A Guy Kissed Me Without My Consent—My Reaction Surprised Me

When I was a teenage waitress, my older, taller boss pressed himself against me in the walk-in cooler, kissing me, blocking my way out.

My first kiss came earlier, when I was a horse crazy 14-year-old: a cigarette-smoking high school boy pushed me into the shadows at a horse auction.

Many years and two young children later, a married guy from church shoved his tongue into my mouth after installing an AC unit in the tiny apartment I'd found in my first divorce.

These are the easy stories. The simple ones with lesser degrees of harm. Too many of us have much darker stories. My own relationship with my ex-husband began with an imposed hug that ultimately led to years of coercion I didn't understand.

A non-consensual kiss is a sexual boundary violation. And it's finally recognized as one of the many red-flags located in the war zones of coercive control and domestic abuse.

Which is why, today, an unwanted kiss can make headlines. And it's why, when a dude kissed me recently, out of the blue, I'd had enough.

We'd met up after an email correspondence he'd initiated after following my private socials—we shared a mutual friend in real life. He'd reached out after I disclosed my recent breast cancer diagnosis, and I appreciated the way he engaged with me—respectful, caring, kind.

Given these green flags, I shared a bit of my own relationship history, including that I'd moved out of state to get away.

His replies were steady and engaging, and reflected the seriousness of what I'd been through. Plus, he consistently expressed empathy regarding my recent surgeries and treatments.

So, when he traveled across the country to visit nearby family, I agreed to meet for breakfast and a possible beach walk. He knew I would be meeting on a day off from the daily, exhausting radiation treatments, so we planned to walk only if I was up to it.

So far, so good. I was curious.

It had been five years since my final divorce, when my domestic violence counselor gently pointed out the dangerous patterns I'd survived, and that it takes survivors an average of seven times to leave.

I'd found Jennie Young's Burn the Haystack Method and I was adopting her strategies in my dating life: using an understanding of rhetoric—the meaning underlying words and actions—to, in effect, Nancy Drew my way towards a loving partnership.

Plus, I had a high bar. During the years of my ponderous liberation, a couple of excellent men befriended me and I'd slowly transfigured at the incandescent hearth of their loving-kindness.

My curiosity had legs.

We met in a public place. I parked in a nearby meadow bordering a public beach. The salted air, this beach and its shorebirds have all become soothing poultices in the sanctuary of my healing.

We talked while waiting for a table, the ocean a stone's throw from our bench: he asked thoughtful questions, seemed to enjoy my sharing, and offered his own... an unspooling in which I sensed a possible friendship.

Given my previous experiences, I knew true friendship was my essential keystone. Still, I had no physical attraction and no interest in him as a romantic partner. Two hours in, we both declared our waffles as the "best we had ever eaten," and I remained curious.

We headed to the beach.

Out on a log, we sat to take in the views of the Pacific Northwest's regal mountains and the Salish Sea, home to the orca whales who'd called me here. We shared a nerdy biology moment identifying a seagull's lunch—a gelatinous fish head—and got into territory regarding his life decisions.

He scooted closer to me on the log.

This is when I decided two things: I did not want to kiss him. But despite the lack of attraction, I realized I'd be open to sharing a second meal before he flew home.

By now, three hours in, the radiation was catching up with me. We walked to my car in that meadow tucked away from public view.

With hints of trust kindled, I did not think about this at all.

We thanked each other, reflecting on our easy connection (though, truly, since the pandemic, I treasure warm conversations with everyone), and he said he'd be in touch about another meal. I initiated a hug, then stepped pointedly back a few feet with a final goodbye, unconsciously closing my eyes to adjust my pony tail.

Then, suddenly, I was being full on kissed.

My eyes flew open, my hands flew to either side of his face, pushing him away. I stepped back fast and he quickly retreated.

"(Dude) you surprised me!" I said too brightly.

By then, fortunately, he was ten feet away, waving.

On autopilot, I got in my car, taking deep, steadying breaths. Once I was out of his sight, I found myself aggressively wiping my mouth, disgusted.

I went home to a weekend of mad press about the Women's Soccer Cup win being engulfed by a man who'd planted an unwanted kiss. I thought about what this dude knew when he kissed me: he knew I'd escaped a harmful relationship; he knew I was in the midst of daily cancer radiation treatments; he knew I have to be extra careful about COVID and illness.

He didn't give me a choice.

I thought about the years I'd soaked in chronic flight/fight/freeze physiology, and what my medical records look like as a result; cancer merely the latest entry. How I'd spent my life trying to stay safe, shrinking into someone I'm not. How we're beginning to understand that silenced women get sick.

There was never going to be a second meal.

When he emailed the next day, he addressed his "clumsy kiss," saying ... it was "spontaneous" and that it was "intended for your cheek." He said, "perhaps an apology is in order, as I didn't plan to spring that on you."

I called one of my male besties to check out whether a man would ever miss a woman's cheek for her lips... he burst out laughing.

Then, more seriously, "If he said that, he's lying."

A rush of memories narrowed to a laser point of light inside me: if he's willing to say that, it tells me so much about what else he's willing to do.

Thinking of Jennie's haystack, I knew I would #Block_to_Burn.

Still, since the dude and I had invested some time in a fledgling connection and he'd emailed the quasi-apology, I decided not to block immediately.

He seemed well-meaning, and I suspected he—like so many men—probably still had no clues. I asked myself whether I wanted to give him any. I considered, yet again, the potential harms cast upon women who disclose. And how to change that.

This is the gist of my response:

Dear (dude),

Thank you for following up. I, too, enjoyed our visit, and found you to be a gentle, kind, and warm person... I thought I might be open to another visit.

The kiss—that came so unexpectedly while my eyes were closed—changed things, so I do appreciate your apology. For me it is about consent: women need and deserve a chance to offer "enthusiastic consent." I don't think a kiss should ever be a one-sided spontaneous display, because if it's not clearly mutual it can quickly lead to problems. Having recovered from traumatic violations in previous relationships—as are many/most women—makes me very clear about these boundaries. For me, this is a non-negotiable one.

I thanked him for what would otherwise have been a nice time, and wished him well. He followed with a refreshing, more genuine apology, and I got the strong sense he'll never kiss a woman again unless he's sure it's what she wants.

The irony is that if he were a person who hadn't used that moment to kiss me, I might have come to trust him enough to feel a spark.

The blessing is our consent culture is, finally, ripening.

Rachel Clark is a science writer and author of The Blackfish Prophecy. She currently seeks representation for her memoir of escaping coercive control, now a crime in four states.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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