ENOUGH is a Rumpus series devoted to creating a dedicated space for essays, poetry, fiction, comics, and artwork by women, trans, and nonbinary people who engage with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
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Greg dry humps me while I lie on my back and count the stars in the night sky. His groans of pleasure mingled with the sound of crickets and distant car horns create a sorrowful symphony—”Rhapsody on a Theme of Rape.” I consider screaming. But the park, nestled in an affluent neighborhood, is dark and deserted, and screaming is useless. No one would hear.
Greg’s moans grow louder. I’ve disappeared. He could be fucking a mattress for all he cares. I try to look on the bright side. At least he’s not inside me. There are worse things than being dry humped in an empty park by your best friend’s older brother. Stop beating yourself up. You tried to fight, but you’re only fourteen and he’s a hundred-and-fifty pounds of horny teenage boy. Maybe if you’d worn jeans instead of your new sundress.
Greg stiffens with a primal groan, then collapses, spent. I scramble up, smooth my dress, and slap him in the face. Hard. He takes it because he’s a nice Mormon boy.
He swoops into the dark office, gathers me in his arms, dips me like he’s Cary Grant in an old Hollywood movie, and kisses me on the lips.
I’m twenty-five and this is my first real job and my first real boss. He appeared behind me this morning like a specter in a horror film. I’m in a deserted part of the ad agency I now work for, putting camera equipment away. As I struggle to free myself from his octopus arms, I remind him that I’m married. Ha. Like that’ll protect me. Of course, it doesn’t. Neither does my creative director when I report the incident to him later.
“That son of a gun,” he says.
“Are you kidding me?” I shout. His betrayal stings. He’s my mentor. I like him. But he’s also a guy.
He shrugs. It’s the ’80s and boys will be boys. You know the rules, kiddo.
I’m demoted and my assignments dry up. They’re forcing me out so they don’t have to pay me severance and unemployment. I should hang in there. But how can I?
I quit.
I’m thirty and have just started my dream job. I’ve killed myself to get where I am—the only woman in the creative department of a famous New York ad agency. I was hired because I “art direct like a man.”
I try not to let this statement dampen my joy.
I’ve won some major awards, yet already two male co-workers have been promoted over me. One even apologized—maybe worried that I’d wig out? After all, isn’t that what we do? Get hysterical? New ground being broken here, boys. Tread lightly.
My boss appears in the doorway. I calmly voice my complaint. He pretends to listen.
“It’s done,” he says. “But I just want you to know you look really pretty today.”
“Thank you, Steve,” I say. “You don’t know how much better that makes me feel.”
He misses the irony.
A few months later, he fully hits on me. I refuse him and he makes my life hell. I quit. Again. I know the drill now.
“Your body is a battleground.” —Barbara Kruger
I’m walking my twelve-year-old daughter across the middle school parking lot when we pass a group of fathers of daughters. One of the men checks out my kid’s budding breasts. Shocked, I drop her at her classroom and sprint back to the parking lot. I search for the asshole like a deranged momma grizzly. But he’s gone. Enraged, I pound my steering wheel until someone taps on my car window and asks me if I’m okay.
“Any woman who chooses to behave like a full human being should be warned that the armies of the status quo will treat her as something of a dirty joke. That’s their natural and first weapon. She will need her sisterhood.” —Gloria Steinem
My daughter grows up, and soon it’s time to pass the torch yet my victories seem slim, my crusade a failure. Second wave feminism has made inroads, hasn’t it?
“Why does Dr. Miller think I’m lying about my symptoms?” my now-twenty-something daughter asks me.
I drive her home from her doctor’s appointment because of her dizzy spells.
“He asked me if I get together with my girlfriends and make stuff up,” she says. “Like I’m a total dumbass.”
“He’s hardwired to not take women—especially young women—seriously,” I tell her, suddenly exhausted.
“But I deserve respect,” she says.
“Of course you do. We all do.” I say, my heart breaking.
A friend posts a meme on Facebook—a beautiful underwater shot of a naked woman. Gauzy fabric swirls around her as she tries to free herself from the weights that hold her arms and legs down. Nothing in the picture suggests she’ll ever break free.
My daughter is sick yet her doctor still ignores her. I feel like a fraud when I suggest that she take her dad to her next appointment. But I’ll do anything to help her.
It works.
My husband and the doctor bond over bicycle racing, and my kid gets approved for the tests she needs.
My husband can’t take her next time, so I do. The doctor spends ten minutes with us—nine of which he talks only at me. I keep darting my eyes to my adult daughter hoping he’ll take the hint—he should be talking to her. He doesn’t.
He’s a clotheshorse, this guy—a peacock—always in expensive shoes. When I see the word “no” in his eyes, I compliment the shoes—a creamy brown suede—and he refers my kid to a neurologist. I smile and shake his hand feeling like I need a shower.
How fine is the line between resistance and survival?
That night, I study the beautiful underwater shot of the naked woman struggling to break free from her shackles. Nothing in the picture suggests she’ll succeed.
Yet nothing in the picture suggests she won’t.
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Many names appearing in these stories have been changed. Visit the ENOUGH archives here. Rumpus original logo art by Luna Adler.
