Not Me; A Men’s Issue

Victims of sexual assault, rape or even “rape culture” are often blamed for the crimes committed against them. Rape culture describes the environment in which sexual assault is normalized and excused by our peers, the media and the courts. Girls are held accountable for wearing “slutty” clothes, drinking too much or even just being out alone at night with a group of guys. They are questioned for not physically fighting or saying no; blamed for not being clear enough or careful enough. Rape and sexual assault are considered by the majority of people to be “women’s issues.” Growing up, I was taught never to blame the victim. I was also taught how to keep myself safe. Only in retrospect do I realize that those two statements are somewhat contradictory. If it is never the victim's fault, then why do I need to carry pepper spray, know my limits when drinking, and stay in a group of girls at night? I was conditioned to believe that if I fought hard against rape culture then I would be somehow safer.

I was eighteen, drunk and horny. I was excited because it was the first night I felt comfortable enough navigating back to my dorm that I drank enough to actually be drunk. The bar was packed; we danced near the wall trying to stand against the sea of bodies. My two female friends decided to leave the bar but I felt compelled to stay. I was worried about Eliza. She had arrived with a group of all guys, but they had all left her in search of sexual conquests, and she was dancing with a guy who bought her a drink. Throughout my life, it had been drilled into me never to leave a girl alone at night.

A guy approached me and asked if I wanted a drink. I did. I kept Eliza in my peripheral vision as we walked up to the bar. He bought the drink for me and I watched as the bartender made it and I accepted it directly from her hand. He never touched it. I thanked him for the drink and he followed me back to Eliza. At this point in our transaction, I realized that I wasn’t attracted to him. He began to grind on me and I told myself that is didn’t bother me. Everyone in the circle I was dancing in was a girl with a guy directly behind her.

He grabbed my waist so that I spun and was facing him, and before I could even think he shoved his tongue in my mouth. I was shocked. He leaned down so I arched my back trying to create space between us; it probably looked as though he was dipping me to anyone watching. My first thoughts were completely random; that the tongue is a strong muscle and that he tasted distinctly like salt. I couldn't think of anything he could have had to drink that would make him taste like salt. As those two thoughts went through my head I still hadn’t reacted. Finally, I bit him intending to get him to pull away while playing it off as an accident. He didn’t react and I was surprised again. I thought that biting him I thought if I bit him he would stop, but he didn’t even slow down. That's when I felt my heart rate rose and was suddenly conscious of the film of sweat covering my body. The scruff around his mouth and neck scratched my face. His hands held me tight to him. I pulled back sharply and he lost his grip so I started to talk. I thought talking was safe; people can’t talk and kiss at the same time.

I can’t remember what I said. I only remember that I tried to explain why I didn’t want him to kiss me. I tried to have a conversation. I can’t remember if I said no; my arguments must not have been coherent, or at least that is what I assumed when he smirked at me and backed me up against the wall of the bar. I had never been slammed into a wall before. I wondered what other people thought about the display. I was disappointed that the move that had always seemed so passionate in the movies I watched didn’t elicit any of the “right” reactions from me in real life. I kissed him back; matched his force with my own, trying to make myself room feeling claustrophobic for one of the first times in my life.

I saw Eliza out of the corner of my eye and she seemed uncomfortable. I broke away when the guy who had been kissing me paused to breathe. I ducked under his arm that was leaned against the wall and asked Eliza if she was ready to go. She said she was, so I pulled her away from the guy who had bought her drink. He grabbed her arm, so I gave him my number in order to make a faster exit. As we were moving towards the exit, the guy who bought my drink blocked my way to the door. I said, “gotta go” and tried to push past him but he moved in front of me again. He asked for my number and I gave it to him as well so that we could leave. They both texted me later that night checking to make sure Eliza got home safely and I never responded; the irony of their texts was completely beyond their grasp.

On the walk home I asked Eliza if she liked that guy so that I could make sure he got her number if she wanted. That way they could meet up when she wasn’t drunk. She said that she had only been “paying for her drink.” I felt struck by how wrong that statement felt. I didn’t know how to respond knowing she felt compelled to dance with someone because she somehow owed them. I was furious about the way she must have been conditioned by society to accept that line of reasoning.

My lack of fight and own thoughts that night bothered me even more. He bought me a drink so I thought I don’t mind if we dance. Now his tongue is down my throat; I thought don’t cause a scene. Only seeing Eliza uncomfortable prompted me to act decisively. At the time I refused to see myself as a victim; that is just not me. I wanted to be out at the bar, I wanted attention, and I wanted to be drunk. Still, I did not want his attention and I did not signal that I wanted him to touch or kiss me.

Now I no longer accept drinks from guys I don’t know at the bar. Not because they will be spiked and I’ll end up being raped in a dorm, apartment or alleyway but because I don’t make transactions without knowing what my payment will be in advance. The guys at the bar do not want my thanks or conversation and I am not comfortable with any other type of trade. I am worth more than a 5$ shot or a beer.

My friends would describe me as quick to anger. I always expected that when confronted with rape culture in college that my anger would help me contradict sexist comments, be clear about what I want, and quick to shut down anything I didn’t. I was wrong. I can easily identify when something is happening to other girls, Eliza, anyone really, my friend or not. It doesn’t matter to me what they are wearing, if they initiated contact or if they haven't objected yet; if they appear uncomfortable I react immediately. I find it far more difficult to stand up for myself and as a result, I make excuses for whoever it is that I am with. I never want to feel like a victim. I don’t want to say “me too” I want to be able to say “not me.” I’m not angry with the guy who bought me a drink that night. I’m not even surprised by how he acted, and that is the issue with rape culture. No matter how the world chooses to quantify and define sexual assault he did something wrong, and I should be angry. He is the one that was not careful enough and needs to change his behavior. I refuse to let fear prevent me from living my life exactly how I intend to live it; I will not be caged by the potential of sexual assault and lesser versions of it. I will not stop going to the bar, wearing what I want and meeting new people because rape culture is not a “woman’s issue” it is a man’s. I am not going to live a careful life because the guy at the bar that night was responsible for his actions, not me.