Coital Conundrums

In the popular imagination, I have found that sexual assault and crimes of that nature are seen purely as a women’s issue. Logically, we know this to be false, given that 43% of American men have reportedly experienced some form of sexual violence; however, the statistics show that women bear the brunt of this problem. A problem arises when we categorize sexual assault as a “women’s issue” because it moves the topic out of the category of solely a violent crime and intertwines assault with gender politics. In this issue, people often debate a victim’s credibility more publicly than in any other case.

Ask someone, for example, to describe their 21st birthday on the day and then ask them again a year later. The two stories probably wouldn’t match exactly, if at all; yet no rational person would conclude that the birthday never happened. However, with sexual assault, there increasingly seems to be a narrative that a shifting account is evidence of a fabricated narrative, even though the prevalence of fake allegations sits between 2-10%, depending on which studies you look at.

This framework has been apparent in much of the internet discourse surrounding the horrific “Cornell 7” case. Rampant online commentary suggests Jane Doe’s current testimony should be taken with a grain of salt because her story has changed since 2024. This is a narrative I find to be frankly insulting—not only to her but to all victims of sexual abuse. I know too well the process of trying to recollect a traumatic incident, the emergence of new memories, and the doubts of old.

Now, I may or may not have been a victim of something similar to Jane Doe’s experience, but I still had an experience in my youth I felt was pertinent to share here.

Many years ago, I, like many of you reading this, was an overzealous teenager who thought that the only way to have proper fun on a night out was to drink in excess. One night, my friends and I went out for a birthday; drinks flowed, heads bobbed—everyone had a good time. Then, I met a girl. A girl I would not have met under normal circumstances, which should have been a sign, but after X number of drinks, those signs pointing me in the opposite direction melted away with the music.

As I was saying, I met this girl, and we danced (leaving little room for Jesus) and danced some more. All the while, the drinks kept flowing. I hadn’t noticed then that the number of drinks I had consumed did not match hers, but I was taller than her and a man (if you could call me that at that age), so I paid it no heed.

“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” she asked me.

“Sure,” I replied—my first mistake. A minute later, we were walking hand in hand away from the club and toward her apartment.

Over the years, I have fought the urge to blame my friends for not stopping the situation, but knowing their brains were about as developed as mine at that age, they probably thought I was on my way to getting lucky. We arrived at her place and moved some bases before I felt a wave of tiredness enshroud me; I also realized I was too drunk to do anything further.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, pulling my clothes back on and resting my head on her bedroom floor. “I’m too drunk to do this.” Then the proverbial screen went black. I woke up the next morning without my clothes, not on the floor, with no real recollection of what happened that night. I’ve racked my brain to try and piece together what we did or didn’t do, but as time has gone on, I have lost more and more of it. But I remember the feeling. That feeling I will never forget.

A feeling of disbelief, feeling so small and untethered. This stuff happens to other people, I thought cynically; it doesn’t happen to me. When I told my friends my version of events, they congratulated me, oddly enough, on “my potential ability to perform against all odds.” They still did not get it.

For years, I kept this story under wraps out of embarrassment. This was my second mistake. Would I be seen as less than? Part of me thinks I let myself get into that situation and allowed myself to be potentially victimized. I reiterate “potentially” because nothing may have happened in bed that night, but the uncertainty frightened me for years. How could I not know what happened? I asked myself that question, but as time passed and my memory of the incident grew hazier, I came to terms with my version of events. The version that best fits the innate goodness I think we all have as humans, the version that kept me safe.

By telling my story, I am trying to illustrate that memories change. Trauma has a funny way of shielding us from our worst fears, and as we grow more detached from the initial incident, we gain and lose parts of events. This is why the discourse around Jane Doe has infuriated me to the point of sharing my story.

Her story is a tragedy, and we see it too often across college campuses and beyond. We are not here to judge the validity of her testimony; a story that changes over time is not evidence of a lie, but evidence of memory doing what memory does.

It is no coincidence that I have chosen Spartacus as my alias. In Stanley Kubrick’s 1960 historical drama of the same title, after they capture Spartacus, Marcus Crassus offers to spare any survivors if they identify him. In response, his fellow slaves, instead of turning him in, replied defiantly en masse to Crassus, “I’m Spartacus!” to protect their leader. I mention him because, walking amongst you, you’ll find thousands of John and Jane Does: some who know it, some who don’t, and some who are confused about where they stand. They are out there—the statistics back it up—Justice Department analysis of violent crime in 2016 (though slightly outdated, the point remains the same) showed that roughly three-quarters of rapes and sexual assaults go unreported.

Friends, family, colleagues, neighbors—people you know, love, and care about. The survivors who are brave enough to tell their stories are only a fraction of those living quietly, held back by a myriad of fears, in many cases suffering greatly for what was taken from them. I myself have come to terms with my own experience, but it took a long time. It was probably as confusing to get to that point as it was to diagnose what happened in the first place. I am no longer ashamed or afraid, yet I hide my name. I hide my name because this story is not only mine. I do it not out of shame but solidarity, for every survivor who cannot speak or may never be ready to.

I am Spartacus. If you stand with any survivor, knowingly or not, you do, too.

Spartacus regrets all the drinking he did in his youth.