
Consent. According to the Oxford English Dictionary consent is “Voluntary agreement to or acquiescence in what another proposes or desires; compliance, concurrence, permission,” permission. Yeah, I gave him permission, there was no struggle, and I never said “no,” never said “stop.” So, I guess, I really wasn’t raped. Of course, who can give consent when they are very nearly black out drunk, could you. If you cannot even walk in a straight line on your own, if you will not remember every single part of the night, if you cannot speak without slurring your words, can you really give consent? No. I don’t think so.
Honestly, I don’t think that he is such a bad guy. What do you expect when every voice he hears is saying, “yeah, go for it,” or “you’re both drunk so it’s okay.” Uhm no, it is not okay. In what universe would you ever think that it would be okay to take a girl that is that drunk home with you, the girl who literally fell into your lap. Lucky, damn right you got lucky. Who tells these guys that this is okay, why the fuck do we put up with it. Empowerment, my ass, Cosmo says you have better sex when you are sober, aren’t we all about having great sex; great consensual sex. What I want to know is who the hell can look themselves in the mirror after correcting the level of drunkenness reported by their hookup:
So, how drunk were you last night?
Uhm, fairly drunk, slightly more than average…I guess.
Ha, really, really drunk.
Alright, and how the hell don’t you think that’s wrong. But I guess it is my fault isn’t it? My fault for going out, for over indulging, I was asking for it right? Uh uh. Wrong.
You have a brain, you have a conscience, hell you’re fucking hot; you don’t need a girl to have had 5 or more drinks for you to get some. So why did you do it? Maybe you can explain it to me and I’ll understand. Maybe you can explain it to me and I’ll stop feeling physically ill every time that I see you, every time that I dwell on this.
You see, sex isn’t just physical, sex is chemical, and as much as I want to slap you across the face, I still want to be near you. I want to be close to you, to have you want me for the person that I am and that’s what makes me sick to my stomach, to the point that it is almost hard to breathe. The fact that I can’t help it, I hate myself for wanting to be with you. And the worst part? You don’t even give a damn. It’s just chemicals, and I gave consent.