I Consented, But Not To This

I’m sitting in a job talk presentation for a potential new faculty member and suddenly the word “stealthing” slaps me in the face. Memories of a painful experience come flooding back into my mind with a new power, now that it has a name. Five years earlier, I consented, but not to this.

Five years earlier, it’s three in the morning and I’m naked. I’ve been sitting on the shower floor with my arms wrapped around my legs for almost an hour. I’m not sure if I’m still crying or if it’s just water running down my face. No amount of hot water feels like it can wash the violation off of my body. I trusted you, and I consented. But not to this.

A couple hours earlier, I’m drunk. We haven’t been talking as much lately, but I still have feelings for you. So I consent, but only with protection. We’re in my room, and I’m prepared. I hand you a condom. You protest, but I stand firm in my requirement. You give in, and I watch you put the condom on just to make sure.

Twenty minutes later and I’m screaming at you. Crying. You deceived me. The condom I gave you disappeared. My notification of its absence was you ejaculating all over my back. I’m outraged. This isn’t quite rape... is it? I don’t have a word for what you’ve done but I still feel assaulted, violated, disgusted. You blow me off, call me crazy, say I’m overreacting, and leave. I consented, but not to this.

I’m numb. I’ve lost track of time. The shower has lost its heat. I don’t have words to describe what you did, but I know it was wrong. You took my consent away. My teammate finds me on the shower floor. She has no idea what’s wrong, but she wraps her arms around me with no words. After a few minutes, she helps me up, turns the water off, and walks me to my room.

For months I avoid you. You never apologize. I still don’t know what to think about what you’ve done. I’ve told no one, including my friend who pulled me out of that shower. I’m ashamed. I blame myself. I feel your eyes on me anytime we’re in the same space. I avoid your gaze and the reality behind it that no one else knows. I maintain the safety of my isolation by turning my back or walking away anytime you appear. My friends notice, but I still don’t tell them what you did. It’s my fault, because I consented... right? But not to this.

Two years later, you want to be friends. We’re both acting like it never happened until you ask, “Why did we stop talking?” I stare at you blankly and finally blurt out, “Seriously?” I tell you how it felt when you violated my consent. I tell you how I felt dirty, and have never been able to look at you the same. I tell you about that shower at three in the morning, and the tears and heartbreak that went along with it. You’re silent for a long time. Finally you give me the apology I was due years ago and and weakly offer, “I didn’t know it was a big deal.” I forgave you, but I still can’t forget. I consented, but not to that.

It took five years for me to be able to have the words to describe what you did. “Stealthing,” the act of removing a condom during or prior to sex by one sexual partner without the consent of the other. I now know it wasn’t my fault. I now know it’s sexual assault. I consented, but not to that.