BLURRED LINES

Men are unapologetically driven by their egos. And I love them for it.

Women on the other hand are a confused species, torn between trying to assert ourselves as equal to, sometimes even above men – and being so turned on by being sexually lusted after, even at the cost of feeling vulnerable; that the only remedy is to get ploughed like a blow up doll.

Traditional feminists would say these two ideals are a perfect juxtaposition. I say we’re getting more and more like men by the day. The very fact that we can be comfortable with being dominant and submissive depending on how we feel and that it doesn’t have to mean anything, signifies our arrival at the place of ‘no label’, the place where we can just be; without justification.

It’s been a luxury afforded to men since the dawn of civilisation. And now we’re also free to experiment and enjoy sex merely for the sake of it. We don’t have to be categorised, we don’t have to explain ourselves. If we want to be held down and fucked mercilessly one day, then tie a man up and sit on his face for hours the next, we can do that. Hell, we can treat and be treated any way possible! As long as it’s consensual and no-one gets hurt against their will.

But that’s where things get messy.

Sometimes it’s impossible to prove consent and there are countless complex court cases that have never reached a satisfying resolution. Even if someone ends up in jail, the grey area makes it all a little too circumstantial to call with any certainty.

As someone who’s been at the receiving end of unwanted sexual attention (you could call it abuse, especially since I was only 12, but I prefer to downplay it – somehow it makes me feel like less of a victim); I feel entitled to talk about consent, the grey area; and to explore the idea of rape committed by a female. Can a woman ever rape a man? Or is it really as one-sided as social culture would have us believe?

Is it, by the very nature of physical anatomy, impossible?

The law assumes that it’s impossible and most people would agree that rape is a crime that can only be perpetrated by men.

Because in legal terms, it’s more complicated than just ‘a forced sexual act’. In order to rape, you need to be the bearer of the thing with which to force entry. A penis. The phallic tool that fills the void.

To me, the very term ‘fucking’ always suggests a less passive role in the act of sex, one that a woman, armed with only ‘the hole’, is incapable of. Because really, what else can you do with a hole, other than allow someone or something into it? It’s not a convenient starting point when we’re trying to fight for sexual equality but it’s a simple and inescapable fact of anatomy.

I know what it feels like to be a victim to the threatening strength of a man. I understand the fear, the helplessness and the self loathing that plagues you afterwards. I know the feeling of anger and inferiority that takes over you, when you have time to take it in, to accept that it’s possible for you to be sexually overpowered by another human and that actually, there was probably more you could have done to stop it, but instead you felt somehow deserving of the experience.

But I’m going to turn the tables for a minute and admit that if there is such a thing as a woman raping a man, I probably did it one night when I was 27.

He was an airhead. Come to think of it, he must have thought I was an airhead too. We were both working at Goodwood Festival of Speed, he for Alfa Romeo and I for Mercedes. Our jobs were to hang about on car stands looking attractive, trying to entice middle aged men into buying a dream. (The dream was to look like him and to have someone like me on their arm, whilst driving around in a pussy magnet like an Alfa 4C or a Mercedes SLS AMG.)

We’d been put up in a nearby Travelodge for the week and I was bored out of my skull. It really didn’t take long for me to realise that being paid for your looks is the dullest way to make a living that you can imagine. No-one gives a fuck what you think or have to say, in fact they encourage you not to say anything unless you’re a great salesperson, which I never was. There was no commission on offer so I amused myself by talking to upper-class Clarkson wannabes in jeans and tweed blazers, trying to guess how much money they had in the bank and how often they cheated on ‘her indoors’.

One evening after we’d had dinner and the drinks were flowing on account of some smug, rich git who was trying to buy friends in the bar, I sidled up to a guy in his early twenties who I’d had my eye on all week. He was tall and tanned with messy dark hair – that kind of intentionally dishevelled look you’d see on a VO5 advert. I’d change his name if I could remember it, but he meant that little to me – I only remember him as Alfa guy.

I spent about an hour on and off, chatting to him and some other people who’d been working the stands at Goodwood. I was so bored by the surroundings and the company, all I could think about was getting laid. I’d have much preferred it if he hadn’t been ten sheets to the wind, but he was getting drunker and drunker. In the end, I made my advances on him pretty quickly before he was good for nothing and he willingly followed me to my room.

Once inside we didn’t waste any time with conversation. We fell onto the bed, kissing and pulling each other’s clothes off and it ought to have been sexy but as one night stands go, it was one of the worst I’ve had for three reasons: how rancid his breath was; how limp his dick was and the small matter of him blacking out on me.

It started promisingly but the breath thing was a big issue so I pushed him back onto the bed, putting as much distance between my face and his. He fell backwards and I straddled him, undoing his jeans and pulling them down to release his cock. (I say release but it was more like an excavation. It was how I imagine a cock to look if you were to put a man in a walk-in freezer for twenty minutes with a video playing of male to female transgender surgery.)

Still, in for a penny, in for a pound I thought – there’s got to be a way to rouse an inebriated penis!

It turns out there isn’t, unless you can get your hands on some viagra. I should have given up at that point. I should have done the decent thing and made us both a coffee and instigated some drunken small talk. But I didn’t. For whatever reason, this one wasn’t getting away, so I spent the next ten minutes trying to roll a condom onto his flaccid dick, thinking that if I could just get it inside me, maybe it would liven up. It was like trying to get a dead goldfish into a deflated balloon. I looked to him for some help but he just lay there in an alcohol induced stupor. I carried on regardless and eventually, most of his floppy penis was inside the latex so I took off my knickers and proceeded to thumb this thing into myself.

