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The acute stress response, coined fight or flight by psychologist and scientist Dr. Would he hit me back? Would he let me go? Would I fight and lose? If I lost, would he have sex with me anyway, only more violently? Fighting and screaming and kicking and yelling at a man? Unknown outcomes. I, too, have had sex I didn’t want because sex was the least bad option. You can only say “not now, no thanks, I don’t want to” so many ways. You can only push a man off you so many times. I know women who have said yes after being worn down all night, over and over. I know women who have asked their rapists to use a condom, even offering one of their own. "Perfect Victim says no clearly and often, fights off her attacker, and continues to profess her non-consent throughout the encounter" What she doesn’t do is make her rapist breakfast. Perfect Victim has the courage of a hundred armchair quarterbacks. Perfect Victim says no clearly and often, fights off her attacker like a honey badger, and if she can’t get away, she continues to profess her non-consent throughout the encounter, ideally by shouting “no” and continuing to fight as best she can. Perfect Victim is the model against which all other (normal, flawed, human) victims are judged, and trust me, we all come up short. She’s haunted by the mythology of the Perfect Victim. Why did she do that? The author is haunted by that question. She let him sleepover, and in the morning, she made him breakfast.
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The author said no, but her acquaintance didn’t listen. In the 2014 comic, Trigger Warning: Breakfast, an anonymous woman writes about an acquaintance rape. If only it were easier to know which ones were bad. And then, when it came to my desire, men knew, or were supposed to know, better than I did.
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I couldn’t be trusted to say what things were. On the other, a cultural narrative that I didn’t really know what was best for me. On one hand, a message that I had agency, autonomy, and responsibility for my body, my choices, my life. I believed these things, but it was confusing. Meaning, say no, then go, then tell a trusted adult. When someone did something bad to my body, I was supposed to No, Go, Tell. I grew up hearing “no means no,” and “your body, your business.” We had videos about good touches and bad. My mother was a feminist and I was a kid in '80s. "When it came to my desire, men knew, or were supposed to know, better than I did" It’s the coming back that breaks me open. A secret, safe place where I can stay as long as I want. Sometimes it feels like sliding into a warm, cozy bed. Dissociation sounds scary, but it doesn’t feel bad. I mean, my body stayed, but the rest of me went floating up and to the right. Sometimes I said no, and he kept going, and I. Sometimes when I said no and he kept going, it was okay. Were they really more skilled at knowing what I meant than I was, or were they just overconfident? Whether I meant it, or was just sort of half-protesting as flirtation, men treated both the same: they didn’t stop. But when I did mean it, I watched men, magnificent, grown men, not know the difference. I learned a playful no could be part of the game. Sometimes I thought of my "no" as a suggestion instead of an imperative. I believed this paradigm of desire most of us do. And there, on the other side of trembling, is the wet, hot, sexual woman he saw all along. He pushes her boundaries, and then pushes right through them. Or maybe he knew better than she did what she really wanted. Since I was a kid watching Days of Our Lives while my mother folded laundry, I have seen this over and over: guy corners girl who’s been telling him to buzz off, but when he forces his mouth on hers despite her protests, as if by magic, her anger melts into desire. “You’re trembling,” he says, walking closer.