A woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a simple blouse, skirt, and heels, waits in a room. A room that looks much like a cell, with its concrete floor, its concrete walls. She sits at a bare table. In an uncomfortable chair. She pulls a folder from her bag and lays it onto the table in front of her.

Two young men, both in their early twenties, both in prison garb—pity it’s not bright pink instead of bright orange—are brought in by guards who sit them in the two chairs opposite her, then cuff their hands to the heavy rings set into the table. They stare at her.

“Who are you?” the first one finally asks.

She stares back. Disbelief on her face. “Who am I?”

“Yeah. Are you our new lawyer? Figures.” He snorts with disgust.

He doesn’t recognize her. She looks at the second one. He too— Do we really all look the same to you? Was it that simple? That horrible?

“I’m the waitress at Bud’s Bar.”

“Oh yeah,” the first one says, after a moment, “you do look a little familiar.”

“I’m the woman you assaulted. Sexually.”

“No,” he says. Casually.

“What do you mean ‘No’?”

“We didn’t sexually assault anyone. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he adds. Then looks at the second one. “Do you know what she’s talking about?”

The second one shakes his head, grinning slightly. He’d like to cross his arms on his chest, but the shackles prevent it. Instead, he leans back as far as possible and spreads his legs far apart.

“That night, after closing,” she—reminds? No, can’t be. Insists.

“That was you? Okay, yeah …” The first one smiles. As if remembering a rather pleasant day at the beach.

“But,” he leans forward slightly and expresses genuine confusion, “you wanted it. Didn’t she?” He turns to his buddy for confirmation. Because it wasn’t really a question. “You remembered it wrong,” he turns back to her, then leans back. “As we said in court.”

No doubt. Victims were no longer required, forced, to face their assailants. In a public courtroom, no less. It was finally understood that the shame and intimidation could be too strong, too influential, especially in cases of domestic abuse—a misnomer if ever, since there was nothing domestic about having your body beaten beyond recognition by the man you (thought you) loved, the man you married by choice.

Some had objected to the change, reasoning that if the victim didn’t have to look her or his assailant in the eye, she or he would feel free to embellish and fabricate.

But other arguments had prevailed, and now victims presented their testimony in closed chambers with only the judge, the prosecuting attorney, and the defendants’ lawyers present. In some circumstances, a friend or family member was allowed to be present for emotional support. A recording was made and, if applicable, shown to the jury during deliberation. Testimony seemed as honest, as accurate, and not nearly as reluctantly given. There was talk of extending the change to all crimes.

“I didn’t remember it wrong!” she says with some vehemence. “It was raining. You offered me a ride.”

“And you said ‘Yes,’” he says. Smugly. She is so naïve.

“To the ride! Not to sex!” Did they really think that consent to the one meant consent to the other? That when a woman accepted a ride—or an invitation to a party, or a drink, or dinner … Perhaps. After all, men defined … everything. She sighed.

“As I recall,” the first one continues, “you said ‘Yes, please’.” He grins. Case closed.

And yet, here they were.

“Did you hear me say ‘Yes’?” she asks. “To the sex.”

“Didn’t hear you say ‘No,’“ the first one snickers.

“But I did. Say ‘No.’ Several times. Loudly. Clearly.”

“Didn’t hear you,” he says. Cheerfully. Definitively.

“Besides which,” she ignores that, tries to ignore that, “it’s not like the default is consent. You don’t assume ‘Yes’ unless otherwise indicated. You assume ‘No’ unless otherwise indicated.”

“Well, maybe we can just agree to disagree about that,” he smiles. It’s such a patronizing smile.

She tries to ignore that as well.

“Do you figure you have the right to just walk into someone’s house without an invitation? Walk down their halls, into their rooms … “ She shuddered. Every time— She’d have to move.

He doesn’t respond. It was a stupid question. That was break and enter.

“Do you think the rules are ‘It’s okay unless the person says it’s not’?” she persists.

Again, he doesn’t respond.

“Then what makes you think you have the right to come into my body without an invitation?”

They refuse to accept the analogy. She knew they would. A woman’s body isn’t a house. It’s public property. That was part of why contraception and abortion were … issues.

Of course, she doesn’t accept the analogy either. Her body wasn’t her house. It was her. And after such a … violation, she couldn’t just move.

“So, what, we have to ask now?” He stares at her in disbelief.

What? She stares at him in disbelief. “Yes!” Why was that so … objectionable?

Ah. To ask for permission is a sign of weakness.

“Then again,” she reconsiders, “no. Because if you have to ask whether a woman wants you, she probably doesn’t. If she wants you, she’ll move toward you, rather than away from you. For starters.” How clueless were these guys?

And then it occurs to her. Neither one of them had probably ever made love. Or even made like. They had never engaged in simple, mutual pleasuring.

So they honestly didn’t know. They genuinely thought this was the way it was supposed to be. Because it was all they’d ever seen. In the porn they no doubt watched. It was all they’d ever heard about. From their bragging buddies.

Why is rape something to brag about?

Even if they’d gone to a prostitute— Most are raped while on the job.

What these guys needed were a few sessions with a sex therapist.

Absent love, or even friendship, genuine friendship, between young men and women, that might lead to affectionate sexual interaction …

But the male-female divide was so great now—walk into any toy store—it was nearly impossible to cross over and just talk to someone on the other side. Surely a prerequisite. What would they talk about? All they knew about the other, all they’d been told, by television, by advertisements …

Worse, all they knew about the other’s sexuality, informed not just by porn, but also, even, by the ubiquitous pop music saturating their lives, pumping them full of sexualized energy—it was a far cry from the Pointer Sisters singing about a slow hand …

’Course even back then, did men listen to the Pointer Sisters? They laughed at Barry White.

“We didn’t mean to hurt you,” the second one speaks up. “We just meant to have a little fun.”

What? She stares at him. Surely they’ve seen the photographs. (Though even absent physical injury …) Their lawyer must have presented that evidence during a pre-trial meeting. The prosecutor would surely have presented that evidence during the trial. Maybe they had their eyes closed. Their heads stuck in the sand.

She opens the folder and spreads the eight-by-tens onto the table in front of them. Like tarot cards.

“Does that look like fun? For me?” she has to add.

The first one glances at the photographs, then looks up at her. He shrugs. He has no idea what she considers fun. It’s not really his concern, is it.

The second one’s eyes widen before he looks away.

She repeats her question. “Does that look like I’m having fun?”

No, of course not. When people, almost always men, said ‘We were just having fun,’ what they meant was ‘We don’t want to be held responsible for what we did’ or ‘We didn’t think it through.’

“Sorry,” the first one shrugs. “Is that what you want to hear? Is this one of those victims’ rights things? Are you here to tell us what bad boys we are?” He laughs and grins at his friend. Who grins back.

“No, I’m here to ask why.” It was another change. These meetings, these confrontations, between victim and perpetrator, were permitted as part of the process. Any recommendations, by the victim, regarding sentencing, would be taken into consideration.

“Why did you rape me?” She asks the question.

“Because we could,” the first one says. The second one giggles. Sort of.

This is all just a big joke to them. She is just a big joke to them.

One of the guards happens to pass by the door, so she signals to him. She needs a break.