The Accidental Columnist: Even the slightest act of sexual violence can leave a mark

Something happened a couple months ago. It wasn’t serious – at least I tell myself it wasn’t. Sure most of my friends could tell a similar story. It wasn't a big deal. Or, maybe it was? Maybe it is? Let me paint the picture for you.

Crowds were whizzing by at a busy Manchester Pride. Natasha Bedingfield had led a chorus of LGBTQIA+ people singing along to Unwritten only an hour before. The last of the headline performances had ended and everyone was prancing towards the exit. Many of our crowd had already gone home so there were only three of us left. We wedged our way through the exit and one of my friends got lost in the buzz.

I stood on the curb trying to spot my lost friend. As I scanned through the glitter and crop tops, it happened. I felt the firm grip of a hand grab me. They latched onto me and danced their fingers on my glutes. Their fingers pricked into me; exploring, grasping, infesting.

It happened very quickly. So quickly in fact, that it took me a second to realise what was happening.

Now, let’s be honest: I can’t say I was unfamiliar with this feeling over the Pride weekend. I would go as far to say it was a common feeling with X, who I was with. So, at first, I looked up to see where X was. To my surprise, he was standing opposite me a few feet away. Enough of a distance away that it couldn’t have been him that grabbed me.

I went back to scanning the crowd – this time, not to find my lost friend, but to see who it was that grabbed me. The next image is burned into my brain.

A man, eyes rolling back in his head and tongue rolling out of his mouth, winked at me as he scurried away. I wasn’t close enough to him to know for sure, but I could tell he had bad breath. Everything about him disgusted me, and everything about the experience disgusted me.

Like anyone, I’ve had people stare at me for too long. I’ve had men who I’m not interested in linger. I’ve received nudes that I didn’t ask for. But, this one was different. Something about how that man looked at me so gleefully, so unapologetically, like I was supposed to enjoy what he had done – it bothers me now even six months later.

We know that sexual violence is rampant, particularly among university students and with women and non-binary people being the most affected. I’ve worked in the area before and have had friends and strangers alike sharing their own experiences of sexual violence with me.

When I think about my experience, it’s hard to not think about those people. To compare the magnitude and frequency. How many of us know a woman who doesn’t have countless stories of being grabbed?

I think of those things and I feel ridiculous. I’m embarrassed with how this has stayed with me. I struggle with how I know I’m more likely to be believed, validated, and sympathised with – a luxury I’ve seen first-hand is not afforded to so many.

But here’s the thing with sexual violence: even the slightest incident can leave a mark. And the conflict of what is and what isn’t ‘enough’ to justify upset might be the worst part of it all.

It’s been six months and I still think about it from time to time. I still sometimes feel the phantom imprint on my body. Has that man ever thought about it since? Probably not.

After all, wasn’t it just an ass grab?

Learn how to navigate consent for yourself and with others through our masterclass on consent with We Consent ambassador Sam Stewart, who also recommends helpful resources for those who have experienced sexual violence.