“But What Were You Wearing?” Unpacking the burden r*pe culture has placed on women.
By: Audra Jander
Tags: Sex, Growth, College, Sexual Assault, Female

TW: Sexual assault, sexual harassment, drug use, r*pe, derogatory language

Growing up in a small town, misogyny and sexism ran rampant. These underlying themes infiltrated almost every aspect of my life. Girls were not allowed to wear tank tops or short shorts to school. Yet guys rocked clothing with degrading slogans everyday like it was their job. We were told to cover up and be respectful, lest we distract the boys with our almost bare shoulders.

Equity, Dignity and Sex

Social media was filled with horny teenage boys asking for “bikini paps,” only to call us sluts and attention seekers when we agreed. “Want to trade pics?” was the most romantic line to a 16-year-old girl. Every Halloween became a competition to see who could dress the sexiest and score the hottest hookup. After all, guys only wanted us when we dressed like that, and nobody likes a prude. The sexualization of preteens and young girls was normalized, and we were naive enough to think it was okay.

When I was 15, I met a guy from work, who was a number of years older than me. I remember being thrilled that he took an interest in me. He made me feel mature, and like my emotions were valid. He made me feel happy. We were together for a few months, and he was the first person I’d ever kissed. Let alone gone further with. At the time, I remember thinking how mature I was to be with an older guy, and that all the girls must be so jealous of me. We went to prom that year, and when he went off the college we stopped talking. The same thing happened the next year, with a different guy I worked with, again much older than I was.

Looking at these incidents now, I realize that at 15, I should not have been with an 18-year-old. Especially one that was pushing me to hookup and go further than I was comfortable with. The grooming behaviours that came with these relationships impacted me much more than I could have known at the time and it has taken a long time to unlearn certain behaviours. If something made me uncomfortable, I feared speaking up. I felt that since he was older and wanted me for a reason, if I complained he would lose interest.

At one point, it became a joke to my co-workers. Every time a new guy was hired, the other guys immediately told him about my “reputation,” and the word “hoe” was tossed around like it was my name. I didn’t and still don’t hold anything against these boys. They are kind, wonderful people and even greater friends. But they grew up in a society that sexualized every aspect of a womxn, regardless of her age or experiences. To them, my behaviour was normal, a joke even.

My ‘Premier Undergraduate Experience’

When I was 18, I moved halfway across the country for university. Fresh out of a breakup and ready to leave my small town behind, my family and I packed up my belongings into a rented RV and drove the 18 hours to move me into residence. I was ecstatic. My first “real” time away from home and a chance to be the person I wanted to be and shape the rest of my life. I remember my very first week. Never before had I been given so much freedom. I could drink whenever I wanted and however much I wanted, without my parents judging me or punishing me. I could pull all-nighters, stay up as late as I wanted. Basically, I had no responsibilities. Or so I thought.

Halfway through that first week I realized that as a female college student, the responsibilities I carried were far greater than those of my male friends. A floormate who I was not close with at the time, came to me one evening, drunk and in tears. She confided in me that a guy who lived in our building had taken advantage of her while she was blackout drunk. She didn’t know what to do or where to turn and was worried that she had brought it on herself. Heavy with the weight of a debilitating secret, I turned to one of my guy friends for help.

He had been the kind of guy to always say he wanted to do the right thing. He looked out for us girls during the events that week, preventing other guys from getting too close. His response however, made me realize that no matter how often a guy says he’ll do anything to help or protect you, they always pick the boys. He laughed in my face, accused her of lying and told me that no one in our residence would ever do something like that. “We are all respectful and honestly, she probably wanted it and got embarrassed after it happened, so she said he took advantage.” It was at that moment that I realized as a female college student, I was responsible for more than just my grades.

I was responsible for ensuring my safety and the safety of every other female I knew. No one else was going to do it for us. I don’t think I ever told her about his response. Honestly, I didn’t tell anyone about that entire interaction. I felt ashamed that I was naïve enough to think I could help and guilty I had told someone her secret. I carried that guilt for most of my first year, although I like to think it helped shape me into who I have become. After, I started to become “the mom friend.” I helped any drunk girl I saw, tried to break up fights, and made sure my friends never went to bed sad. I was hell-bent on making sure no one else I knew felt the same pain and anguish my floormate had.

