The Perfect Rape Outfit, or Why What I Wear Should Not Fucking Matter In the 21st Century

I have always pushed the envelope when it comes to how I dress my body. I think that is because I struggled so much with my weight for most of my adolescence that when I finally hit my stride and finally felt body confidence in my early twenties, I wanted to adorn myself with as much beauty and sensuality as I saw fit. It was my sweet spot: I sported fishnets, garters, formal dresses in dive bars, pretty much whatever I saw as fit and worthy, and that made me feel good. For me, feeling sexy feels amazing. It’s an integral part of who I am that I have lost at times, but always come back to throughout my life.  
 
I read an article today about an exhibit of different outfits worn by people that were sexually assaulted, most of them on view to shatter the perception that women are ‘asking’ for it via their dress (I am going to only address assault against women, even though I recognize that it happens to men too. But let’s face it, women bear the brunt of this epidemic by a longshot.) It struck a raw nerve within me. I despise that we are still having these conversations in such a modern age, still need to have discourse about the clothes people wear, still need to debate if what women are wearing insinuates that our clothing choices are responsible for ‘it’, and by extension, us.  I can clear this up right now, as the exhibit strives to point out: it does not fucking matter.
 
When I was raped, at the age of 23, I remember exactly what I wore, down to intimate details, but mainly: khaki capris, a white tanktop, and a white button down overshirt. Casual, understated, relaxed, kicking back. The irony that I was violated in country club attire when I usually dressed much more provocatively was not lost on me. I certainly didn’t ‘ask’ for it. I had a casual conversation in a bar with a stranger. I prepared to call a cab to go home, and he kindly offered to take me instead. He seemed nice enough, spilling his sad guts about his failed marriage and ex-wife, as close to harmless as I thought you could get. So I accepted. Next thing I knew, we were driving on roads that were unfamiliar, and he pulled up to his apartment, so he could pick something up. I planned to wait in the car, but it was cold, and he offered me water, which I needed, being tipsy. I still didn’t feel threatened. Then we went upstairs, and he put something on television as I sat on the couch, feeling sleepy. The next thing I knew he was on top of me, and I was stunned. He outweighed me by double. I didn’t know where the fuck I was. I froze. It was horrendous. When my mind wanders back to that experience, I can feel the crushing weight of body on my own, and I remember how I turned my head to the side so I wouldn’t have to watch his face as he took what he had no right to steal. I passed out, and when I woke in his bed, naked, I received the joy of being sober and having him rape me again before he left for work, telling me he would call me during his lunch break, because my protestations and limp body weren’t clear enough indication to him that the sex was unwanted.
 
The memory never fades, and it feels just as fresh every time it resurfaces. When my second marriage was crumbling, and intimacy between my ex-husband was strained, I would often have flashbacks to that experience when he would attempt to initiate something sexual during our downward spiral. It was a horrible paradox of feeling marital obligation toward someone I felt affection for, even when I didn’t want to engage. And I hated myself for it, and I began to resent my husband for wanting to be physical at a time when I was straining to sort out if I still wanted to be legally committed, and if the entire love we had once shared still existed. I’ve heard from other women that they have also felt this same pressure, when they are asked to do things that might feel demeaning, or uncomfortable, and how it is a huge burden to say no to someone you love within that context. But trauma is fickle and funny, and in relationships, it can often rear an ugly head that serves to destroy. Boundaries are so important, as is asking directly for what you want and being clear in your affection, and saying no even if your mind kicks in the machina of guilt that all women seem to have been given as the gift for their femininity. This is so much easier to write than live, but we need to start having conversations about why.
 
Recently, I have very much returned to dressing with the same I don’t give a fuck attitude as I did in my early twenties, mostly because: I REALLY don’t give a fuck as a 41 year old woman. If I could get raped wearing the blandest clothes on the planet, what do I have to gain by denying myself the joy of wearing what I love? As a woman, I have grown weary of trying to censor all the parts of myself for the comfort or self-control of others. And truthfully, it a societal problem: one that continues to allow violators to be given the benefit of the doubt, and that encourages men to view women through a lens of sexual objectification. If I want to wear garters, fishnets, or visible lingerie, I will do just that. Fuck it, if I want to walk around naked, I should be able to do so without having to worry who might take that as an invitation to something they are not welcome to have. My body is not for anyone’s taking, but it is mine to decorate in any form or fashion I see fit. And instead of examining and picking apart those outer appearances, perhaps we should be asking why we continue to allow men to carry imbedded expectations regarding sex, and why we don’t hold them properly accountable when they decide they should be justified in taking what they want, when they want it.
 
