The Thin Line of Consent

Circa 2016
I remember his hands. They felt smaller than they appeared. I can even recall what I was wearing. His scent was left on me when I went home that night. It was a clean, masculine scent. The incident shocked me. It was contrary to what he continued to tell me leading up to the interactions that would follow. I liked him, and though he knew that, it was understood that we should stay friends for a variety of reasons. The night that he first touched me was unexpected. For the past years, I remember those moments and think that I consented….I mean…sure, he did not ask me, but at the time, I liked him, and I enjoy being touched,so why would there be a problem?
Circa 2018
It has been a few years. I do not see him anymore, save for the rare occasion of momentous events. He is engaged in his life; we have different social circles, a few mutual friends, but not to the degree that would force us to be in the same spaces. At the time, I was the person that did not have anything to lose, therefore it was simple to point me out. It was easy to become a scape goat for someone else’s actions. I think about how I did not say, “Take your hands off of me! What the hell are you doing?!” and therefore, I have always seen myself as the willing party.
I began thinking at length about how much blame I want to take. For a long time, I chose not to take any. I was not the one that had a girl back home. It was not my hands touching him. Yet, I felt in my bones that maybe I could take some blame. I mean, he later passively told me that he had “forgiven” me for what happened after the truth came to light, and his partner had told me the same. If they are telling me these things, then clearly I was actively participating. A dear friend told me once after I told them about the story, “well, it takes two to tango…” I have mulled it over, contemplated it, and tried to reconstruct this narrative in the most truthful logical manner.
The narrative of the event is muddied at best in my brain. To some, it is not a big deal, for it happened and it could have been worst. To me, it is a small reminder that my body was used and tossed aside for someone else’s brief pleasure. He touched me in a manner where I was not “Emily”, rather I was a girl that he could use to satiate his immediate desire for sexual touch. It is the aftermath that makes me just as angry. I think about how indivduals that know about the situation treat me. I am snubbed over, not interacted with, or WORSE, I am talked at with fake niceness. It was not my decision to be touched by someone with a partner, yet I am the “homewrecker” because it is easier to make someone else a scape goat when they seemingly have less to nothing to lose.
Back to the title of this piece, I used to think that what happened was consensual. I mean, I did like this individual, and I wanted him to be with me at the time. On the other hand, I did not want him to cheat on his partner with me. I was not asked to be touched. I just was touched and then made to be the person in the wrong when the truth came to light. He was stronger than me, holding me tightly to him. My body responded to his touch, making it difficult in the aftermath to recall that I did not say that he could touch me or entice him to do so. What happened that night toed the line of consent and dipped into a lack there of. If I would have been asked, I would have said no because he had a partner that he said he was in love with and hurting another woman, to the best of my abilities, is not an option. He never told me that he was going to touch me, rather he just did. He did it without warning, without asking, without conversation. Rather, he pulled himself closer to me without care to gain my permission.
I have not been kind about this situation. There were others that I told about it, because I was tired of smiling a glazed smile in the aftermath when I was subtly snubbed. At the time, he got everything that he wanted, and I received fake kindness and averted eyes from some individuals. There is an element where I am still furious that I am the villain in this narrative. It happened, and I now see it differently.
By no stretch of the imagination do I think that this situation can be labeled under the same amount of trauma as so many other individuals that I know. He never raped me. He did not physically abuse me. Yet, this individual invaded my space, touching me in an incredibly intimate manner without permission or care to know if I was comfortable by it. In a court setting, these other questions would have swirled around. Did I “consent” by simply expressing a crush on him weeks prior to the incident? Was the non-sexual hug that I gave him before enough to give him an open door to putting his hands and body all over mine? Would I have actually said yes if he had asked me before touching me? Is it fair to glaze it over, to paint over his actions with a “boys will be boys”? Should I have kept it silent, never to speak of it again?
I have edited these works and re-looked at it, added to it and have removed other sentences. These words have been in my draft box for months. I showed my significant other my draft, telling him that this situation was apart of my history. Later that night, he hugged me close to him, his hands at my waist, and I flinched. I was suddenly flashed back there, to that moment, in the parking lot, with the boy’s small hands on me without permission. It was infuriating for the selfish boy’s actions to ruin a moment with my significant other. With the added encouragement of my significant other, I tell you this story because I refuse to continue to keep this narrative to myself. Beautiful humans, men +women+ stunning non-binary folks that I know, do not be afraid to speak your truth, even if it seems small and insignificant; own your story, there is something strengthening about speaking your words. If you are not ready to tell the whole world, know my ears are close and available, and my heart is safe.
“There is no force equal to a woman determined to rise.” — W.E.B
