How men are adjusting to the #MeToo era: “This is going to take a really long time”

EDITOR’S NOTE, 3/27: Since the publication of this essay, Jazmine M. Walker, a Washington, DC-based co-host of the Black Joy Mixtape podcast, has come forward to say that the author coerced her into an unwanted sex act. The incident occurred, Walker says, when the two were in a relationship while both were enrolled in the graduate program in sociology at the University of Mississippi, six years ago. Walker first made the allegation on Twitter, and repeated it in an interview with Inside Higher Ed; Vox has confirmed that she stands by her accusation. Robert L. Reece wrote in a tweet after the essay was published that “I’ve been coercive before, specifically with my ex about ten years ago.” He has declined to comment further. Vox is investigating the allegation, and related issues. If you have relevant information to share, Vox editors can be reached at firstperson@vox.com.

The look on his face was familiar. I’d been there myself.

It was the look of a man in reckoning — mentally replaying past sexual encounters, searching, pondering, trying to recall conversations and facial expressions, filtering through imperfect memories. Did she seem hesitant? Did I ignore the signs? Was I too aggressive?

This particular student sat in the front row of a course I was teaching called “Masculinities in America.” In the classroom, we discussed topics like trans men, female masculinity, men’s place in feminist discourse, and, finally, sexual violence, assault, and consent.

I asked students to think hard about whether they asked permission before they touched their partner intimately, or before a kiss. I was impressed by some students’ advanced ideas about consent. One woman mentioned that she’d heard coaches sometimes encouraged athletes to ask women to sign consent contracts before sex to avoid sexual assault or rape allegations. Another student spoke up to say this was not affirmative consent — that a person cannot consent to the entire process of sex at the outset.

I noticed that the discussion was concentrated among the women. The men in the class were noticeably silent.

The student in the front row caught my eye. He was an athlete, and I had been proud of his growth throughout the semester and his engagement with complex ideas about masculinity. But this conversation seemed to affect him differently, making him uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

He and I communicated via email after class. He told me the topic was difficult to grapple with, that he struggled to reconcile past encounters with his new knowledge of consent and coercion. I told him I understood how distressing it could be to recall those experiences but stressed the importance of sitting with the discomfort and learning from it. I suggested he visit the counseling center, although I’m unsure if he ever did.

As #MeToo continues to prompt conversation about sexual misconduct, what are the conversations that men across the country are having about this movement?

The controversial allegations against Aziz Ansari have shifted and broadened the discourse surrounding the #MeToo movement from workplace harassment, particularly involving celebrities, to a larger discussion about consent and coercion in sexual encounters.

Howard (a pseudonym to preserve anonymity), a DC-area lawyer I spoke to, said reading the Ansari story reminded him of what he described as his “creepy” pursuit of a woman friend in college. He told me that he similarly refused to take no for an answer even though she had expressed little interest in a romantic relationship with him. Influenced by “virtually every movie ever,” he told me, he felt it was his job to win her over.

Over time, conversations with female friends helped him realize how inappropriate his courtship was. Yet ultimately, Howard said he found his behavior “disturbing in its normality.” This was not just the actions of a single overzealous person: It was fundamentally how men had been taught to pursue relationships with women.

Other men I talked to — admittedly fewer of them — offered more positive experiences navigating the potential ambiguity of consent. Michael, a film student, recalled the end of a date with a woman he’d been intimate with in the past. Hoping to continue their sexual relationship, he began to kiss and touch her. “I was thinking, ‘Oh, okay, we’ve been here before, we can do whatever,’ but if she wasn’t feeling it at the moment or if things had changed, I didn’t recognize it at the moment … until I saw her face and how uncomfortable she was. I backed off.”

These realizations are not exclusive to heterosexual interactions. Tom (also a pseudonym), a gay man, described to me a first-time sexual encounter with a partner in which he felt hesitant and reluctant to continue but at the same time uncomfortable retreating or saying no.

“I was clearly not ready,” he said. “I was shaking. I was not in a good place mentally. I wasn’t even in a good enough place mentally to say ‘We should stop.’” Tom’s partner eventually noticed his visible discomfort and suggested they halt things, and Tom eagerly agreed.

Both of these situations epitomize that gray area that looms larger and larger in discussions I’ve had with men about consent and coercion. Although Tom admits he was not prepared to have sex that evening, he acknowledges he tacitly consented. Had his partner continued, Tom would not consider the partner a rapist, he said — but he would definitely consider him a bad person.