That bit wasn’t too difficult as it happens, I was so wet, you could have slid anything up there. But once it was in, I couldn’t feel a thing. It kept sliding back out and no amount of gyrating or putting his hands on my tits was making any difference to the floppiness of his knob or his general state of alertness. Finally, probably much too late, I realised he was no longer awake. His head was resting to one side and his breathing was slow and steady.

It was the only time I would ever come close to experiencing what necrophilia must feel like and I’m relieved to say, I don’t understand the appeal. Neither do I understand the appeal of fucking someone who is still alive, but comatose. Even less do I get why you would take pleasure in forcibly fucking someone who doesn’t want you to and who is pleading with you to stop.

I climbed off and made some attempt to pull his trousers back up, the whole scenario had started to make me feel sick. He was breathing with his mouth open, the air smelled sour around me and the whole thing was cringeworthy on all counts. Lucky for him he was none the wiser and would have limited memory of the encounter.

I left him to sleep on the double bed and climbed into the single by myself, wondering what the hell I was trying to prove to myself. Why did I feel the need to keep fucking strangers, let alone an unconscious one and at what point would I not need to behave like this anymore? The following morning he was still asleep when I woke up but gone by the time I got out of the shower. I saw him a couple of days later on his car stand but he went out of his way to avoid me.

Did he feel violated or embarrassed? I’ll never know. I didn’t have the chance to ask him because he never spoke to me again. Maybe that in itself suggests he was embarrassed. But embarrassment isn’t the same as violation. At worst, it suggests that his masculinity and ability to take an active role in sex was compromised and as such his ego took a hit.

“Margaret Atwood once asked a group of women at a university why they felt threatened by men. The women said they were afraid of being beaten, raped or killed by men. She then asked a group of men why they felt threatened by women. They said they were afraid women would laugh at them.”

Molly Ivins

I can’t be convicted of rape. And that’s because our entire society and its laws and social norms are constructed to keep females subjugated by men. If the law doesn’t recognise that a sexual offence can be committed against a man by a woman, that doesn’t mean it can’t. It just means that the law and society refuses to recognise that women can be a sexual threat to men.

If there are no men who will admit to feeling sexually victimised or threatened by a woman, then as women we’re fighting a losing battle. What’s the point of trying to achieve sexual equality?

I believe this is why women find other ways to be dominant and to exercise control over men. They’re at a physical disadvantage in so many ways. Women have evolved to find ways of being threatening in clever and manipulative ways that leave men bewildered.

Take the ‘crying rape’ phenomenon. Because accusations of rape have to be investigated with nothing more than the woman’s word as evidence, it’s not unheard of for women to use this to their advantage, when the man has in fact done nothing wrong.

For that reason, I don’t believe that all convictions of rape are even close to being fair. If someone can’t remember having sex with a person because they were so intoxicated but there is evidence of sexual intercourse, that doesn’t mean they were raped. It simply means they have no memory of what happened. I have no doubt that Alfa guy can’t remember a thing about that night in my hotel room. I’d bet my life that he wouldn’t be able to remember my attempts to get his cock inside me. It doesn’t mean that I acted against his will.

Whilst I do sympathise with any man trapped by this kind of accusation, he’s obviously not the sharpest tool in the box to be having sex with a woman who’s intoxicated in the first place. Consider if there’d be a gender reversal between Alfa guy and I. I could have had him put in jail.

Whilst I’m not proud of what I did, the thing that bothers me the most about it is how starkly it highlights the disparity between how men and women are judged. Sometimes it benefits women, often it doesn’t. But one thing is obvious. Equality can’t possibly exist – not now, not ever. Biology simply will not allow it to.

Sexually, we are nothing more than a receptacle, inside which men leave their parting gift of semen. Where rape is concerned it’s the ultimate sign of ownership, like a dog pissing up a wall, covering up the scent of the last dog. Or if you want to take a procreational view – ‘You are going to father my children, whether you like it or not’.

In fact, it seems men love to use their semen to exert ownership or dominance over a woman – I’m talking in particular about the porn-inspired obsession for ejaculating on a woman’s face.

What man, in his right mind, thinks that it turns a woman on to shoot his slimy, stringy load all over the face that she kindly made up to perfection for him?

It’s not like cumming on any other part of the body. The tits – fine. The arse – sexy. The pussy – to be expected. But the face is the one part of the body that should remain sacred. The face is the personality, it’s how we communicate, see, breathe – it’s the focal point of a human being.

A cum facial is what I consider to be a sexual V sign. A ‘fuck you bitch, I’m done here and you’re nothing to me’, as he wipes his cock on the curtain, zips his flies back up and reaches for the door, leaving you to try and regain your eyesight.

Cum-facials are more common that the average woman might like to admit. Maybe I’ve found myself in bed with all the wrong people, but I’ve been asked on many occasions – “Can I cum on your face?” To which I always reply, “No you fucking can’t, you prick!”

Now, I like rough sex and I like playing the dirty slut sometimes, because in an oxymoronic way I feel empowered by it. But the thin line between dominance and complete insult and disrespect is one that many men never quite seem to grasp. Perhaps that’s the reason men’s sexual behaviour can land them in jail and women’s rarely does.

If it weren’t such an insult to the crimes and injustices women suffer at the hands of men, I’d suggest we spend more time laughing at male attempts to control women with violence.

Because apparently that’s more frightening to men than being raped or beaten.