The aftermath.

First off, I must thank everyone for their support following my last entry. I was pretty shaken up and angry when I wrote it, and with your help (and, admittedly, some well-timed social reconciliation with my best friend) I'm able to look at it as a negative experience, but one that won't define me. Roland, I promise not let it ruin my entire Spanish experience, although I suppose it will inform it from this point forward. I also appreciate those who shared their own experiences either through comments or blogs. Once again, you all are a sort of safety net that it's wonderful to know I have.

And now on to the aftermath. Which, for me, is almost always an intellectual thing. (I'm also back in classes and recharging my brain for academia, which hopefully means posts will lean more that direction for the next few months until I shut off my brain again for winter break.) As of late, I have been struggling, mentally and morally (which isn't quite the right word but will have to suffice) with my interest in BDSM. I suppose for the most part they are standard questions. How can I be a rape survivor who enjoys and indeed desires very aggressive, dominating and violent sex? Can I be a feminist and still desire the same? At the same time, how can I advocate for sexual freedom of choice and practice and equality and still hold internal issues that don't allow me to fully accept my own identity? How will I know where my limits really are, and how far am I willing to go to explore those limits? And even, once I find them, how do I interpret them and integrate them into my life, sexual or otherwise?

I was most concerned with the first several, and generally figured that the latter are more experience-based and would eventually be established. As for those first, more theoretical questions? Well, I wasn't so sure how I'd get those answered. In the midst of re-reading Gayle Rubin's call for a radical sexual politics and being assaulted, I think I found the answer.

The difference between "good sex" (as Rubin refers to it, a la right or condonable sex and sexuality) and "bad sex" (obviously, the opposite, or unacceptable, amoral sex) is the question of consent. It has nothing to do with specific behavior or acts being acceptable and others being categorically wrong. It isn't wrong to hit someone if they've consented to being hit (without coercion, of course... all this should be read with a filter of "fully-informed and willful consent"). By the same token, it is wrong to touch someone, even gently, if they haven't given you express consent.

Before people jump on me about the term "express consent," no, I don't think that necessarily means that every time you want to hug a friend, you need to ask if it's all right to do so. Although that might not be such a terrible idea. I know, for example, that my dear Essin' Em has been rightfully called "the queen of consent," and indeed, she does ask before she gives hugs. And consequently, I've never felt that she's invaded my personal space. I can't say the same about others, even those I consider friends. Sometimes you don't want to be touched, don't want to be talked to, don't want to be involved. Rather, what I mean by express consent is that the person must make it clear that they want whatever is being done to them (I'm writing this from the perspective of a sub, but consent goes both ways, of course). Any question about consent needs to be clarified. Beforehand. Or during. It is never, ever an excuse to say "Oh, but I thought you wanted that..."

And as Merlin mentioned this in his comment on my assault entry, consent can also be revoked at any time. I know this is an issue discussed regularly in the BDSM community (and rightly so). I believe several other communities and indeed, most people would do well to give more thought and attention to the idea of consent and its...fluidity. I have spoken with vanilla, straight friends who tell me that they experimented with something new sexually and decided they didn't like it (way to be GGG, though!), but their partner assumed that since they had consented once, he or she automatically had access to this behavior. Uhm, no.

I suppose all of this isn't especially news to anyone, but the idea to me was somewhat novel that consent is what delineates the good from the bad. I'm content with the idea that there is no bad sex, other than that which doesn't involve equal and free consent of all those involved. (The issue of who, precisely, is capable of giving consent is another concern and entry all together.) The idea that it isn't wrong for me to like to be tied up, hit, talked down to and fucked hard with a partner (or partners) who I trust and have consented to being with, is an incredibly freeing sensation. At the same time, it allows me to know that that doesn't by any means that I should have enjoyed those men who were groping me in the street last weekend, although they may have exerted much less force than some partners I've been with. Indeed, in other situations, I've been quite proud to wear bruises as a marker of time well-spent. But that doesn't mean I have to enjoy any and all behavior that resembles that which I do sometimes enjoy in the bedroom (or dungeon, or or or...). And I believe this allows me to, for the most part, reconcile my liberal, pro-equality and sexual freedom and feminist views with my actual life practices.

