One time it happened in Cuzco, South America at the
Loki’s Hostel cerca 2014. This hostel was pretty epic. It had several bunk beds
in co-ed dorm style sleeping areas, something like, seven bunks per room. There
was a computer area upstairs where anyone could connect to the internet – I actually
sent out of my first honest and revealing emails (which turned into the
beginning of Calamity Kirstin) from those quarters. The bar/restaurant made fantastic
western breakfasts, which we were all missing dearly. The redheaded bartender
and I shared a White Russian at some ridiculously breakfast (and not brunch) hour.
My two favorite gals, Hannah and Lucy, who I volunteered in
the Jungle with, traveled Cuzco with me for a few days, and so the three of us resided at this famous hostel*.
As the morning led into the evening and the restaurant transitioned
into a bar, we each grabbed a cerveza and I found myself in my first ever game
of Flip Cup. You’re in a line up of teammates and your job is to drink the beer
in your solo cup as fast as you can, turn it up-side-down with its edge off
the table and flip the cup back onto its proper side. The teammate in line cannot do
this until you’ve successfully completely this. I was surprisingly good at this
game, and lets just be clear, I do not play any type of team sports, nor do I
do drinking games well, so this was a first. The competition across from me
caught my eye. He was an American and he was giving me sass just as well
as he was getting it. Truthfully, I can’t even remember his name (note this),
but something tells me Hannah could tell you. I do
remember The American had olive skin, was well built and had just enough arrogance to catch
my attention.
After my team lost the drinking game, The American and I ended up talking
about nothing memorable, but with several cervezas and this newfound YOLO mentality taking hold, we were
kissing outside, joking about his age (I didn’t believe how old he was) and I
suddenly found myself in his private hostel room – it had two beds, which he
shared with his travel mate. I didn’t instigate the sexual advances, but I didn’t
say no and I responded to his flirtatious responses promptly. I was hesitant
when the clothing started coming off, and I think he knew that. But I didn’t
say no. I’ll just say what we all know: I had sex with the The American.
Shortly afterwards, his buddy drunkenly hammered on the door
of their shared sleeping quarters, insisting that he be let in. I blindly
searched for my tossed items and sheepishly locked eyes with his buddy as
he entered and I left. Him and I made eye contact
yet again the following morning, but I never spoke to or saw The American
again. I shrugged it off and left the story with Hannah and deep within South America.
My Bubbly Work Friend and I often have deep, tangents and hasty and intense conversations
at work, and somehow a piece of this story came up. The definition of consensual
sex can be so complicated because the omission of the word No doesn’t
transition into a Yes. And we all know, from those horrible stories that none of
us wants to be involved in, but we all seem to know a friend (or a be the
friend) who is a rape victim, and that even when No is said, clearly and
repeatedly, that rape still happens. My Bubbly Work Friend's suggestion was, that instead of teaching
girls and boy, women and men, that No means No, what should be taught is what consensual sex is a Yes. Consensual sex should
be in the form of a question and not simply be a response to an action. “Do you
want to continue?”, “Are you sure you are comfortable with this?”, “Do you want
to have sex with me?” are some of countless ways to structure that question.
The good news story is that not every girl has rape story
that they've painfully endured, survived and have overcome but continue to live with. But I truly
believe many, many girls have this story: they were unsure about about having
sex with someone, but just sort of, kind of, did it anyway - it was just easier to let happen than say No. I don’t, even with
the revelation of that time in Cuzco, at the Loki Hostel, think that I was
raped. Thinking back, though, I do believe had The American asked me, as
we entered his room and directed me onto his bed, something as simple as “Do we
keep going?” I probably would have given it a second though, and truthfully, I
believe I would have said no. And perhaps this is something I need to train
myself. I too need to take two seconds out of these impulsive,
hormone hazy moments and ask my [potential] sexual partner, “Are you
comfortable with this?”, as it would provide us both with a moment away from
this sex infused air to make a vocalized a consensual decision. Even. At. The. Age. Of. Almost. 30. This hasn't been the only time that just doing it was easier than saying no.
I think that both sexes need to not only acknowledge that No
means No, but more importantly, both the Male and Female sex need to ask that
question to fully understand if both people involved in this want to have sex.
Let me reiterate, the absence of no doesn’t indicate consensual sex.
Kirstin
