That word is "Yes."

            I do not get offended easily.  Seriously, it takes a lot.  Normally I simply roll my eyes and avoid whatever it is that might offend me, but sometimes it is not that easy.  As was the case earlier this summer when I had the misfortune of hearing Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines,” which I insist is not a song.  As it played, something rose up inside me; maybe it was vomit, or an urge to punch someone in the nuts.  I had no idea at the time why I was so upset.  Sure, the song is terrible and boring, the video is disgusting and misogynistic, and Robin Thicke is a creepy, talentless douche.  But there are a lot of terrible, boring songs out there, misogyny is rampant, and creepy, talentless douches are everywhere you look.

            Then, several weeks ago, my friend posted this article on Facebook, and I could not help but take a look.  I was shocked, disgusted, and horrified.  I do not know the persons responsible for the song, so I will not presume to know their intentions or motivations behind the lyrics (after all, we all know what happens when we assume anything...).  All I have authority to discuss is how said lyrics, and the article dissecting them, made me feel, and that is what I shall do.  I warn you, this is going to get really personal really fast, so maybe some readers should continue no further.

I have heard some of those things before, that I had asked for it, deserved it, and wanted it, even when I had done no such thing.  I do not want to admit that we live in a culture that would justify or condone rape.  I would like to believe we have evolved as a species and a society, but perhaps that is not the case.  I was raised with the mindset that “no means no,” and for a long time I thought everyone believed that.  At a rather young age I learned I was mistaken, and that many people, men and women alike, think there is a gray area between “yes” and “no,” between consensual sex and rape.  Even in college, when a classmate got into my car in the campus parking lot and molested me, the head of my department scoffed and said, “Well, I’ve seen how you act with the guys around here...”  Yes, I flirt with everybody, but I had also told this individual on many occasions not to touch or come near me.  Apparently, even though I had said, “NO,” my body said, “YES.”  Several college officials told me I had no recourse, since I had not been “physically hurt,” and there was nothing I could do.  I had to spend most of the rest of the school year in classes with this person, and he eventually dropped out and moved to another state. 

I tried to warn people about him, to tell the truth about what happened that day, but it seemed like everyone had an excuse for him, and even some of my closest female friends tried to justify his behavior.  “He’s a good guy once you get to know him,” they would say.  I had a hard time believing that, because I for one do not believe in the gray area between “creepy molester” and “good guy.”  The most disturbing thing about the entire situation was not that people did not believe me.  I mean, he and I were the only people present when it occurred, and there are two sides to every story.  No, the most disturbing thing is that in the eyes of many of my classmates, I became the bad guy.  I was “talking shit” and trying to ruin him.  People sympathized with him and I was just another slut.  It was quite reminiscent of something that happened to me when I was only 14, in the summer between eighth and ninth grades.

I was visiting a friend for a few days in a town where I had previously lived.  One night, we were talking about boys, a common topic.  We giggled like crazy as we made lists of boys with whom we would hypothetically have sex.  After one particular boy’s name was mentioned, my friend decided to call him and tell him I wanted to sleep with him.  I yelled while she was on the phone with him that I was only kidding.  Apparently, he did not hear me.  The following day he showed up with a group of friends at the park where my friend and I were hanging out.  One of the other friends suggested we go back to his house and watch a movie.  It was something I had done before, so I saw no harm in doing it again, plus I knew everyone there and felt comfortable with all of them.  We had walked almost all the way to the house before I realized my friend was not with us.  I asked about it, and one of the guys said she would probably catch up.  We arrived at the house and started the movie.  Nothing to worry about, right?  Wrong.

After a while my friend had not shown up, so I said that I should probably go back to her house and I got up to leave.  Everyone except for the one guy left the room and shut the door.  I stared at him awkwardly.  He said to me, “I thought you wanted to fuck me.  Isn’t that why you’re here?”  I laughed and told him that I had only been joking and went to the door, which I discovered was locked from the outside.  I demanded to be let out, and heard muffled laughing from the other side of the door.  The guy said, “You said you wanted to, so here’s your chance.”  I froze.  I was trapped and I knew it.  I told him again that I did not want to have sex with him.  At that point he grabbed me by my hair and pulled me over to the bed.  He then demanded that I take off my clothes.  I said no and he hit me in the face.  After that, I did as I was told.  He was going to get what he wanted from me whether or not I wanted to give it.  I did not know what else to do.  I went along with everything he did because I was afraid of what else he would do if I fought or screamed or did anything.  When he was finished, he grabbed my hair again and put his face up close to mine and said that if I told anyone what happened, the next time it would be worse.  I believed him.  I was too young and scared to know what to do.

The door was unlocked and I was allowed to leave.  One of the guys had called my friend, and she and her mother were there waiting with all of my things packed in the car.  They dropped me off at the local supermarket and gave me a quarter to call for a ride.  My brother picked me up and once I got home I took the longest shower of my life.  For a long time I did not tell anyone what really happened.  I went along with the story that spread through the town like wildfire that I had wanted to do it.  Many months later, I told my school counselor the truth, and he told my mother.  She believed me, and that gave me strength to tell others.  They, however, did not believe me.  Horrible rumors were spread about me and I lost almost all of my friends.  At the age of 14, I felt devastated and totally betrayed.  If I had known then what I know now, I would have said, “Fuck you!  You were never my real friends anyway!”  Live and learn...

I tell this story because I believe it is a perfect example of the so-called “blurred lines” between yes and no, between consensual sex and rape.  I had said out loud that I wanted to have sex with him, apparently rendering any future protestations null and void, at least according to most of my social circle in 1994.  I had also surrendered and allowed him to do what he wanted, which solidified the public opinion that I had consented.  Many people back then, and some in the 19 years that have passed, have told me it was not rape. 

It sure felt like rape at the time.

Fuck that.  There are no blurred lines.  There is a very distinct line, as a matter of fact.  “No” does not equal consent.  “Maybe/I guess/sure/okay/whatever” do not equal consent.  Silence does not equal consent.  Compliance does not equal consent.  There is only one word that equals consent. 

That word is “Yes.”