On Sex and Violence

"Do you have any sisters?" Jenny asks, interrupting Mark's apology. "Yes, I have two younger sisters", he answers. "Ok- says Jenny- I want you to ask them a question... and the most important thing is that you really listen to their answer. I want you to ask your sisters about the very first time that they were intruded upon by some man, or a boy." "What makes you think that my sisters have been intruded upon?" "Because there isn't a single girl or woman in this world that hasn't been intruded upon. And sometimes it's relatively benign, and sometimes it's so fucking painful. But you... have no idea what this feels like."


When we look at statistics on rape, sexual harassment, and other types of sexual and gender-based violence, it's clear that women are disproportionately the victims of these crimes. If so many women in every single country and context have suffered, or continue to suffer, sexual violence, then it's also clear that we are at risk. A woman I know was raped in the shower when a group of men broke into her home. Another woman I read about was raped and tortured when leaving the parking lot at her office building. That could be anyone, we think. That could be me.

Rape seems like an extreme illustration of the phenomenon, although the word 'extreme' appears inappropriate to describe a crime so common. But still, there are the lesser, more paltry examples of sexual violence that we have become so used to that they barely seem like violence at all: a boyfriend pressuring us into having sex, a colleague or client in a business meeting ogling our breasts instead of listening to what we are saying, walking the streets of a city (some cities more than others) and receiving a disgusting whistle, moan or comment on how fine and how fuckable we are. We don't need to have been raped to understand how disarming it feels to be violated.

Equipped by this new consciousness, I search the dusty drawers of my memory (you know, the ones that keep the souvenirs you'd rather forget about) and I, like any other woman, can find many occurrences of this particular feeling. When I was 10, a man put his hand up my little skirt with little apples on it as I looked at postcards at the market. When I was 15, a man relentlessly tried to get into my pants although I was unresponsive and quasi-catatonic with grief. When I was 18, a stranger masturbated in front of me. When I was 19, my boyfriend made me feel dirty and shameful because I was not a virgin the first time we had sex. When I was 23, I let a guy pressure me into having sex (for the last time). It seems like a lot, although I'm certain it is quite average and I'm not particularly ‘unlucky’ … and this is not counting the guys who grabbed my ass while riding public transportation, or the looks I got when I wore a skirt to certain areas of town. I'm not overly scarred or traumatized by these events, but I still believe they are appalling and unacceptable.

The ingredients that go into this feeling are shame, vulnerability, and fear. We are afraid because this happened to us and it could happen to us again. We are afraid that it could happen to our sisters, our friends, our daughters. And we are right to be afraid. The fear is not only justified on account of the terrifying data and anecdotes, but precisely because it is familiar. It is this fear that leads us to be careful and avoid certain situations where the violence is more likely to happen, even if there are no guarantees. I'm all for taking care of ourselves and our bodies, and I support any woman who will try to protect herself. The fear is useful if it works as an incentive for us to be stronger.

However, this same fear is suspect when used as an instrument of control. Fear can be used to control our sexuality and limit our pleasure, as it has been used since the beginning of time. The message has always been the same: sex is dangerous. Don't have sex or you'll get hurt. As much as I recognize that sexual violence is heinous and painful, I also refuse to perpetuate the idea that sex in itself is dangerous.

Don't have sex or you'll get pregnant and have a botched abortion and die. Don't have sex or everyone will think you're a whore. Don't have sex or he'll break your heart. In fact, don't even kiss him too intently or he'll get the wrong idea and then he won't be able to stop himself (it's only natural). Actually, don't even wear certain clothes or walk a certain way or any man could get the wrong idea. With this kind of warped discourse, it's a wonder we can find pleasure in sex, especially heterosexual sex, at all. Is it possible that we are so paralyzed by fear and shame that we have to re-learn to enjoy sex?

So what's the solution? We don't want to say that the world is a safe, soft, lovely place where women can exercise their sexuality freely without having to worry about rape, abuse, or at the very least, ulterior motives. A certain degree of caution is necessary to navigate these tricky waters. But we also don't want to say that sex is the big bad wolf. We want to enjoy and relish sex... to go wild, really, if we want.

For us to be vigilant about the threat of sexual violence, without being limited in our experience of sex, I think we need to be clear about what we want and like, as well as what we don’t want and don’t like. Maybe if we weren’t so afraid of getting hurt, we could ask ourselves if we really want a particular sexual experience and who we want to share that experience with. If we don’t want it, then nobody should force us into it, whether it is a stranger or a boyfriend or girlfriend or husband. But if we are sure we want it, then we should enjoy it without a hint of dread.

Instead of building a culture of fear about our sexuality, we should be encouraging each other to be thoughtful, assertive, and follow through on our choices about sex (as with everything else). It is most likely that we’ll still be eyeballed and groped, but at least we’ll have the certainty that sex is great, as long as it's on our terms.