Still Not ‘Asking For It’

That same week, I overheard my guy friends talking about a “piped list” all the boys had. Curious, and trying to fit in, I jokingly asked if I was on it. All of them stopped and stuttered, unsure if they should be honest or not. “Well I mean ya you are on it.. so are half the girls we live with” they admitted. “We kinda rate each pipe and see who managed to hit the hottest one.” I was floored, but I wish I could say I was disgusted. Unfortunately, I was so happy to have validation and attention from people. I didn’t realize how gross and sexualized that was until months later. The fact that the guys were openly sharing who they had slept with and rating them was not only a gross invasion of our privacy, but just plain disgusting.

In the same breath that my friend had told me about the “piped list” they also informed me that my Tinder pictures and profile had been sent around. Not only to people within our residence, but to half of the campus. “There’s a bet going on to see who can sleep with you first, just thought you should know” one of them told me, laughing. I felt nauseous but laughed it off as a joke. I didn’t want to seem like some sort of femin*zi… after all I made that account and wasn’t that the point of Tinder anyways? For the rest of the year, I attempted to turn that position into something positive. In my mind, being on that list and having my pictures sent to people on campus meant popularity. I had spent so much of my life fighting for male validation and now I finally had it.

I took pride in the fact than guys I didn’t know thought I was hot and wanted to sleep with me, only realizing after the fact that I was being diminished to nothing but my body. These guys didn’t care about my program, my dreams, or even what my favourite colour was. To them, I was a competition; a sexual object that they could use for their own gratification and then never deal with again.

Law and Order: Student Victims Unit

One of my favourite TV genres growing up was crime. I loved watching CSI and FBI agents catch criminals and save the victims. In particular, I absorbed every episode relating to sexual violence and assault. To me, watching a womxn — who’s life had been ruined — be able to get the justice she deserved was the most amazing thing. Naively, I thought that would never happen to me. That kind of stuff only happens to the super drunk girls, the flirty ones. They lead guys on, and guys get frustrated. Not only was I wrong in my assumptions about who it happens to, but also in how it happens. I do not remember much of my first few days of university.

But what I do remember, at least partly, is my very first night. The excitement of cheap alcohol, no parents telling me to be responsible and an undiagnosed, amd crippling social anxiety disorder led me to drink a pretty obscene amount. Especially for someone who had rarely drank before. I remember meeting a guy that first day and spending my entire day with him, drinking and exploring campus and the town.

When he invited me back to his room so he could change into something warmer, I accepted. I wish I could remember more of what happened after; all I seem to recall is me sobbing and repeatedly telling him I wanted to leave. I sobbed the entire way back to my room, way into the night. For the longest time, I brushed it off as me being a drunk emotional mess, still raw from my breakup less than 48 hours before. Guys don’t do that kind of thing; you are just being emotional.

Those thoughts ran through my head for weeks, until I managed to almost completely push the event to the back of my mind. Even now, I am unsure exactly the events that transpired that night. All I know is I was way more intoxicated than he was, and when I asked to stop, he kept making excuses. Is that sexual assault? Frankly, I don’t know. Did he mean to be as aggressive and invasive as he was? Again, I wish I had an answer. What I do know however is that my privacy was invaded, and an apology was never received.

It was this incident that fueled what myself, and many other young girls tend to refer to as my “hoe phase.” The rest of my freshman year is a blur of drinking excessively, flirting with guys and going home with someone random. For the most part, I didn’t get their names or ever see them again. And honestly, I didn’t care to. I wasn’t looking for something romantic, for someone to tell me they loved me, or that I was their person. I wanted to fill the whole in my heart that had been dug by a a person who felt that my body was his for the taking.

#ImWithHer

A few weeks into my first year, my small university town was rocked with a sexual assault case. It involved two very high-profile male athletes. Of course, victim blaming ran rampant within my guy friends’ conversations, though I like to think it was by no fault of their own. One of my best girl friends and I tried to engage in numerous conversations, explaining the importance of believing the victim. We explained that just because she may have wanted it at first, doesn’t mean she cannot revoke her consent. But still, we were met with, “She probably is just embarrassed it went public and people found out. If I was her, I’d be proud to say I slept with them”.

Once again, I wanted to think these beliefs were held by my friends due to their upbringing and lack of education surrounding consent and sexuality. After all, no one wants to think their friends endorse rape culture, right? But those conversations left a lasting impact on me. Would they change their attitude if that had been me? If they had known the victim? I stopped engaging in those conversations and attempted to push the case in its entirety from my mind. Arguing with my friends was tiring. I was more scared of losing them than I was of not standing up for my beliefs.

