Recently, I had a conversation with my boyfriend and some of our male friends about sexual dynamics. Our dialogue wove around the concept of consent, how sometimes mixed messages from a partner can lead to a misinterpretation about whether or not a physical exchange is truly wanted. Suddenly, one of my friends offered a sense of compassion toward Louis CK’s inappropriate “choices” in the workplace and his hollow understanding of consent.
His empathy pissed me off. Of course, I don’t think Louis deserves any. However, the next words my friend spoke surprised me. He said that some men, especially men born during a certain time, don’t know how to interpret unspoken language. Saying that because the women didn’t explicitly say no to Louis when he… you know…somehow it made sense why he proceeded with his actions.
“Women don’t always mean what they say,” my friend continued. At first, this made me angry, assuming he meant that women sometimes manipulate and alter a conversation intentionally. With a bit more explanation, I began to understand his point. Often, women are encouraged to give fake phone numbers when men refuse to take no for an answer. We offer counterfeit names of boyfriends and grandiose excuses to deny their advances. “Sorry, I have a boyfriend” works better than “I’m not interested.” The potential for retaliation forces a false response to ensure a woman's safety.
In situations of power imbalances, like that of Louis CK and his colleagues, and other inappropriate actions from those in positions of power, I find there is no space to offer empathy. His behavior was wrong and should be highlighted as such. Furthermore, all people who misbehave sexually whether at the workplace or otherwise should be held accountable and removed from their positions.
What about situations where the power dynamic isn’t so drastic and yet it is still challenging for some people to refuse a sexual interaction? As our conversation developed, we discussed how many women don’t speak up to stop sexual advances. Sometimes it’s easier for them to stay quiet to get past the situation. It’s safer that way. My male friends also shared moments they had been taken advantage of and felt unsafe in as well.
Our conversation propelled me into frustration. I felt so angry. Angry for women. Angry for men. Angry for anyone who couldn’t articulate a rejection when they wanted to. “Every single woman you know has had sex with somebody they didn’t want to,” I belted out. Of course, this is not an entirely true statement. However, even the most assertive and outspoken women sometimes stay silent.
Over a year ago, I was (very) casually dating this man a bit older than me for a few months. Our interactions always confused me. On our first “date” I drove, paid for the parking, and paid for my food. There was little chemistry between us, and his intentions were difficult to read. Time and longevity are essential for me to form a strong relationship and gain an understanding of my feelings toward someone, so the lack of immediate connection didn’t dissuade me initially. Our interactions were almost entirely neutral; uninspired but not unpleasant. Soon, it dawned on me that this man not only didn’t like me but perhaps hated all women everywhere.
The first time I walked into his bedroom I strutted around inspecting his clothes; vintage and crisp. His bed; neatly made and low to the floor with a sunroof above. I caught a glimpse of a mostly empty bookshelf with three maybe four books leaning on each other. One in particular stood out. It was the Polaroid photobook of Emily Ratajkowski. No, not her self-written book of essays depicting her mistreatment in the entertainment industry by those in power positions. It was the one she famously despises and is a clear violation of her autonomy that she has fought for years to have removed from distribution. I picked up the book and thumbed through it, never having seen it in person, but knowing the history of the unwelcome collection.
The man I was seeing looked at me and timidly shrugged. “It was difficult to get my hands on, but I wanted a copy.” Emily is beautiful and it was clear he wanted to own a piece of her beauty, consensual or not. This book in his bedroom should’ve given me a distinct understanding of who he was, an omen to his character. At that time, I had fallen into a deep state of detachment. I wanted to stop feeling, to cease having emotional reactions to anyone or anything, good, bad, or beyond. So instead, I ignored it.
Standing in his room, his desperation to be intimate was distastefully obvious. He looked through my words, expressions, thoughts, and personality, only wanting what was underneath. Instead of leaving, I let him have it. I recall glancing at the rug on his floor, his desktop screensaver lighting on and off throughout our touches, wondering what time his roommates would be home all while taking part in what should be a highly connected experience.
I left immediately after, feeling distant and careless to him. The next time we saw each other he disclosed how difficult dating was in LA. He was a foreigner with a cute accent. “All the women here are so complicated and want someone young and rich.” The wrinkles around his eyes curled up as he drove me to lunch in his luxury German car where we split the bill.
“Men will put up with anything if a woman is hot,” he went on. “We’ll never break up with a hot woman, no matter how insane she is. I had the craziest ex but she was so hot,” he chuckled over a mushroom sandwich. He was one of those guys who wasn’t outright unkind, it was subtle yet somehow glaringly clear that he hated women just as much as I hated men.
I sat across from him, arms crossed and legs tucked. I believed him. It seemed that men did only want attractive women and the myth of personality, character, and intelligence ran as dry as the LA River in August. I’d seen this reaffirmed time and time again, and as such allowed myself to entertain contemptuous men 10 years my senior who looked to split the bill while divulging their new app idea and returning to their Venice beach house to undress one another.
Later, we walked around a park as he made jokes about touching me on the playground. Awkwardly, I glanced around at the children flocking to the open soccer fields and jumping on the seesaws. “There are so many kids around,” I whispered uncomfortably. “I’m more concerned that you’re not in a skirt.” He smirked back. Hours later, he threw a used condom into my trash can and peered around my newly furnished home. “You have too many flat surfaces in here,” he criticized as he dressed to leave. He hated me and I hated him.
That was the last time I ever saw him. A few months later I listened to a Simon Sinek podcast that detailed the importance of dating and relationship feedback. My keen desire to have uncomfortable conversations overcame me, so I texted him asking for his take on our dating experience. “You gave me no sexual energy,” he responded quickly, “you didn’t touch me or indicate that you were into anything so I never had anything to play off of.”
He was right. I didn’t want to touch him. Even more so, I didn’t want him to touch me, even though he had several times. I knew he was only interested because I was young and attractive. He didn’t care about what I had to say, or who I was as an individual. As he so clearly stated, he only cared about how hot a woman was, no matter how insane. His statements may have been bold, but for him, they weren’t untrue. It is all he wanted. And because this experience seemed so true to some men, I believed that’s all a relationship could be. An exchange of physical currency, but women are forced to hold the heavier ephemeral cards.
I never told him I didn’t want him to touch me. I never expressed that his inability to speak to me like a person beyond a physical body was repulsive. The words never left my mouth, but to his recount, I said it repeatedly with my body. I, as a very outspoken woman convinced myself to shut the fuck up and succumb to a physical exchange with him because I believed that’s all I could offer. Furthermore, my body was all he would ever want - as long as it didn’t have the same wrinkles that etched across his.