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It was only later that I remembered the oft-cited Department of Justice statistic that one in four American women experiences rape or attempted rape during college.
While I’m lucky to be in the alarmingly small majority, I’ve certainly had sex that was harmful to myself and others because of alcohol, loneliness, or a reckless combination of the two.
During my first few weeks backpacking around Sri Lanka, I’d felt uncomplicated rage at the general pattern of male/female dynamics, where girls’ virginity is tested before marriage and couples rarely do more than hold hands before their wedding day.
Yet widows are widely seen as “easy” because of their vulnerability (few men would marry a “used” woman), and white women are taunted with jeers like, “Do you like the f**king?
The problem with this dichotomous thinking became clear when I decided to treat myself to a massage.
I chose to forget for the moment that I, too, exploited the increased freedom my white skin afforded me.
Like many of my female friends, I’ve also had sex when I didn’t want to to get a persistent guy to stop pestering me. I was distracted by these thoughts on my walk home from dinner with Sarasi, hardly noticing the fruit bats swooping in and out of lush rain trees.