Content note: This article describes unwanted sexual contact and harassment.
I was gasping for air, eyes welling with tears, white knuckles clutching my knees, unable to believe what had just happened. My date sat uneasily on the other side of the couch, searching for the right words. “I’m sorry, are you okay?” they tried. I shook my head, still out of breath and unable to get a word out. “I didn’t want to choke you,” they said. “I would have done it differently if I had meant to.” And eventually: “You could have just told me to stop, you know that, right?” Those remarks threw me even further off balance.
In my five years at Caltech, this was not the first time I had heard that kind of spiel. A few of the people I’ve dated operated on the signals of “no” instead of asking for a “yes,” like a robot vacuum that maps a room by bumping into the walls. Despite the sexual assault prevention training required of incoming Caltech students, I doubt my experience is unusual.
One of my friends even refused to take the Title IX online course, arguing that it was for people who couldn’t control their urges. “Beasts that let their biological urges control them,” they sneered. “I am a human, and I refuse to be educated like a pig.”
Audacious as it sounded, I guess their implication was that civilized humans understand consent naturally. Well, my date from the beginning of this article illustrates how naturally we understand it: They put their hand over my mouth, sending me into a hyperventilating panic attack. For a moment they looked genuinely confused, thinking I was excited by the restraint, and asked if I was enjoying it. This was a poorly executed version of “no means no.” In their eyes, proceeding without a no was fine, even when my mouth was covered and I couldn’t have said no.
I’ve also made assumptions about consent. Years ago, at a party, I leaned in to kiss someone on the cheek, and they fled. I apologized profusely later and was forgiven verbally, but it was too late — a permanent mark was left on our friendship. The throng, the alcohol, and the hands in the dark might have pushed me toward that move. But nobody else put my hands, or my lips, on another person. I did.
Through these experiences, I’ve come to realize that our community doesn’t always live up to its standard of affirmative consent. The idea isn’t new. In the early 1990s, Antioch College, a small liberal arts school in Ohio, adopted a student-written policy requiring verbal consent at each new level of intimacy — and was promptly lampooned on “Saturday Night Live” for it. 12 years ago, California Senate Bill 967 required colleges like Caltech to define consent as “affirmative, conscious, and voluntary agreement to engage in sexual activity.” Caltech’s own policy uses that definition today (https://clery.caltech.edu/consent). The standard has been around for more than a decade, but the culture hasn’t caught up.
Operating on “no” fails for a simple reason: Saying no is not always possible. Sometimes one is physically unable to say it. Sometimes it is too embarrassing to say it. Sometimes one is caught in a power dynamic that makes it unthinkable. That is why the three adjectives in the definition matter: affirmative, conscious, and voluntary. Assuming someone wants it is not a yes; it is one’s own desire projected onto someone else. A mumble from someone who has been drugged and incapacitated is not a yes. Yielding to someone who has the power to fire you or give you an F in class is not a yes. And even a real yes doesn’t cover everything that comes after it.
“So what, now I have to ask you every time I touch you?” My date frowned. I nodded. “I guess we are just not compatible,” they said. For months afterward, I questioned myself. Was I really unable to say no? Was the panic attack an overreaction? None of these questions would have existed if only they had asked.
I wish they had asked before they took away my chance to say no. And I wish I had asked, too, at that Halloween party, before I leaned in. “Can I kiss you?” would have cost me no more than a few seconds of awkwardness.
I can see why “only yes means yes” is hard to follow. They saw asking for consent as a style of romance, not a basic requirement for interacting with another human being. In that view, my insistence on being asked is a failure to read the room: too dense, too rigid, a compatibility issue. That is where the gap lives. A policy is just a policy, a lecture during orientation week. It isn’t a culture.
What does it take for a culture to change? Not a generic Title IX lecture in a large auditorium. Not a panic attack at the other end of a sofa. And probably not a cathartic article about one’s experiences, either. What it takes is people asking. Asking feels awkward because few people do it, and few people do it because it feels awkward. Every person who asks for a yes out loud makes it a little less awkward for the next one. If enough of us ask, asking becomes the norm, and the person who doesn’t ask becomes the strange one. The culture comes from us.
How do you ask for consent? Ask whenever you aren’t sure what the other person wants. A sign of interest is not a definite go signal, and a yes from last time doesn’t cover this time. Simple questions like “Is this okay?” or “Do you like this?” can go a long way. And if someone says no, accept it without taking it personally. If a friend confides in you about a “no,” listen instead of judging what they should have done.
To anyone who stumbles upon this article: Own your part. Nobody else puts your hands on another person — not your desire, not the mood, not your power over them. Only you do. And before you do, you need a clear “yes,” whether through words or actions.