It was not until the beginning of my third year that I even thought about the case and those conversations again. By this point, the case had gone to trial and everyone awaited the jury’s decision. Unsurprisingly, they were found not guilty and offered alternative athletic and academic opportunities at other universities. I was disgusted and ashamed of the outcome and my heart still breaks for her.

Even still, three years later, those who believed her were met with an outpouring of support for the two guys involved. Everyone was reminded, over and over again, about their athletic accomplishments and the negative impact this had on their lives. But no one cared to mention her, and the trauma she will carry for the rest of her life. And in no way do I hope to stand here and shame the university for their role. They followed directions and did what they were told to do. She even did exactly what we are told to do: confide in someone you trust and tell the police. But, like most sexualized violence cases, this was not enough. And for many womxn on campus, it is a stark reminder that no matter how clear cut, no matter how much evidence there is, they will still find a way to blame you.

Social Media’s Role in Sexual Assault and Harassment

Although I had always experienced sexual and demeaning messages over social media, I didn’t truly become aware of it until the summer after my first year. My dm’s were flooded with grown men commenting on my appearance, everything from my body, to my smile to detailing the sexual acts they wanted to do TO me. And I say to, rather than with, because there was no consent there. These men did not care that I was only 18, or that they did not know me. In their eyes, I was an object available to them for their gratification. Regardless of if I wanted it or not.

I turned to my friends for help and was told that it was normal. “You post pictures of you in a crop top with your tits out, what did you expect? If you don’t like it, delete the pictures or go private. You’re kind of asking for it tbh.” For the longest time, I believed it. That’s what we had been taught. That women dress the way we do for male validation, and an Instagram picture in a bikini is an invitation for men to comment on our bodies. I stopped posting my Snapchat username on my profiles, in an attempt to curb the number of unwanted sexual pictures I would receive from complete strangers and began scrutinizing every picture I considered posting. Do I look too sexual in this? Can you see my nipples through my top? Is this going to get a lot of male attention?

Most recently, I received a number of private messages and comments through Instagram and Tiktok from male strangers. These messages were: calling me a whore and a slut, asking if my parents were proud of me, and stating how if I was their daughter they would be ashamed of me. Out of all these messages, one individual sticks out most. Spanning back months, I received sexual and degrading messages. Most I attempted to ignore or reply to in a polite manner. Yes I told him to leave me alone and ignored him. But when I turned to a friend for help, he told me unfortunately there was no legal action to take. “All I can tell you is to block him unfortunately. I know you don’t want to delete your pictures or videos, and you shouldn’t have to. But if you try to take it to the authorities, they’re going to tell you to block him and move on.”

My refusal to block him stemmed from the fear that he would move on to harass and attempt to exploit other girls, much younger than myself, and I was right. After bragging about an interaction with an underage girl, I reached out to her myself to present the idea of bringing the authorities in. She met this with fear and denial, “Well I sent him nudes.. he forced me too. But I still sent them so I’m going to get in trouble”. To this day I still get messages from him, calling me a ‘slut,’ a ‘b*tch,’ a ‘whore.’ I’ve learned to ignore them and understand they are not a reflection of my character, but it takes a toll on one’s self-worth.

Why should I have to monitor what pictures I post online? When a guy can post a picture completely naked (I’m looking at you Justin Bieber) but as soon as I post a picture wearing a bikini on a beach, I am told I asked for the attention? Why is it that I get more likes on my pictures when I am half naked compared to anything else? Is my worth as a person really, truly based my body?

Sexual Assault by Someone I Trusted

During my second year of university, I met a guy who I really, really liked. I’m talking scribble his initials in hearts over the cover of your notebook and want to hang out with him 24/7 like. We went to almost every party together and I even met all of his friends and his mom. I was thrilled, he had a heart of gold and we were compatible in pretty much every way. After one particularly bad night, I was very intoxicated and I passed out in his bed. I felt safe there, I was not worried anything would happen to me.

Again, I wish I could remember all of the events that transpired that night, but the memory of coming to and realizing we were having sex is still burned into my mind. Did I consent? Was I more alert than I remember? I wish I knew. I really, truly do. The thought that someone I cared, and still care about, was capable of taking advantage of me to that extent makes me nauseous, which is why I still struggle to fully grasp what happened. We never talked about that incident and ended things a few days later. But still, over a year later, I replay that scene in my head, hoping and praying I can remember anything else that can help put my mind at ease.

