A common question I hear when I talk about consent is “how does one have completely consensual sex?” What the person asking is usually trying to say is that asking for a “yes” during sex kills the mood or makes it awkward; from my personal sex experience, this is not so.

Before I even start to do anything of a physical nature, my boyfriend and I ALWAYS ask each other if the other wants to have sex. Because sometimes you are simply not in the mood- and no matter what the reason, that’s okay. It does NOT mean that you do not love your partner, or that your relationship is bad, or that you do not enjoy sex. A number of factors contribute to sex, and you could be tired, not feeling well, stressed, pre-occupied, etc. Too many people think that once you are in a relationship it is acceptable to expect sex whenever: sorry, sex is not a perk of dating, and consent is still important no matter how involved with your partner you are.

That being said, the definition of consent is going to change from person to person. I do not need my boyfriend to seek consent from me before or during foreplay, but some people might be more comfortable if their sexual partners seek verbal consent for and during foreplay. The thruline isn’t about when consent is obtained or for what activity: the point is that consent is important, no matter what your comfort level. Before we have sex my boyfriend always checks to make sure I still want to, and I feel comfortable telling him when “no.” That is something that every single person who has sex should feel comfortable doing.

In my opinion, consent is sexy. There is no bigger turn on to me than knowing my boyfriend cares about me and respects me enough to make sure that I am 100% into whatever we are doing. So I have consensual sex, and I have it all the time. Asking someone, “hey, are you okay with this?” isn’t awkward: it’s sexy.

Hot Mess was described as a panel. Having served on a bunch of panels this year, I imagined a table, a discussion, moderators, a series of points to address, group participation and a friendly/feisty/constructive tone. Hot Mess had emailed me the list of potential discussion topics, and I would be part of the rape panel that they dubbed “consent aka ‘the line’”.  Again, flattery will get you everywhere, and using the title of my film to get at the issue, stroke- stroke – stroke.

Some of their “get ready” questions were off the charts problematic, but they followed them up with sound research into the complexity of consent, rape laws, and recent current events in the college sphere. You smart wonderful people on the internet had much to say when I posted the questions for debate in advance of the taping, and speaking from experience, Heather Corinna tweeted her warnings:

@thelinecampaign These are some really uneducated questions they’ve put to you.

@thelinecampaign Don’t suppose they consulted/included a sexuality educator/sexologist, eh?

@thelinecampaign It’s just you and then a bunch of COMEDIANS talking about all of this!? Sounds like they want a hot mess by design.

Things started to unravel when I logged into the live-stream and saw folks lounging on couches. Beaming in from Brooklyn, I went for  the “smart filmmaker” setting, and placed myself in my cluttered (creative?) looking office. Everyone was chatting on leather, I was drumming my fingers on my desktop high above from my plasma screen. I placed the call on Skype testing the sound, and realized there was a delay between sound and image. Gulp. I could hear and be heard in real time, but had to guess who was speaking in the room and when/if if the cameras were going to cut to me.

Can anyone hear me?

Is this thing on?

Remember that Metallica video?

That was me. Alert, aware, but not being heard.

I was told that the 30 second trailer of my film would be used to “kick off” the conversation and we’d go around one by one, with some guidance from the moderator, and discuss the multidimensional and complicated topic of rape. We’d use smart, snarky analysis of a real – not imagined, not whined about, not exaggerated, not falsely claimed- problem.

Instead, egged on by the producer, participants – not the moderators – were encouraged to take what they saw in the trailer and the one sentence synopsis of my rape (she consented to vaginal sex, and then was raped anally) and debate. It didn’t occur to me that a producer would structure a conversation around my film when no one had seen it, nor was it ever articulated that my body parts and my rape would be at the center of this debate.

One comedian played the hard-ass role throwing out phrases like: “play the victim,” “you didn’t say no,” “take responsibility,”, “put yourself in that situation”- and all manner of victim-blaming crap, none of which I haven’t heard before. Choosing to go public with my rape seven years ago, opened the door to all kinds of criticism of my person and of my right to come forward and call out the behavior. People questioned whether or not my experience “counts” as rape, and my personal favorite, whether or not my rape was “bad enough.” In what I call “the hater montage,” I include these presumptions in the film, to highlight and challenge rape myths. It works because its part of a larger, structured story and argument, unlike being broadsided for an imagined audience’s entertainment.

Moderators Jessica and Anna did their best to shut it down by cutting in and correcting rape apologists, but the monkeys flinging shit had been let out of their cage. Here are my freakouts on twitter:

Ok, the room has officially exploded, and I’m not being given the opportunity to speak. At all. Nor has anyone in the room seen my film.

