On Consent And Being Bullied As A Grown-Ass Woman
Last night I sat on a sidewalk bench eating two scoops of overpriced vegan ice cream at a boutique shop that happened to be open until 1am. I was fuming; I stumbled upon said shop after storming off from an infuriating conversation several blocks away. I slowly consumed my non-dairy treat while ruminating over both the quarrel and the many preceding events which had colored both my outburst and subsequent departure.
The receiving end of my vitriol was a male friend pushing 50, someone I had occasional, no-strings-attached sex with; someone I had come to think of as a good friend despite some fire-red flags and contentions. I was already quietly seething about an incident the week prior which was not only fully upsetting on its own, but amplified by the memory of other similar incidents. Our argument resulted from a conversation about an entirely different topic, but one that prompted a familiar demonstration of his I-am-man-me-know-best posture; it was more than enough to trigger an eruption of my pent-up anger.
To explain why I was upset requires some backstory.
As I mentioned, we had a previous friends-with-benefits arrangement, but even during that time, his method of gaining access to my apartment was most often the result of a decision to accompany me home, not by my invitation. At the time of the…