It's still a work in progress, but I can gladly say that something positive and affirming came out of this negative and discouraging situation.

And I'm already working on HNT ideas. I can finally upload photos from my digital camera. Huzzah.

Assault.

Just as a heads-up, this isn't going to be a cheery post. I'm really angry and that's going to come through. If you're looking for an upper, read a few entries back.

I was assaulted last night. I should probably define what I mean. I'm in agreement with Essin' Em that assault - sexual, specifically - is any kind of contact you don't want. The moment you say no and someone doesn't respect that choice, it becomes assault. And that's not fucking OK. I don't think this definition is too liberal, although I'm sure some people would say that it is. And, of course, it goes without saying that victims (and offenders) can be any age, orientation, identity, etc etc etc.

With those logistics out of the way now, on to what happened.

I was out with my roommate in the city last night. We had a few drinks, but I was by no means stumbling or drunk. I was in jeans and a tank top, with wedge sandals. No little black dress, no copious amounts of skin showing. I looked pretty, but not especially provocative. Just for the record.

After we left our friend's restaurant at about 3am (in this city, that's still early to call it a night), and were wandering around looking for an open bar. I needed to use the restroom, so we stepped into a discotheque, which was disgustingly smokey, so my roommate told me she'd wait for me outside. When I came back out, she was sitting on a bench, talking to a pair of Spanish men. Fine. We do this relatively regularly, since we both speak Spanish, and thus far, everyone we've met has been pleasant - some have even become friends who we've seen again. I sat down next to her and joined in the conversation (in Spanish, of course).

Suddenly, there were 15 men around us. I still don't know where they came from. They were fellow 20-somethings, and were obviously drunk. They all started talking to me at once, asking where I was from, what my name was. Before I had time to answer, two of them took my hands in theirs, ostensibly complimenting my nails. Then each one took my hand and tried to stick it down their pants. I pulled away and pushed them off, telling them no, I wasn't interested. In Spanish and then in English. (Granted, "no" is the same in both languages.) At the same time, some other guy had put his hand on my chin, trying to get me to look up at him or stand up. I shook my head to try to get him off me. He persisted. The hand-holders took my hands again, and held them fast. And then there were arms reaching through the group, touching my chest, then progressing to grabbing my tits. And pulling, and pinching. Hard. There were men behind me with their hands in my hair, starting to pull. I kept repeating no, don't touch me. I don't want you to touch me DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME (in Spanish). I stood up trying to get away, and was met with even more hands grabbing and smacking my ass. I brought a knee up to try to break through the wall of men that had entirely surrounded me and effectively separated me from my roommate. (Who was still engaged in conversation with her Spaniards, none of whom were touching her.)

The hands followed me, focusing on my tits and ass. I broke through enough to reach out and grab my roommate's hand. She stood up, and told me she had just told the guys we'd go to a party with them. I told her they were touching me. She didn't get it. I told her they were fucking all over me and we needed to leave, immediately. Then she got it. And screamed at them in Spanish not to touch me, trying to push them off me as well. I held on to her hand and we took off running. They didn't follow us with anything except their whistles and catcalls.

We ran for a few blocks, and ducked into a doorway. She asked me if I was OK, told me how sorry she was for not realizing sooner. I told her it wasn't her fault and sure, I was OK. I kept my hands crossed over my chest, hands clasped on my shoulders. I asked for the bottle of wine we had in our purse, and she opened it for us. I drank it straight from the bottle. I didn't really know what else to do. I didn't want to go home, strangely enough. I just wanted to sit. And drink.

She wanted to talk about it. So we did. She asked why they didn't go after her, and I said I didn't know. We weren't doing anything we weren't supposed to. We weren't alone, we weren't shitfaced, we weren't being loud obnoxious Americans, we weren't dressed slutty... We talked some more about why they went after me, when we were clearly together. "I bet it was your accent," she said. I asked what she meant, and mentioned that I'd been speaking Spanish just like she was. "Yeah, but I'm dark-skinned, and Latina. I don't look like I'm American. You, with your light skin and brown hair and green eyes, well, you do look American."

