The other side of #MeToo

Iam naked and in his bed. He is, too. I’ve no intention of having penetrative sex. I told him as much earlier. Over and over again. As we made out on his couch, as he stripped me of my clothes, as he clambered atop of me, I told him.

Still, he tries again to force me. I protest. I squirm. I wriggle out of his arms but crawl right back. Except for his repeated attempts to ram himself into me, it otherwise feels quite nice there, in his arms, my lips on his.

Years later, I rewind and play it back.

Was I being a tease? Should I have left at the first sign of danger?

Was it reasonable, or even fair, to draw the line where I did?

Was I explicit and clear enough when I said yes to all but that one sexual act?

Should I have sketched diagrams on how consent works? Prepared a PowerPoint?

Should I have reached for the nonexistent walkie-talkie on the nightstand and said: “Joseph? Come in, Joseph? You need a yes from me to everything we do tonight, as do I from you. I’ve said yes to all but the one act you seem to want most. In fact, I said no. Trying to force me, as you are now, is attempted sexual assault. Do you read me? Over.”

I wonder if that would have stopped him.

The scene that followed seconds later was so absurd that even in that moment I could only make sense of it as an observer.

X

Two men are in bed, seemingly wrestling. One is 1.68m and 60kg sopping wet. The other is of similar height but with a 20kg weight advantage, mostly muscle.

The bigger man is erect and trying at every opportunity to insert himself into the smaller man, who resists. Only groans from the sheer physical exertion are heard from either during the five or so minutes that elapse as they fight.

They fall from the bed to the floor, where the bigger man pauses to catch his breath.

The smaller man uses that moment to wrench himself free. He eyes the stairs next to him that lead down to the living area, where inside his jeans on the floor are keys to his car parked outside.

“Okay,” the bigger man says. He puts his hands up. “Let’s just sleep.”

Despite his better judgment, the smaller man agrees.

It’s 2am. They crawl into bed and cuddle. At dawn, the smaller man leaves, taking with him the suspicion that the bigger man had done that before. That he would do it again, to someone else. Like he did after being sexually molested at age of 12 by his male dentist, he tells no one of what happened.

He and the bigger man work for the same company. The bigger man is senior, a partner, in fact, but in a separate division.

They never speak nor see each other again.

X

My psychologist tells me of the limbic system — that part often called the “reptilian brain” in our neural wiring that tells us, when confronted by danger, whether to fight or flee. I was in danger but my lizard brain was indecisive. My fight-or-flight response was bewildered by sexual desire and the reasoning of my prefrontal cortex, which said Joseph ought to respect my decision.

He did not but I stayed.

In that moment was I revisiting the scene of the crime, my childhood molestation? A satisfactory answer I have yet to find.

Joseph was not the last man to sexually assault me, or at least attempt to.

Another for whom I found the words to stage a confrontation was shocked, as I’m sure Joseph will be to read these words. The shock was genuine.

To this other man what happened was one of the most beautiful experiences of his life. In my mind the facts are that he sexually assaulted me.

The stark differences in our understanding of the night make me take stock of my own history. Are there sexual encounters that I have blocked out or rationalised away where I violated the consent and bodily integrity of my partners?

Possibly. Maybe even probably.

For reasons too complex to explain in a limited space, men like me — who were sexually violated, witnessed or been subjected to other forms of violence as children, and lacked healthy avenues to emote, like the vast majority of people raised as men — are more likely to become perpetrators.

This is in no way deterministic, nor is it an excuse. All it takes to possess the potential to be sexually abusive or violent, especially to women, is being raised a man in this patriarchal world. That’s also, often, all it takes to dismiss, ignore, deny, diminish, or be shocked, when confronted by victims of your actions.

The idea of a singular, universal, dominant masculinity has fallen away. Scholars and gender-equality activists now speak of masculinities, plural, and recognise how other systems such as white supremacy and capitalism enhance or diminish a man’s social power.

Some have argued that this calls for a more “nuanced” response from the press when reporting on acts of sexual and other violence of men. They argue that too much blame is heaped on the individual, and too little examination is conducted of the systems and structures in which perpetrators operate.

As a victim aware of my own capacity for violence, this perpetratorfocused argument rings hollow.

I gained that self-awareness from the work of African feminist scholars and activists who decry patriarchy while recognising that colonialism, for example, exploited African men and masculinities for its own ends. They gave me and others the words to understand ourselves, and speak to our realities and each other — not only as men, but as black men.

Why do we refuse this gift?

Why do we undermine their work as “Western feminism”, as though African women at any point ever lacked the capacity or words to theorise about and examine their own realities?

Why do we resort to denials and summon patriarchal power structures to discredit our accusers?

My hope is that if, or when, my turn comes around, that I’d find within me the humanity to own up. That I’d listen, re-examine my actions, raise my hand and say #MeToo. I, too, was sexually abusive or violent. And attempt in any way I can to be accountable.