Woah – this is surreal. They are fiercely debating my story – and rape – and responsibility – w/out my fucking voice

WOW – someone just said, unless you kick the ass of the man trying to #rape you, or pull out a gun, you’re not being raped

“You are raped bc you’re unlucky enough to be in the presence of a rapist” – @jessicavalenti (thank you, darling)

Oh, and note to self: Don’t ever debate YOUR #rape on skype when everyone else is in a room, and you’re cutting in and out. TECH FAIL

OMG – we are done. Would you ever want to have #sex w/someone who called your ass “a dirt button”? Gross.

Sisterhood was not alive in that L.A. studio. The gals making Hot Mess thought smart, “sexy” debate meant humiliating their guests, taking cues from Bill O’Reilly, Howard Stern and any right wing talk show pundit with a penis. I am fine with outrage, but — it has to be constructive. Amping people up to be haters for no reason other than to hate or get attention is fucked up. Maybe the bigger question is how do we ever talk about rape in the context of pop entertainment? What are the rules? What do we want to get out of it?” If they’re going for the Jezebel and Feministing audience, those of us weaned on bitchy, smart, funny content that critiques sexism, rape myths and misogyny, being an asshole to be “provocative” isn’t going to cut it. Its just not that interesting.

My experience in the hot seat of Hot Mess reminded me – like a slap in the face- a few basic media principles. As a filmmaker and producer, respect your subjects. They are not objects or props to be used or humiliated. Honor them. And as a subject and author of your life, remember – your story is your story. It is sacred, precious and individually yours. Find and maintain your boundaries about how and with whom you share your story. Call the shots and don’t forget you’re in control.

So yea, if you’re trying to make “feminist” TV, and you’re going to tackle big important lady topics like rape, to quote Jon Stewart, “I’m not going to be your monkey.”

Being the quintessential Gemini that I am, I have been at odds with a lot of what is happening right now in my life while trying to figure out what my line really is. I’ve been involved with THE LINE Campaign since January of this year, starting the new year fresh with fem-fucking-power, and it has taken up a permanent spot in my heart, mind and soul. Not only does it re-awaken my feminist spirit every single day, but I have become part of the bigger movement and that has given me the courage to speak out.

A good friend of mine recently told me that I should watch what I say. Although I do admit that I don’t (always) think before I leap, I just can’t keep my mouth shut when I don’t agree with something(or somebody). He told me this after I posted a public note on the door of his building shouting out the sexist, violent asshole on the sixth floor that catcalls womyn from the stoop and thinks that hog-tying his beautiful german shepherd is “funny”. I felt that he needs to be publicly embarrassed and all the womyn living in the same building as him need to be aware of this creep. An hour later, another note appeared in the same place as the prior one stating “I know it was you, you bitch, you fucking cunt.” Obviously he couldn’t think of anything to say except to respond with vulgarities.

I don’t think that I say enough sometimes.

But back to what I was saying..

I’ve been in the city for over a week now, after traveling around New Orleans, then to Detroit for the US Social Forum. I’ve had some time now to organize and sift through my thoughts and feelings, however I am all-over-the-place and can’t seem to do much gathering. I’ve been thinking about where I stand in love and relationships frequently recently because I am seeing someone exclusively, but I’ve realized that I never reach satisfaction in any relationship because I always feel like there is something missing. For the last three years, I’ve succumbed to the fusion of another human being’s life with my own and haven’t had any time on my own.

Shit, I want to be selfish right now. I want to not worry about anyone else’s need besides my own. Fuck male domination, fuck societal paternal pressure of fucking your partner out of pity and fuck men colonizing womyn of color into relationships to obtain control over our lives. I see/hear/feel it with myself and whomever I talk to. Despite whatever madness (or realty) I may afflict, I haven’t felt this rounded and comfortable with myself– ever.

I steal the title of this post from the COLORR (Colorado Organization for Latina Opportunity and Reproductive Rights) girls who I met at USSF at their sexual health ‘zine-makin’ workshop. We ended the workshop in a circle holding-hands reciting Assata Shakur “to my people”, then placing our hands over our hearts and pussies (or cocks) while saying “me quiero, me cuido”. Translation: I love myself, then I’ll take care of myself.

My whole life as a woman, I was told how to avoid rape. The usual advice of not dressing “slutty”, not parking far away from buildings, not going out after dark, not going places alone. All of these “precautions” were a reaction to the stranger myth of rape and sexual assault- the theory that a woman will be attacked by a complete stranger. It never occurred to me that I could be assaulted by someone I knew: I went on dates with men and never thought to be afraid of them or their roommates, although they certainly also could have raped me as soon as any stranger. Thankfully, that didn’t happen, but certain lines were crossed.

