Another funny story.
In this post, a Carleton woman shares her story about an experience she doesn’t want to call sexual assault, but wouldn’t want to happen to any other woman either.
I embarrass myself a lot. Like, a lot. I’m pretty used to it. I tend to dance ridiculously when I’m drunk, laugh way too loudly, and don’t know how to end conversations non-awkwardly. Luckily, I have a good group of friends who are always ready to laugh at my misfortune. So I’ve gotten pretty good at telling funny stories about myself. The more embarrassing the better. For example, “That Time I Accidentally Went on a Date with a 17-year Old” is a recent addition, but one of my classics is “The Worst Hookup Ever”. It always gets a laugh.
The setup: It was getting to that part of the term when I start to get really restless, but there was a progressive that night. I was really excited for it, so I decided the best decision was to pregame it to prepare. My memory gets a little hazy after the first stop, but I know at stop 3 I was dancing in the middle of 4 shirtless boys singing “Like a Prayer”. Not bad. By stop 4, my single girl instinct had kicked in – I was ready to find a man’s lap to sit in. And success! By stop 5, I was cozily sharing a Papasan chair with a friend of a friend, and we knew where this was going.
Of course, I check with my friends before making any decisions. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “Should I hook-up with this guy?”
Friend: “No, I’ve heard he’s a bit of a creep”
Me: “I think I’m going to hookup with him”
Friend: “But I thought you said you didn’t want to go home with random guys anymore?”
Me: “Yeah, but I’m bored”
Now, with such a promising beginning – how did this become the worst hookup ever? I have the reasons listed:
1. He starts it all by asking, “Hey want to watch a movie?” C’mon, we both know where this is going, I’ve been giggling in your ear for the past 45 minutes, do we really have to pretend we’re going to watch a movie? Just ask me if I want to go to your place.
2. He lived in Watson, I don’t remember where but it was on an upper floor. I wasn’t walking too well at this point and wanted to take the elevator, but he made me take the stairs. THAT JERK.
3. We get to his room, and he’s apparently really committed to this movie idea and starts listing the movies he owns. I was way more interested in lying down at this point, and was not really paying attention, so when I heard “Transformers” listed, I mumbled something like, “yeah, that”. Now luckily, I don’t actually remember any of it, but I am still mad that I was ever forced to view a movie about cars that turn into robots. You just don’t come back form that.
4. After watching the carrobots a while, I’m pretty exhausted and am kind of going in and out of consciousness, but I start up with him anyway – that’s what we’re here for after all. Things are going along, and I’m less able to keep awake. Occasionally, he’ll wake me to ask if I’m too drunk to do this. And I go “No, I’m fine…” and promptly close my eyes again. This went on for a while, I guess. Eventually, I come to a little bit, and I ask him where we’re going with this. He answers with something along the lines of “Oh, you know what I want”. And that was my cue to leave. Not a good line. I get up and realize that I am wearing way less clothing than I thought I was. I start scrambling around the room, trying to find my missing articles, pretty sure this means I’m officially a slut.
–Wait, are you laughing yet?— This is the funniest part of the whole story. You’re supposed to laugh. He laughed. He let out a snicker as I scrambled around the room trying to find the clothes he had taken off me while I was unconscious. And my friends have always laughed, and I don’t blame them, because I have always told the story this way. I never mention how I’ve never felt more worthless than when I heard that “ha” come out of his mouth. I don’t really mention how hollow I feel when I see him, or the way its chipped at my confidence. I definitely don’t mention that I have trouble believing that I’m worth more than that, because it makes me feel so unpretty.
And I’ve never considered it assault. Instead, I always go back through the night and all the stupid decisions I made. I shouldn’t drank so much, I shouldn’t have sought him out, I shouldn’t have ignored my friends advice, I shouldn’t have left with him, and I shouldn’t have said yes. But he should’ve known.
The only way I can really conceive of the wrong that was done, is imagining another woman in my place. She obviously couldn’t have given consent in that situation, her non-participation should’ve been a clear sign to stop, her body was not his property when she was unconscious. Her body deserved more respect than that. Our bodies deserve more respect than that.