And I suppose she had a point. There's only so much I can do to integrate myself into this community, this culture. I don't have olive skin. I'm Scandanavian, for fuck's sake. I dye my hair much darker than its natural dirty blonde, but I still don't look Latina or anything close. It's frustrating, though, because I make a concerted effort NOT to be the stupid stereotypical American. I speak Spanish. I follow regional social customs. I never expect people to speak English to me, and if I don't know a word, I'll explain it IN SPANISH until the person I'm speaking with understands what word I'm looking for. I don't get stupid-drunk and wander the streets. I was doing everything right, and I know that life's not fair and whatthefuckever, but this, this was really shitty.

I still have bruises on my tits.

in no particular order...

So here's the first of the retelling of exploits from the past week or so. This is really the only negative experience I had the whole time, and it wasn't the worst I've ever had... But I feel the need to get it off my chest anyway. So here goes.

We'd been drinking beer for far too long and drinking cocktails that were too strong hours before that. The room was still stationary, but I couldn't entirely say the same for myself. My words weren't slurred, I don't think, but I'm sure I was visibly intoxicated.
He wasn't even my type. I generally go for people way more attractive than me. That sounds like I'm being conceited, but I'm not. Ask anyone I know. I have some bizarre tendency to pull in people WAY out of my league. And even beside that, I have a type, and while that's often older than me, he was way too old.
Nevertheless, I ended up on a Beirut team with him. (I feel like somehow this is how a lot of my hookups begin...weird.) I don't even remember if we won, I was instead taken by the conversation that somehow rapidly turned to threesomes. I'm not sure where the entrypoint for that conversation lay, but that's what we were discussing. And he told me he'd want to have a mmf menage a trios, and I said I'd found that there weren't many men (who I've slept with, at least) who were into that. He took that as an invitation and we exchanged numbers. We hadn't actually touched at that point, save for the errant high-five when we made a cup in the game.
I don't remember who won. I remember the game ended and he said he had to go and asked me if I'd walk with him to his car. I said OK. Which was stupid. But I figured it would just be outside the gate. Maybe a goodnight kiss, harmless.
When we'd walked a block and a half, I asked him where the hell he'd parked. He said he was walking to the light rail station. I said I wasn't going that far. He said Yes, I was. I was going home with him. I said No, I'm fucking not. I have to go back. I tried to leave nonchalantly. And then he caught my arm and pulled me back to him. Grabbed my face, pressed his lips onto mine. I chuckled uncomfortably and said ok, now I really do have to go. My friends will be worried. He begged me to stay. I said No.
He put his hands on my shoulders and slammed me against the outside wall of a garage and he was on me again. His lips were on me, his hands were on my tits. I cursed myself for wearing the pink shirt that showed off my rack. I tried to push him off me, tried to bite him. He took it as another invitation. I kept yelling No! I have to go! People are waiting for me! and my pleas were muffled by his tongue darting in and out of my mouth. His face was rough and stubble scratched my lips and chin. His hands were cold and I felt like I could feel the beer and dirt staining them and, consequently, my untanned skin.
I was still trying to squirm away when my phone rang. I'd forgotten that I had it with me. It was my best friend, asking me where the hell I'd gone. I couldn't have been happier to hear her voice. He let me answer my phone and I stepped back into the shadow of the alleyway as I backed away. I shrugged, still trying to play it cool, and he stood half-engulfed in the shadows, watching me walk away. As soon as I made the corner, I took off sprinting. I wasn't entirely sure where I was, but just hoped my feet would sense the urgency of the moment and recall where they'd been minutes earlier. I stayed on the phone with my friend, on the verge of tears. As I ran around another corner, afraid that I was lost in the neighborhood, I saw her standing outside the fence. I jumped into her arms, and she climbed into another friend's car with me, where I had a minor breakdown. The host (who's car it was) came out and apologized for his friend (who I'd wandered off with). I took a deep breath and marched back into the party to refill my beer.

Now, my feminist side tells me I can't really be held responsible, because as soon as I said no (and it was serious, there was no playful tone), he should have backed off. But I can't help but think that I brought this whole experience on myself. I feel like I might have been inadvertently leading him on. I didn't mean to, but that doesn't mean I can't be held responsible. I mean, in the end it was essentially a moot point, and nothing really tragic happened. Nevertheless, I can't help feeling mildly responsible for what did happen. As such, do I even have a right to be upset by the situation? Any thoughts, anyone?