He leads when dancing. She should follow. He is the one who asks her out. She should accept. He makes the first move. She should consent. The gendered standards between men and women inevitably place sexual power in his hands, and she is taught to be all too eager to comply.
As women, we are often conditioned to seek male validation, even if it’s at the expense of our own dignity. From high school homecoming invites to the complexities of real relationships, there is seemingly no room to reflect on our own desires when we as women are constantly shaped by the expectations of the male gaze. We should be “honored” that he wishes to pleasure us, regardless of whether we would have rather done nothing at all.
It’s not that these interactions aren’t consensual. Rather, it’s more of a gray area. Women feel pressured to say “yes” instead of prioritizing their own sense of self—as if their body is meant to be shared rather than honored on their own terms. In my experience, I have found that when male and female desires don’t align, we as women often feel like we have to satisfy his sexual appetites rather than reject advances to protect our own desires.
There’s this anxious feeling that often comes after a hookup for most women. Even though we often give up so much of ourselves to please him, we nonetheless worry if we were enough the next morning. We obsess over every detail, questioning if he perceived us as beautiful or worthy or just another notch on his belt.
For me, I’ve had several nights where I’ve woken up wondering, “Why?” Why did I let a male sexual pressure compel me to consent to something I honestly had no interest in doing? Maybe it’s the people-pleaser in me, bred by societal conventions of female passivity. Or maybe I felt as though I shouldn’t want to find a way out of those moments.
I first felt the pressure of male sexuality in high school. New Year’s Eve. Me with straightened hair. Eyeliner and a black top that shows more skin than fabric. Who was this girl?
“C’mon,” he whispered, walking into the bathroom, catching my eye before pulling me around the door. His backwards hat was crooked—“Auburn University” typed in small print now angled just above his eyebrows.
Don’t do it. I began to walk away and up the stairs, not knowing if I wanted to give up the one thing I could never take back.
I thought about our living room karaoke from earlier—11 p.m.—Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” playing, his face close to mine, his breath prickling my ear, and his voice just as hoarse as mine. Neither of us hit the notes, but I guess that wasn’t really the point.
I played into his embrace. I let his arms wrap around my waist, my head clouded. However, as he shut the door behind us, drowning us in darkness, I realized for the first time that I was about to give up part of myself. His hands were in my hair. His mouth swallowed mine. But it wasn’t what I thought it would be. Not Gabriela and Troy or Rapunzel and Flynn. I waited for someone to come save me from my own decisions. But what happened next felt inevitable.
It’s not like I said no. He didn’t force himself onto me. But rather, in that moment, I felt like I had to embrace the role I inadvertently chose for the night. And beyond that, I felt like I should have wanted to say yes. I should have been excited that he sought me.
In college, this sentiment continued.
“Wanna get out of here?” he asked as we sat with his roommates, playing poker.
“Sure.” In the moment, my response felt safe. What’s the worst that could happen? We were just friends.
But as we sat alone in his room, making small talk, I noticed the spaces between his words growing, his eyes wandering. He inched closer, moving his hands from the couch to my legs, tracing a line with his fingers from my knees to my waist. It should have been easy to interrupt his touch, to tell him I prefer us as just friends. But I couldn’t. Again, I fell into the trap that I should relish in his attention, in the fact that he chose me.
I let him explore my body and pretended I wanted to do the same with his—pretended to enjoy every moment. His hands. His face. His voice. I felt my dignity slipping by, my standards lowering.
I nudged him away, but he subconsciously pulled me back, pressing the fabric of his oversized white t-shirt against my now-exposed stomach. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Nerves? Or shame.
When I quietly slipped out the door behind me the next morning, I felt violated. And beyond that, I was mad at myself for allowing a friendship to be ruined because I was too afraid to form the word “no.”
The next time I sensed a friend was catching feelings, I thought I would take the time to finally stand up for myself—to preserve our relationship while putting my body first.
“Hey, can we talk?” Seemingly such a simple text.
However, when he opened the door in his boxers, I realized we had vastly different interpretations of my words. It felt rude to turn around and head home, even if what was in front of me really was not what I was looking for. I laughed to dispel the awkwardness as I walked into his room, assuring myself that I would stay on the floor. I was ready to tell him I wanted to be friends, even as he tried to nudge me into his bed.
But as I sat on his small rug, him lying on his mattress just inches away from me, I realized I was too vulnerable. There was no escape as he pulled me off the floor and into his arms. Maybe part of me wanted him to pull at my shirt, unzip my skirt. Or maybe I was just conditioned to think that’s what I should want.
Looking back, I hold nothing against any of these men. They had no ill will but rather were just acting on their own desires. However, I wish society made it easier for me to make it clear mine didn’t align. I let the idea that I should want to be wanted overwhelm my bodily autonomy until I was merely a vessel for his sexual pleasure.
Over the years, I have found that I am not alone in this feeling. The female urge to cater to male attention often subsumes our agency and self-determination as women, whether or not we are conscious of it. There exists this unspoken sentiment that rejecting a man is something negative—a disruption to the existing romantic gendered power dynamics. And beyond that, as women, we feel like we should never want to turn away a man who has set his eyes on us. So, we find ourselves sexually providing for them at the expense of our own desires in our attempt to seem attractive and worthy to him.
We trap ourselves in the image of what it means to be the perfect female externally rather than who we are internally. However, in the aftermath, we wonder if it was worth it to sacrifice our genuine needs to the lust of another.
Ultimately, as a woman, my understanding of the importance of the word, “no” is always evolving. In everything from future relationships to hook-ups, I am working on protecting my body in the face of masculine desire.
Written Anonymously for the Independent.