I resisted writing about the topic of nonconsensual touch. I’ve learned that whenever I experience resistance, it’s something that I need to explore. So here I am, about to share a memory that I haven’t talked about much.

I grew up in the Ohio countryside, surrounded by farmland with cornfields and grape vineyards.  The neighborhood girls and boys were all within several years of age. We went to the same elementary school. Outside of school, we weren’t closely supervised by our parents. We rode our bikes, sold lemonade and strawberries by the roadside, played kickball in the yard, and swam in the pond behind the house across the street from my home.

All of that changed the summer when I was twelve, just a few months before my thirteenth birthday. One hot, sunny afternoon, all of the kids in the neighborhood were splashing around and cooling off in the pond. I was the oldest of the girls. There were a few boys my age to maybe three years older than me. I’d known all of them since before kindergarten. They were like brothers.

One of the boys yelled, “Let’s get Laura.”

I thought we were playing a game like tag. But when they got to me, they dragged me out to deeper water. Then I felt multiple hands reaching inside my swimsuit, touching my breasts and my behind. As soon as I’d grab an arm and pulled it out, another hand replaced it. I could barely touch the bottom of the pond with my toes. My mouth and nose bobbed under water so there were moments when I couldn’t catch my breath. It seemed to go on forever.

I can’t remember if I said anything, but I know that I did try to get away. Finally, I acted like I couldn’t breathe and was drowning. They let me go. I made my way out of the pond and sat on the sandy shore.

“You liked it and you know it,” one of the boys yelled out as I swam away.

I sat on the shore by myself, feeling so confused and conflicted. I knew about sex and was looking forward to being a teenager and having a boyfriend. Did this mean that I’m old enough? That boys like me in that way now? Did I like it?

Honestly, no. I didn’t like being groped by so many hands touching me without my agreement. I felt fearful. I wasn’t in control. There was nothing about this that felt good physically or emotionally.

At the same time, I thought that these boys must like me. It must mean that I’m sexual now, almost a teenager. I wanted to grow up. I wanted to have a boyfriend.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not any of the other girls close to my age who were also at the pond. Not the mother in the house. Not my own mother later. I must have also felt some shame, some responsibility. On one hand, I was intrigued by sex and attention from boys. I didn’t like this situation. But did I cause it somehow? Was it my fault?

I’m just now processing it all as I write. For 55 years, I minimized this experience. I didn’t have the words. Now I do.

My first sexual experience was assault.

For many years, I thought my experience was just typical adolescent play. This wasn’t rape. I wasn’t penetrated. Boys will be boys. It’s a girl’s job to be attractive and to please and to not get pregnant.

Those boys, ages 12-15, already felt entitled to my body. I wonder now if any of them actually became rapists. At the very least, they all likely continued to touch other girls and women without consent.

Unfortunately, it’s much too common for boys/men to sexually touch girls/women without consent. From an early age, boys are taught that it’s okay, perhaps even expected. Many men seem to think that they are entitled to take from women. From an early age, girls are taught to give, to smile, to please, to be compliant.

My own early sexual assault normalized future grabs, gropes, and one almost rape that happened over the course of my lifetime. I brushed these violations off, often with a smile instead of defending my body and myself.

That changed after Bodysex. Betty’s wisdom, experiences in the circle, and my own masturbation practice gave me dominion over my own body. Now I know that I’m the one entitled to define how I’m touched and by whom.

A few years ago while at a swing club party, I noticed a man across the room embracing two women, one under each arm. The man was “handsy”, groping each woma and smiling. He was obviously sloppy drunk. He didn’t seem to notice that the women appeared uncomfortable with his attention.

Then this man started eyeing me as if I was next on the menu. He lurched across the room, leaving the two grateful-looking women behind.

“Stop!” I called out forcefully with my hand up and arm outstretched like I was halting traffic.

“Do – not- touch -me! Do not come near me!” I enunciated loudly.

He stopped in his tracks, scowled at me, then turned around and walked away without saying a word.

I now know three things that I wish I knew when I was twelve:

My body belongs to only to me.

I don’t have to share my body just because someone else wants me to.

I don’t have to be nice or polite when I say no.

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