Stories are written by people who don’t necessarily work or study in fields related to sexology. They convey emotions, perceptions, and subjective perspectives. Opinions voiced in the stories are those of their authors, and in no way represent the position of Les 3 sex*.

Ce témoignage est aussi disponible en français [➦].

Translated by Gabrielle Baillargeon-Michaud.

Trigger Warning: description of sexual assault, psychological violence

I’m still digging through my lecture notes, not sure what I’m looking for, but clearly it’s not there. PowerPoint slides, but no handwritten notes. No colourful doodles, no notes to myself, no links with other classes, other concepts. Nothing for about twenty slides. Then it starts again: doodles, links, abbreviations—all signs of renewed attention, active listening. 

“Weird. Why didn’t I take notes?”

(…)

I’m at my best friend’s best friend’s house. 

I watch him rape me, and I think to myself, “Fuck, thought you were a family man?!” 

I teased him too much. He seems excited, yes, but also a bit sad. 

I can’t remember if he wore a condom or not. He leaves the room before me. I think to myself, “Well, shit.” 

I don’t want to tell my friend. I don’t want to ruin their friendship. I’m the life of the party.

(…)

Fifteen years later, I am a mother, a girlfriend, a student. The mere thought of partying exhausts me. Friday night is the new live-action version of Beauty and the Beast. I prepare the coffee maker for the next day and go to bed before ten. 

When my son gets too close to me during the movie, wanting to cuddle like that, touching my arm, my ribs, I tense up. 

My body freezes. 

I don’t want him to feel it, I need to respect my boundaries, what’s wrong with me? He’s a child, your child. 

Why do you feel like pushing him away, running away?

(…)

I no longer work at bars on Saint-Laurent. I earn wages and I get to have a pension, benefits, the whole deal. I am an “Important” and “Respectable” Person. I have my BlackBerry glued to my hand at all times, like all the other “Important People” in this city of bureaucrats. Like Mr. Big Shot, pressed against me in the dark outside the bar, our bar, our group’s hangout, and I realize that, despite the alcohol, his penis is huge.

He is repulsive, I can’t get away, and seriously, I am flattered. 

He is three or four salary grades above me and has the power to circulate my next press release faster. 

I let it happen, even though I feel like vomiting, and mostly, I want another shot. 

Ultimately, respectability is no guarantee against rape. Neither his nor mine. I see it all the time on Facebook: his three kids, his wife, big outdoorsy family, big shot.

I hate Facebook.

I get an audio recording of the class in question. I listen, it’s the beginning, it’s important, I take loads of notes. The professor clowns around a bit, makes the topic interesting, provides concrete examples we can understand. 

I hear a guy ask, “When a man rapes, surely he must be stressed? Why does he get an erection?”

The professor explains that there are other things at play. We talk a bit about nocturnal erections.

Another guy asks, “There are men who defend themselves from accusations of sexual assault by saying they were asleep. It’s a condition. How do we know if they’re lying?” 

The professor says that at that point, we’re delving into the psychoanalysis of the unconscious. 

My note taking completely stops. I am elsewhere, still sitting. I feel stupid: you won’t understand this material, it’s beyond your capabilities. Eagerly waiting for the break, it seems like the professor is speaking another language and I’m afraid my classmates see, see my past, see that I let these rapists do it, that I asked for it, that I didn’t fight back, that I didn’t confront them, and that I certainly didn’t go to the police.

I hate the police.

(…)

I’m in the car, we’re heading back to Hochelaga in the middle of the night. The atmosphere is heavy between my boyfriend and me, and it’s my fault. I feel bad for asking to leave the party, like a loser, I’m a killjoy, not tough enough. I wanted to stay, my boyfriend did too, but it had already been almost twenty-four hours since the host of the party had raped me, and I was seriously out of energy. 

Sometimes, you fall asleep naked during a four-day party, next to your boyfriend, in the home of the nicest gangster in Quebec. 

And sometimes you wake up, your body being mechanically penetrated by the host. 

And our eyes recognize the nice gangster who looks us straight in the eye, but the brain takes longer to realize what’s happening. 

And we get up, and he follows us. We push him away, but so slowly, like in a dream or underwater. We go to the bathroom, he follows us, bends us over the counter, and continues his thrusting. New angles, mirror reflections on the marble bath and on the platinum fixtures. 

A few moments later, I ask my friend Célina for reassurance: “This kind of thing happens, right?” 

Célina laughs and confirms that it does. The most important thing, she explained, is that he was really nice and didn’t want to scare me, that he found me attractive. 

And that he wouldn’t do anything that would hurt his friendship with my boyfriend, my boyfriend who really wanted to ride in the gangster’s new Bentley, the same one from the new Batman movie.

Our host is missing for several hours the next day and when he comes back, I feel like he’s avoiding me. My boyfriend talked to him, but he barely remembered it. I talk to him, all good, no big deal. I’m 19, he’s a gangster with a Batman car, but I don’t want him to feel bad. 

I ask him if he’s okay.

(…)

I tell my therapist: it’s frustrating, I work hard, but this part doesn’t sink in. I really don’t understand. So much is happening at once, I don’t know if there’s a sequence or not, it’s just blurry. I’m short of breath, my pupils are dilated, my body vibrates imperceptibly under the effort to contain myself. 

The body protects the mind. When it hurts too much, the body provides its own solutions. Adrenaline to contain the pain, tequila to forget, serotonin to love our baby as soon as he comes out, no matter if we just experienced the most extreme physical pain. 

We told ourselves we were tough, like our grandmothers, and that by living as a fulfilled feminist, things like this were bound to happen. I don’t know why it had to happen, but I always felt it was a kind of fate being fulfilled. 

You’re not the one who gets married, you’re the one who gets fucked without consent because you’re game, you’re sexual, you make sex jokes in public! What did you expect? And now, ten years later, five years later, now, you want to take control. You see the consequences of having ignored the destruction. Of not telling your mother, to not hurt her, of choosing silence to not disrupt these men and their lives. You want access to your intellect during a class that bombards you with emotions. You want everything, but you are nothing. 

There is no accountability.

There is too little justice served, and too slowly. And with each #MeToo, #IBelieveHer, #BeenRapedNeverReportedIt, I relive it, she relives it, our tapes are on a loop. Thousands of women in the streets of Montreal are reliving their own Salvail, their Rozon, Ghomeshi, Weinstein. Fuck everything. 

Their beloved family man who sleeps soundly at night. 

The therapist tells me, “you could try to work with a tutor, but as it is, I’m not sure it would help. What would make you feel better?” 

To talk about it.