As a survivor of sexual assault, I’ve learned that trauma, healing, and the memories of violence don’t operate within neat paradigms or conform to any intuitive, linear structure. I was raped a few years ago by a person I’ll call Sami, a software developer now based in Seattle. But I’d somehow been able to find some semblance of closure a lot more straightforwardly than the single time I got molested, almost a year after my encounter with Sami. 

On February 25th 2023, I was at a bar in the east of Singapore, attending a now-defunct monthly social mixer with about 50 people, a mix of close friends, acquaintances and strangers. The purpose of the mixer was to meet new people. In fact, the organisers had explicitly stated that the mixer was not a platform for dating or hook-ups, and that in the past, they’d taken varying degrees of action against predatory or simply greasy behaviour. Still, it wasn’t uncommon to meet attendees who treated it like some sort of speed dating activity. 

There were also consent stickers on every attendee’s name tag, colour-coded to indicate how comfortable we were with physical contact (red for “don’t touch me”, orange for “ask me first”, and green for “touch is okay”)—only of the sort that would be appropriate in a public venue where the occasional young family would dine at. I had an orange sticker on that night, which meant anyone, especially strangers, who wanted a friendly hug, or to initiate any physical contact at all, would need to ask for my consent before doing so.

Midway through a conversation with a new friend, I was introduced to Saul, a white man in his early 50s with brilliant azure eyes. Saul was in an open relationship with Jocelyn, absent that night, but a regular fixture otherwise. (Saul and Jocelyn are also pseudonyms.) Unbeknownst to me at the time, the pair were always looking for (usually younger) women and men to have intimate encounters with. Saul’s piercing gaze left me feeling exposed. Perhaps I wasn’t used to such directness, and immediately felt awkward and self-conscious. I sought to fill in the awkward silence with small talk, asking him about his interests and what drew him to this social mixer. The more we spoke, the more I’d realised we were different in the ways that mattered—a white man prattling about accidentally discovering that he can perform the Japanese healing art of reiki is extremely off-putting to me. Yet, I saw no harm in small talk, so continued being agreeable and polite, as many women are socialised to be. 

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment the tone of the conversation shifted, but I remember everything happening at once. I felt a hand—his hand—on my buttocks, generously moving over the expanse of it. I went into a state of internal shock and disbelief. Sure, while some parts of our conversation could be interpreted as flirtatious, my (orange) consent sticker signalled that he should’ve asked first. I had, in no way at all, given any clear indication that he could grope my bottom, definitely not an appropriate thing to do in a public, family-friendly venue in any case.

A year later, in the sticky and gross situation of being groped against my will, and still in the vicinity of many acquaintances, the only thing I could think about was ending the interaction as quickly and politely as I could to avoid making a scene. I can’t remember anything else Saul said after he groped me. Until today, I can’t begin to explain why I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and lips before making a flimsy excuse about going back to find my friends. Ending the interaction on a good note was, in a way, my attempt to protect myself: by minimising any potential ostracism from the group, of which Saul and Jocelyn were influential members. 

That night, I texted the acquaintance who introduced us, with the intention of just raising this and resolving the matter privately without the organisers’ involvement. As Saul and Jocelyn were close friends with the organisers, I was unconvinced that he’d be held accountable. The acquaintance conceded that Saul had behaved inappropriately, and got him to apologise to me. Saul texted me to say he was sorry for “overstepping [my] boundaries”, but he found me “incredibly interesting and [he] was fascinated by [me]”. On top of seeking my forgiveness, he also found the need to add once more (for posterity?), that I was “beautiful and intelligent”. I share this not to flatter myself—I prefer wholesome affirmations from my loved ones about my person, rather than my looks. But it’s illuminating that, even in Saul’s “Razzie”-deserving performance of remorse, I was made to feel responsible for what he had done to me—I was the temptress that had seduced a Nice Guy into folly. Needless to say, his apology left me feeling more disgusted than ever, but I was ready to leave it at that because I felt that pursuing it would be an imprudent use of my time and mental energy.