En route to West Hollywood, Rihanna’s “Man Down” comes on the radio, and I think about the misguided controversy over its accompanying video, mostly Marc Rudov’s appalling equation of BDSM to rape: “She sings that she killed a man when she ‘lost her cool’ because ‘he was playing her for a fool.’ This garbage from the same woman who publicly bragged to Rolling Stone recently that she likes to be spanked and tied up. Rihanna gets to have it both ways – accuse Chris Brown of domestic violence and be violent herself – because she’s a woman.”

When I first met my partner in person, after hours of previous online conversations flirted at our mutual penchant for kink, we discussed and agreed on our safewords. Rudov’s words illustrate how deeply the complexities of rape and sexuality are misunderstood and misrepresented.

Despite these complexities, consent is as simple to understand as “Yes” and “No” (Insert safewords where appropriate). It seems, however, that the simplicity of consent may be what leaves so much of our culture dumbfounded.

What’s truly controversial about Rihanna’s rape revenge video – which is practically artistic compared to a typical Law & Order: SVU episode – is its stark and narrow portrayal of sexual assault. SlutWalk LA aspired to draw attention to the gaps in our culture’s understanding, treatment, and conviction of rape and sexual assault.

Lots of people have called me “slut”: my mother in a contentious argument when I was a teenager, my girlfriends during a giggling bonding moment, my partner as we both arched toward orgasm, classmates who knew only rumors of what I may or may not have been doing with my boyfriend, and a perfect stranger after I ignored his comment on my appearance.

I guess you could even call me a “slut” for this one time when I went to this one guy’s house when I was a freshman in college. He was a friend of a friend who invited me over to drink, even after I told him I had just broken up with my high school sweetheart and wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone just yet. He said that was fine, he just wanted to be friends, after all. Even as I accepted a second drink in his absent parents’ living room in Pasadena, I reminded him that I wasn’t going to hook up with him, and he assured me that wasn’t his intention. Too drunk to drive, I was offered a bed to sleep in.

I remember his weight on my back as he fumbled at my pants, and the way my pulse quickened in terror. I didn’t want to, my heart was still broken, and I wanted sex to mean something, but had I somehow asked for this? Didn’t I make a point of telling him I was not interested?

My voice was small when I objected. “What are you doing? I don’t really want to.” I could feel his bare erection on my skin.

“It’s just cuddling.”

“I’m not ready.”

His breath was wet with alcohol. “It’s just cuddling.”

But it wasn’t, and I had to protest again before he ceased his advances. The next day I went and got tested at the campus clinic, but didn’t mention in what context. I felt confused, violated, deceived, angry, and scared. Later, when I spoke with a USC student advisor about a film school professor’s inappropriate contact, I was instructed to take the incident up with him privately, lest they be forced to report it and make it a “big deal.” In elementary school, male classmates would grab at my developing breasts and were excused as “boys being boys.”

It’s this institutionalized denial of the gravity of all sexual assault and rape that brought hundreds of women and men out to West Hollywood to march in outraged solidarity on Saturday, June 4th. Some of us decided to take the walk’s name literally, some of us decided to wear jeans and a t-shirt, and some of us decided to don nothing more than a bra and underwear and a message which read, “I’m still not asking for it.” Regardless of our dress, what we were all still asking for is basic human respect and dignity.

Sometimes in the throes of a sadomasochistic scene with my partner, with my arms tied behind my back and his foot on my face, bent over on my knees, I wonder if I’m betraying feminism. I wonder if I should bring it up with my therapist. I wonder if I look like a porn star. I wonder what I should have for dinner. But one thing I don’t wonder is whether or not he will stop should I retract my consent. In all the complexities of sex, power, and feminism, the sacred simplicity of consent lays a foundation of trust that only elevates our relationship.

Sitting on the lawn at West Hollywood Park while Almost Paradise DJed a set of female-fronted tracks, I basked in SlutWalk’s air of empowerment and education. I felt safe and supported. I lingered after they packed up the turntables and most of the walk’s attendees drifted off, lamenting the moment I would have to leave and re-enter an unfortunate reality where my body is often opened up to public consumption against my will.

Whether you’re a “slut,” a “prude,” or just a woman, SlutWalk proved that combating all aspects of rape and sexual assault, from perpetration to prosecution, is a collaborative effort. Our bodies are not a burden, our dress is not an invitation, and our consent is not debatable.

Am I a slut? Do I dress like a slut? Do I act like a slut? I don’t know…but I do know that I’m not asking to be whistled at while I hustle to the pharmacy in PJs to fetch an emergency box of tampons, or while I strut to the bus stop all dressed up and sparkling for a night out with my friends. I know that when I say, “No,” I mean, “No,” and that when I say, “Yes,” I mean, “Fuck yes!” Whether or not I’m a slut, when I walk, I should feel safe doing so, and when someone violates my humanity, that violation should be taken seriously and respectfully.

And to be honest, as one woman’s sign read, “I can’t believe we’re still protesting this shit.”

Related posts:

• Melanie Klein: To Reclaim Slut or Not To Reclaim Slut: Is That the Question?
• Feminist Fatale blogger, Sarit, recounts her experience at SlutWalk LA: What Being at SlutWalk Taught Me About My Activism: SlutWalk LA

Photos by Liz Acosta.