It’s enough that I find myself dealing with this professionally, even though I make every effort to dress the part of my staunch care provider role. Yet, I work with male providers who can’t find a way to keep their eyes leveled at my face, whose glances dart to my breasts mid-conversation, and beyond fucking infuriating, it’s insulting. It makes me feel uncooperative, and I often wonder if I should just imitate the same behavior, glancing at the space between their legs, if I wasn’t worried that it might be viewed as enticement. So when I am on my own time, I don’t want to fucking have to sit and weight my options so that hopefully I won’t be considered a walking invitation to sexual assault.
 
I remember when my daughter turned twelve, and suddenly she formed an interest in makeup, and then clothes that were more body hugging, or that showed skin. We argued over appropriateness in circular fits, until I finally realized that I was blocking her own ability to represent herself because of my own trauma and fears. Quite frankly, I hate the notion of living in a society where I feel I need to censor my daughter to keep her safe from people who refuse to accept responsibility for their own losses of control. It also dawned on me that it didn’t matter what she wore, because, as I learned from my own experience, it doesn’t take ‘anything’, except a violator’s determination, for these situations to manifest. Instead, I hope I have instilled in her feminist leanings that she can be, and dress, any way that she pleases, giving a polite middle finger to those who try to sanitize who she wants to be. When her high school initiated a policy that girls had to wear bras last year, it invoked protest and conversation around who exactly would checking to see if this was coming to pass. My daughter was on the forefront of fighting back, and I adore her for it.
 
I read an article by actress Amber Tamblyn that had a quote that summed up how exhausting it is to have to worry about the actions of others: “Every day, women across the country consider the risks. That is our day job and our night shift. We have a diploma in risk consideration.” I am so fucking over having to think of ways to make myself less brash, less sexy, less objectifiable, less noticeable, just so men (and some women) won’t be offended, or unable to manage their impulses. I am, more than anything, boned tired of the heart of this issue: men feeling threatened by women, and their endless fears that they might have to relinquish power as society progresses.
 
So here’s what I have to say to all the men who feel that they should be able to take what they want, or who perpetuate their own twisted perceptions of women to make themselves feel better:
 

1. Stop thinking that you have an invitation to women’s bodies for your own gratification. You don’t. Unless she tells you to touch her, don’t. Go one better and ask for consent, action by action. It’s not tedious, and it doesn’t detract from the mood. It’s sexy to have a man respect a woman enough that he asks her what she’s comfortable with him doing/touching each step of the way.

 

1. If you’re talking to a woman, maintain eye contact. Period.

 

1. Don’t confuse how a woman dresses with what you think she might want. You don’t know her, even if you have some sort of established acquaintance. You don’t know what she’s thinking, nor feeling. And if all you are concerned about is the way her body looks in a certain outfit, you’re likely missing the very best parts of her, which is also degrading, and offensive, to the countless intelligent women that are so much more than the sum of their outer parts.

 

1. For those men stuck in the ‘friend zone’ (and I could really write an entire piece on this itself): that shit is the yeti of male/female interaction. I promise you, she REALLY only wants you to be her friend and support. Women enjoy the perspective that men bring. She talks to you about other men, even if they treat her like shit, because she feels safe enough to do so. That is a fucking privilege. If you can’t manage that without expectation, or without secretly waiting in the wing for her to suddenly realize your fantasy, please fuck off and walk away. This is a form of misogynistic imaginings, and you should want someone who wants you the same way, instead of pining for someone who doesn’t. A significant number of sexual assault victims (more than 60%) report that they knew the person who violated them intimately as a former partner, acquaintance, or friend.

 
For all the women out there who have been in this same place, who have felt the degrading and raw, internal agony of being violated, know that you are beautiful, you have every right to be who you are, and every right to wear whatever you see fit to make yourself feel good. I am in your corner, and let’s have a conversation, because the fact that we still have to dispel ‘myths’ around sexual assault is a strong indicator of the sickness of our society and how poorly it supports women as human beings. Being a full-time risk manager of our existence is exhausting, and it’s time to make it clear that we no longer wish to bear that burden. Because what we wear should have no bearing on how the world interprets who we are, and it’s more than time to make that message heard.