll leave Portland…’
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• And here’s the most important thing — the one that your daddy or whatever passed as a responsible father figure should’ve taught you: If you think it’s okay to drug someone to get her to have sex with you, you’re definitely a rapist. If a woman is either unwilling or unable to remove her own clothing prior to your having sex with her, do not have sex with her no matter how much she’s seems to want it. Before you go, gently tell her that you’re more than happy to try this again when she’s sober, and kiss her forehead. This conveys both attraction and respect, which are going to score HUGE points for you later. Otherwise, you’re just a rapist who had an opportunity to clear the pipes and took it. Instead of receiving all that appreciation and gratitude, she would be right to either smash your balls or call the police.

And both actions will be well within her rights.

Don’t be a rapist. This isn’t complicated. Unless by ‘complicated’ you mean ‘I’m mad cuz I don’t get to do whatever I want with perfect impunity.’