Was I sexually assaulted? Or was it just a miscommunication?

After it happened, a part of me thought, "You’re a man, just get over it." But another part felt violated, embarrassed, and ashamed.

I’m scared and embarrassed to write about this. I’ve never heard a man talk about it. I’m sure someone has, and I missed it. But it’s unusual for men to talk about being sexually assaulted as an adult. I don’t know what language to use for what happened to me. Was it sexual assault? If so, was it rape? Or did it happen because of a miscommunication? I don’t want women and others who’ve been harmed by men to feel like I’m trying to say, “Me too.” I don’t want to minimize the horrifying problem of rampant sexual assault by men in our backwards, violent, traumatizing culture.

A part of me is thinking, you’re a man, just get over it. You should’ve enjoyed it. Just shut up and move on. The thing is a part of me did enjoy it. But another part of me felt like I was being forced to do something I didn’t really want to do. That part of me felt violated, embarrassed, and ashamed afterwards. That’s why I’ve decided to share this story. Not to take away from women’s stories. But to reinforce the idea that sexual assault—by anyone, to anyone—is wrong. And to highlight that a lot of what we do with each other sexually—regardless of gender—is based on assumptions and miscommunication, which can really hurt people.

She pulled me down the hallway

I was 23 and at a party in Washington, D.C. I’d just finished college and was trying to make a living as a musician in D.C.’s small but vibrant indie rock scene. I’d gone to the party with three friends in my band, and we knew pretty much everyone there. A woman started dancing against me in the living room. I’d met her before. She was a few years older than me. We’d talked a few times at other parties and concerts. She was friends with other bands that were more popular than ours. But I wasn’t sexually attracted to her. I felt conflicted as she danced on me. It wasn’t really a dance party. But a handful of us were sort of half-dancing as we drank more and more beer. I remember feeling like I needed to play along, so I danced with her a little as the room spun around me.

Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me down a hallway. I tried to pull my hand back, but she pulled harder. I played along. She pulled me into a bathroom and closed the door. I remember thinking, we’re going to have sex. But then she got on her knees and pulled my pants down. As she was going down on me, I remember being surprised that my body was aroused. I also remember a friend cracking open the door. His eyes seemed to be saying, “Are you okay? Do you want to be doing this?” I slammed the door and held it shut with my hand. Part of me was turned on. It was like I was in a porn video with a random woman in a random bathroom. Another part of me felt out of control and small. Like I was being dominated without my consent (though I didn’t know about the concept of consent at the time). After I orgasmed (which also felt out of control), she washed her hands and face in the sink, opened the door, and walked out.

I feel so much compassion for that younger version of myself, leaving the bathroom feeling violated and ashamed but also arrogant, because he’d done what a “real man” is supposed to do. He wasn’t aware of all of those feelings then. It felt more like an uncomfortable tension in his chest. He felt like he had to choose one feeling over the others. He had to feel one way about it. He didn’t know who, if anyone, at the party knew what had happened. But he felt like he had to act like he’d enjoyed it—or even had made it happen himself. His bandmates had seen him be pulled into the bathroom. They knew something had been happening. First, he boasted about it, like he’d enjoyed it. But their faces made him think they didn’t approve. He figured that they thought she wasn’t attractive, and so he felt shame—but he tried not to show it. As they smoked cigarettes on the porch, they all half-joked about a warning system they might use in the future. If one of them was talking to a woman who wasn’t attractive, another would walk up and whisper “code red” in his ear. This meant that he was making a mistake. This meant to back off.

Men don’t talk about it

I’m realizing as I write this that my friends and I were trying to protect each other. But in a way that was distorted by the messaging men receive in patriarchy. We were setting up a system to alert each other if one of us was getting into a sexual situation that he probably didn’t want to be in, maybe even an unsafe situation. We didn’t talk about it that way. We talked about it the way boys are told to do (by other boys, social media, porn), to categorize women based on physical attraction. But I felt supported by my friends. I felt like they saw the pain and confusion in my eyes, even though none of us knew how to talk about it.

I don’t think what I went through is equivalent to what far too many women have to go through. I was never afraid for my life. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I could stop her if I needed to. I can’t imagine being afraid every time you’re alone in public or when your abusive husband comes home from work. But I do know what it’s like to be made to feel small and out of control. I do know what it feels like to be made to do things without your consent, even if those things feel somewhat good. I do know what it’s like to be confused after the fact about whether you wanted something or not. I do know what it’s like to be afraid to tell other people what really happened.

I’m not sure where to go from here. I do know that writing this feels healing. I hope it’s helped another man better understand things that have happened to him, or things he’s done to others.

Please help me share this. If you click on the button with the arrow pointing upward, you can share it on Twitter, Facebook, or forward the email. And if you know a man who’s trying to work on himself—or anyone curious about what’s going on with men these days—please tell them about this newsletter. I’d appreciate it.