I went on a few dates with a guy I will call “The Eternal Frat Boy” due to his love of drinking and partying- constantly. He was a nice guy, but somewhat of a “player.” Either way, The Eternal Frat Boy and I ended up in his room making out. One thing led to another and eventually he just grabbed my hand and stuck it down his pants. When I froze and didn’t do anything, he became upset. Eventually he just let it drop, but looking back on that scenario I have multiple thoughts on the situation, including the coercion ploy of his being upset, his lack of interest in obtaining consent, the lasting feeling of shame and embarassment that I felt afterward, and lastly: the fact that I am in no way alone in telling a story like this one.

When women assert themselves in not wanting to do something sexual, they are told that they are prudish, naive, and unsatisfactory. It is total crap. We have the right to say when we are uncomfortable, even if our Eternal Frat Boys weren’t expecting it.

Another scenario involves the “California Boy.” We went out a few times, ended up making out and at one point we started to get semi-naked. We were making out when I felt his fingers moving towards my vagina, and I quickly asked what he was doing. He shushed me and stuck his finger inside of me. Was it as traumatic as other forms of sexual assault or rape? No. Was it invasive, scary, semi-traumatic, and wrong? Yes. He never asked me if I wanted him. A common theme explored in “Yes means Yes!: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape,” the anthology edited by Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti, is the need to focus on exploring the “Yes” of sex and not the “No” of violation. There are too many people that think women who don’t say “yes” still want sex. This is not true.

Sadly enough, I did not really come to terms with what consent was until I began dating my current boyfriend. One night we began kissing and he stopped, looked at me, and said, “are you sure you want to do this?” I was honestly taken aback. Two seconds forever changed how I look at consent. This is how every sexual encounter of any kind should be for everyone: one or both partners looking for the “yes.”

The issue of consent, and our respective lines, came up fairly early in mine and my partner’s relationship. The morning after a night of heavy drinking, he asked if we had had sex that night. I replied that we hadn’t:  he was much too drunk, and I didn’t want to take advantage of him. He didn’t seem to find a problem with sex in such a state of inebriation, explaining that “having sex is something we would have done drunk or sober.”

My partner and I have very different views on what constitutes consent. For him, the green light is given at the beginning of the relationship, while I feel safer granting permission, be it verbally or nonverbally, each time, and staying in full control of my body and the situation. These kinds of boundaries must be reconciled and respected in order for any relationship to work.

I made it very clear at that point that if I am drunk- repeating conversations; blacked out; falling asleep in an alcohol-induced slumber- or otherwise too under the influence to make a conscious, responsible decision about whether or not I want to have sex, then I am to be left alone to pass out in peace. Even more unpleasant than a hangover is the feeling of being violated.

There is no gesture sexier, more attractive, more moving, or more conveying of respect, than waking up to find yourself still in last night’s clothes, curled into the same fetal position in which you fell asleep (with a blanket protectively draped over you), and turning over to see your partner fully clothed as well, surrounded by obvious signs of sexless evening. For me, that strict observance of my boundaries and respect for my line, my sense of safety, is more romantic than any traditional display of affection; consent is the modern woman’s jewelry and flowers and chocolates and white horses and chivalrous brouhaha.

How one defines safety in a sexual situation is difficult, as it is a concept that is subjective, often circular in its logic, and privy to changing at a moment’s notice. For me, however, safety is as simple as being with someone with whom saying “yes” is just as easy as saying “no.”

THE LINE has had a successful year. The film- and Nancy- have touched countless lives and minds, started tremendous heartfelt discussions on campuses worldwide, and impacted communities near and far with a sex-positive and genuine message about sex, communication, and consent.

For those of you who brought this dynamic and thought-provoking program to campus: thank you. For those of you who attended and took part in this movement: thank you. For those of you who write, submit, support, and promote us in your own work and your personal lives: thank you.

And for those of you who want to keep in touch… we’re now offering a newsletter! Keep updated about upcoming and past screenings, updates on relevant topics and items of interest, and opportunities to transform your communities! If you’d like to subscribe to the newsletter, please click here and sign up.

Hello, everyone! My name is Sarah Haack, and I am part of the new crop of bloggers here at Where Is Your Line?

Originally from Richmond, Virginia, I now attend American University in Washington, DC (along with the fabulous Carmen Rios, fellow Vagina Monologues cast member and she-ro) as an Environmental Studies major. I will be studying Linguistics and Scandinavian Studies at the University of Gothenburg in Sweden next year, but in the meantime, I am living in New York City, interning with the Girl Scouts of the USA, and learning the finer points of navigating bureaucracy, planning potlucks, and empowering women and girls.