Unwanted Attention

This past summer, I worked as a server and bartender at a local golf course. I was beyond excited, as I had always wanted to bartend, and I knew the tips would be amazing. And it was amazing. For a little while at least. As the season got busier and I served more and more customers, some creepy men started coming in. Comments were made about how young I looked, how pretty I was, and how lucky they were to be served by such a smoke show like myself.

Never once did they ask about my future plans, what my degree was. Only, “How does a pretty girl like yourself not have a boyfriend?” or “If I was your dad, I’d really struggle letting you out of the house everyday wow.” I brushed it off at first, gave them a forced smile, knowing the more I put up with the better my tip would be, and the more money I would have saved for school.

And then He came in. Already highly intoxicated, he began hitting on my co-worker and I as soon as he sat down. Comments about our appearance, relationships and sex-life began shooting out of his mouth. All while he continued to ignore the visible and audible discomfort we portrayed. At one point, he even pulled out his phone and searched our social media accounts, following us. As my co-worker’s shift came to an end, I realized he was not planning on leaving any time soon. I was going to be stuck there alone, hoping he wouldn’t try anything. Then, he started talking about his family, his wife and two preteen daughters. We stood there awestruck. How could a man be so proud and protective over his female family members yet stand there in front of us, sexualizing us?

God bless my co-worker and her experience. A few years older than me with years of experience bartending, she covered for me as I escaped to the washroom, while her boyfriend came to pick her up. While in the bathroom, I remember calling the pro-shop and asking if one of the guys working the desk would come hangout in the restaurant with me. They grudgingly agreed and it was not until after the customer had left that I told them why I wanted a male presence. And I wish I could say that’s where this part of the story ends. But remember how he followed us on social media? In everything that had happened, I had forgotten, and did not have a chance to block him before he messaged me.

Once again, sexual and misogynistic comments came my way, from a grown man almost as old as my dad. Immediately I blocked him and deleted his messages, but I was still in shock. He had two daughters! Imagine if a man had done that to his two girls. He would have been livid. But it was okay for him to act like that to us? After all, two pretty young girls bartending a men’s golf tournament? We were probably looking for the attention after all.

Just Say ‘No’

September of this year, I was at the on-campus bar at school. I had been drinking, not heavily, but enough to have a buzz and vibe with the crowd and the music. Occasionally, I made eye contact with a guy in the crowd, though I did not recognize him. So I made nothing of it, chalking it up to just searching the crowd. But I was wrong.

As soon as my group of friends and I separated, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and I realized it was the same guy from the crowd. He cornered me against the wall, his hands beside my head and his 6’ frame towering over me. Drunkenly, he began berating me. He started calling me a slut, telling me I was not as pretty as I acted, and boys only slept with me because I was easy. I was confused, afraid and scared. I did not know who he was, what he was yelling about, or why he was being so aggressive. He went on and on, saying how I was conceited and entitled and the least I could have done was answer his DM. He got closer and closer to my face, getting more aggressive each time.

To this day, I still have no idea who he is. I cannot find record of any DM or private message on any of my social media accounts. But the fact that he thought it was acceptable to invade my personal space as aggressively as he did, over something as minor as an ignored text message scared me. I am careful even now about being alone at a bar.

It is incidents like these that make me afraid to walk home alone after a night out, or to even reject a guy in person. If someone can become so aggressive over an unanswered text in a public space, what’s to say they wouldn’t do the same, or worse, when you were alone? Almost every womxn I know shares the same fears of walking alone at night. We have all perfected the ability to conceal our keys within our fingers. I am also careful to be overtly polite in all my male interactions, online and in person, even if my blood is boiling and all I can see is red. Why? Because I’d rather be polite and give him the slightest possibility of having a shot than be dead.

A Girl, a Bar and a Beer

Over Christmas, a group of my close friends and I went out to a bar in the city. Although I was excited to dress up and have fun with my friends, I knew I couldn’t have too much to drink. Not only was I broke, but I had important commitments the next day I wanted to be alert for. Rather than going alone, we decided to go with a group of frat boys from a nearby university, assuming we would be safe from harassment and creepy guys. At the pregame, I had two coolers, spanning the course of almost an hour and a half. Once arriving at the bar, we all took a single shot and had a mixed drink, and then I cut myself off.