Among the men I spoke to, several questions emerged: Whose burden it is to make consent explicit? Is it the responsibility of the aggressive partner to notice nonverbal signals of discomfort and withdraw or renegotiate a sexual situation? For example, Tom said by asking if he was okay and if they should continue, his partner gave him “permission to say no,” which freed him from the pressure of following through and the internal debates about whether he had actually consented.

“Permission to say no” stands out as an important concept in these situations. Even though Tom’s experience was with another man, it may be especially important for heterosexual couples that men are hyperaware of their women partners’ nonverbal communication. Because men and women typically enter sexual encounters with disparate social power — and often with unequal physical power — and expectations, their interactions are especially sensitive to pressure and coercion where women may feel sex is obligatory or that they may be in physical danger if they refuse.

James, who is finishing his doctorate in criminology at the University of California Irvine, emphasized how this moment “brings the conversation to the ground … outside of the legal ramifications.” He told me that with his friends, he’s been privately talking about the importance of affirmative consent and how asking questions does not have to be a barrier to enjoyable sex. James was quick to point out that that sex with his partner has improved since asking questions and seeking affirmative consent became a regular part of their routine; it doesn’t “break the mood.” Such questions not only decrease ambiguity but also emphasize that sex is about the mutual pleasure of all parties involved.

Furthermore, Tom, who is part of the BDSM community, suggested to me that kink culture may offer the broader culture direction on minimizing the grayness in sexual encounters. He suggested that safe words, where partners agree to stop if either of them says a certain signal word during sex, might be a useful tool to combat people’s apparent aversion to using the word “no,” particularly during the middle of sex.

“I’ve found that it’s psychologically easier to say a safe word than to say no because we’re taught not to say no,” he said. “It’s hard even in sexual contexts, because we’re taught not to hurt people’s feelings.”

He also wondered about the larger benefits of the concept of “negotiation,” where partners plan and agree on which activities they will and will not engage in during sex. Of course, each of these approaches is subject to its own brand of power politics and coercion, but they may serve as useful safeguards.

It is important to remember that gray areas are not an innate part of sexual encounters. We allow gray areas to persist through our aversion to speaking openly and honestly about our sexual desires. And by allowing these gray areas to exist, we offer an excuse for people who seek to take advantage of ambiguity to fulfill their sexual goals.

Creating a better future is only one goal of the Me Too movement. We — we men — must also look backward and acknowledge our past wrongs, even if we have little guidance with how to process these feelings and what to do about them

Apologizing to our victims or asking for forgiveness may seem like the right response to confusion or guilt. This was ultimately Howard’s course of action, and he emphasized that “it has to be an apology in which you acknowledge what you did … and understand why it was wrong and tell that person that you know why it was wrong.” However, in these cases, we run the risk of forcing past partners to relive trauma merely to assuage our own guilt.

Although each of the men I spoke with acknowledged that they and other perpetrators should face consequences for coercion, they weren’t sure what those consequences should be. Although legal institutions are woefully unprepared to tackle the murkiness that comes with issues of consent, it is relatively easy to punish celebrities.

As we saw with Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, and others, we can publicly pressure the media industry to stop working with high-profile people who commit sexual indiscretions. But #MeToo has expanded to encompass non-celebrities, for whom that option does not exist. And incarceration, even if the legal system made it possible, has demonstrated little impact on lasting behavioral changes.

Tom seemed partial to a type of rehabilitation for these incidents. He drew a parallel to alcoholism, saying that rehab is not only about helping the person improve his life; it is also a public signal that this person admits and accepts his past wrongs and is committed to doing better. But Semi, a freelance writer, questioned whether rehab or counseling is an effective long-term solution. “If somebody is forced to go into counseling, they tend to resent that,” he said.

Ultimately, the search for the type of sustainable solutions and cultural changes necessary to ensure the safety and pleasure of intimate encounters remains elusive. History shows us that troublesome tendencies, particularly those that benefit groups in power — in this case, men — are not easily stamped out. It is important to ensure the solutions we implement do not fall victim to the typical twists and turns of oppression, where those who benefit find ways to circumvent measures designed to maintain our mutual safety. We have to remember that what we’re trying to accomplish — achieving social reforms, dismantling rape culture, and defining and solidifying consent — is a process.

“This is going to take a really long time,” Howard says, “It’s not just, ‘We had the #MeToo movement; now we’ve moved on. We live in a post-sexual harassment America.’ That’s just not going to happen.”

Robert L. Reece is an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Texas at Austin. He received his PhD at Duke University and is from Leland, Mississippi, a small town in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. His work has appeared in a number of academic and public outlets.

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