I toured AU during the April of my senior year in high school, taking in the campus one last time before sending in my acceptance letter, and vividly remember the painted t-shirts strung throughout the student center in preparation for Take Back the Night, part of Sexual Assault Awareness Month. One statistic struck me in particular: that one in three women are sexually assaulted. Still in high school and rather naive, this number resonated as tragic, but hollow, sympathetic but not empathetic. Two years later, I found myself standing on the before those t-shirts as a survivor. It is selfish, I admit, to not really take up a cause until it affects oneself directly, but when I was puff-painting my own statistic on that white v-neck after a realization that took a full year, I finally understood the impact of today’s hookup culture and its implications, and how important it is to open the lines of communication not just about sexual assault, but about sex itself. The perceived “gray area” of sexual assault needs to be eliminated, and replaced with standards where a YES! is just as important as a no.
I was drawn to Where Is Your Line? by its sex-positive attitude and celebration of sexuality. Consent is more than knowing when to say no, but also knowing you can say yes; it’s feeling safe enough to enjoy sex that meets your standards, whether it be with a long-term partner or a total stranger, and being strong enough to draw a line that is either non-negotiable or ever-changing. The pervasive rape culture in which we find ourselves dictates that our demeanor, our alcohol consumption, and even our outfits, are all indicators of our willingness to be sexual- and can be interpreted as such without any discussion. And yes, my miniskirt and five-inch heels are an expression of my sexuality, but that does not (necessarily) mean I want to share that with you. Believe me, if I did, you’d know it. I’d tell you. Just ask.

As the new editor of this blog, I want to say a big THANK YOU to everyone who responded with such fire to our call to action. We’re stronger now, and here comes the tidal wave: we’re going to be introducing all of our new bloggers and exploring the power of our voices throughout this week.

We asked YOU, in all corners of the USA- and beyond- the same question: where is your line?

And you told us:

It’s common-fucking-sense.

I chose the above response from Hunter College because it explains where my line falls, too: without respect, how can there be anything else? I believe that if someone doesn’t respect me enough to ask about my boundaries, they’re not worth my time.

And I know that conviction may seem simple, but it’s not.

The other day, my friend told me she was in bed with a guy and he crossed her line. Then she told me they were “both to blame,” and she “accepted his apology.” I was surprised that she accepted his apology (and to think- he apologized via text message!) with such ease. Did I hear her right? She said he was her friend and it was stupid. A friend? How could he disrespect her boundaries like that? I still feel guilty that I sat silently when she told me this, but I didn’t want to push the issue.

I don’t know how I can best talk to my friend about this openly and honestly. What am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to tell her not to forgive him? Should I tell her straight-up that it wasn’t okay for him to cross her line? I’m nervous she would get mad at me, and that she’ll think I’m making a big deal out of “nothing.” I didn’t say anything to her because I didn’t want to be patronizing, and I didn’t want to lecture her- but I also want her to know that I care about her, and that it is something she deserves more than a text about.

I feel strongly about this, and I’m disappointed in myself for not having said anything yet. I want my friend to be with someone who respects her, and I want her to know that. So how can I talk to her about this without stressing her out or upsetting her?

One night while I was walking to my fraternity’s house, a friend called me asking to be picked up from a mixer. She sounded scared and wanted to leave. My brothers were willing to go, but I dismissed the possibility that there was anything to be concerned about. After a little while, a car pulled into our driveway driven by one of her sisters. She was in the passenger seat, and when she came inside she told me that she had been uncomfortable with the men at the mixer. They had made fun of her and her sisters, saying they were going to fuck them later, slapping them on the ass, and refusing to give her their address so that someone could pick her up. She tried to leave the room, but the brothers barred the door and told her she had to stay. She pulled me into the bathroom and I tried to calm her down, but I was far from calm myself.

One of the most offensive things about the entire situation was the assumed status of women at a fraternity party as possessions without any agency, only there to fuck them and unable to exercise their right to come and go as they pleased. This is a horror story we all hear often, but I’m still appalled it actually happens. Any connection between two people based on love and attraction needs to exist through freedom, and any act of coercion is not an act of respect, openness, or mutuality. I wanted to act on the situation and make some sort of positive outcome, and I reached out to the other fraternity in anger, expressing my frustration with their actions to a close friend in their chapter in hopes that I could get them to understand the true magnitude of their behavior.

But in the end, nothing happened. My friend’s sorority sisters blamed her for “starting shit,” said that she just shouldn’t have caused a scene, and they were banned from ever partying at that house again. Her sisters dismissed and blamed her. Sexism and objectification are built into greek life, so much so that a popular saying on campus is that the only purpose for joining a sorority is to “do arts and crafts and suck frat boy cock.” In the end, I was disappointed in the idea of “sisterhood” as fleeting and hurtful, cold and blissfully ignorant of the issues they could be taking effective steps toward improving. Greek life doesn’t have to be about coercion, assault, danger, or pain- and my brothers and I refuse to support, justify, or ignore any actions that are.