I was trying to be responsible as I didn’t know the environment or the guys we were with. I wanted to make sure nothing happened. After a while, one of the guys we came with — a friend of a friend — asked if I wanted to finish the last of his beer. I had completely sobered up at this point, and it was only a quarter of the way full. Pretty harmless. Plus, it was an expensive beer, so I knew it would at least taste good.

I wish I could tell you what happened next, or the timeline of events. But all I remember is not being able to walk or speak, and repeatedly trying to take a nap on the bar top. The guys we were with laughed, and joked about how I was such a lightweight. How did I even survive three years of university like that? The rest of that night comes in flashes, certain memories are all I can recall. Falling down the stairs, being carried out of the bar by the bouncer and my friends. Puking the entire ride back to the frat house, and then puking some more.

The same guy who offered me his beer kept telling my friends to just leave me there, I could sleep in his bed. Then, ensuing arguments and even more puking. I never got bloodwork, never got a definitive answer if there were drugs in my system. But I know my body, and half of a beer should not have made me blackout the way it did. I am forever grateful for the intuition of my friends, and their insistence that no, I would not be staying at the frat house. They would be taking me home, end of discussion. Without them, I worry that the biggest tragedy of the night would not have been a pair of broken shoes, but rather something worse, something more personal.

Polite Refusals

Most recently, I went on a weekend trip to Germany with a guy friend. Thank god he came, as we unknowingly booked a hostel in the Red-Light district of Frankfurt. Undeterred, we decided to make the most of our trip and signed up for a local pub crawl. Once we arrived, I realized not only was I the only girl in the group, but there were only three of us under the age of 30. Immediately I stopped drinking and became increasingly aware of my surroundings. I took note of where I was and who was around me–a behaviour that had been ingrained in me since I became old enough to go out to bars. My guy friend was blissfully unaware and teased me about offering him the complimentary drinks we were given.

As the token female participant, I became the highlight of everyone’s focus and attention. As did my personal, romantic and sex life. One participant took an exceptionally keen interest in me, constantly offering to buy me drinks and proposing I stay at his hotel for the evening. After a number of polite refusals, he began discussing his work career, name dropping brands such as Victoria Secret, Sephora and other “girly stores.” Mentioning numerous times his connections with these companies and the deals he could get me, he became aggressive with each rejection I gave back.

Eventually, once realizing he was not going to get lucky with a 20-year-old, he made numerous sexist comments — disguised in his opinion as jokes — and left. My friend asked me afterwards why I had not asked him for help. I laughed, said I was used to it and knew how to handle my own and that was that. Or so he thought. That interaction has been replaying in my mind since it happened. What if I had chosen to let my guard down, have a couple drinks? The predatory actions that man exhibited seemed genuine at the surface, especially if the surface had been skewed by the effects of alcohol. How many other young girls did he take advantage of, both through his age and financial abilities to buy out half the bar?

Stop Blaming Victims

In the wake of the #MeToo movement, social media has given young womxn in particular the ability to speak about their experiences with sexual violence, sexual assault, and sexual harassment. I have done a lot of internal reflecting on my past experiences: both those that jump out as clear-cut incidents and those that are still a bit murky in their intent. As a woman, I am constantly bombarded with sexualized and misogynistic content, seemingly from every aspect of my life. A guy calling me babe, sweetheart or dear in a casual conversation. My mom telling me I should consider wearing a less revealing outfit to the bar so I do not attract attention.

It’s having a drunk guy only leave me alone when a friend pretends to be my boyfriend, because he respects me more as someone’s property than as an individual. It’s calling me aggressive and b*tchy when I voice my opinion but praising men for doing the same. The double standard between men and women that occurs when discussing someone’s sexual history. It’s the fact that a woman can be unconscious and r*ped, but the rapist only gets four months in prison because he has a bright future.

I have a bright future too. I am intelligent, I am strong, and I am worthy. Being a female does not mean anyone has a right to my body, or to influence my self-worth. The responsibilities I hold as a woman just to ensure that I am able to protect myself and my friends has put a weight on my shoulders I should not have to carry. None of us should. It should not be my responsibility to ensure I do not drink too much, do not accidently lead a guy on or come off as cold, lest I get blamed for anything that happened. It should not be my responsibility to protect myself against sexualized violence.

I am 21 years old. The weight I carry and the responsibilities I have to honour to protect myself and those around me exist simply to take the blame off men. Because it’s easier to blame a drunk girl for wanting it than it is to blame a drunk guy for assaulting someone, right?