a short dress does not mean yes.

-viewer discretion advised-

Another warm summer night filled with familiar people. There was this hum to the party, and a glow emanating from the christmas lights hung in the yard. My hair was down and soft, and I was wearing a little white strappy sundress with my shoulders bare, my collarbone, and my legs exposed. I felt beautiful, even though it was the kind of dress I’ve been raised to feel ashamed in. Too much skin, not enough self respect.

Moments passed, and a man came and put his arm around me. I looked at him, confused, and he realized he had made a mistake. He thought I was someone else.

He introduced himself as one of the hosts and invited me inside his house to look around. We sat down in his room and got to know each other a little better.

I asked him what his dream was, what he wanted to do most with his life, because to me that’s just your typical get-to-know-you small talk. 

I really need to work on the whole “small talk” thing.

“A family.” He said.

He went on to describe how a wife and kids and doing God’s work was his sole purpose on this planet. Wow, I thought. You don’t find guys like this all that often. He shares his testimony of God. Wow, I think. He is so spiritual.

“There just aren’t many good girls left anymore. They are all caught up in the competition of who can wear the most makeup and the least clothing.”

He looked at me, and I began to feel a little uncomfortable, glancing down at my dress.

I didn’t remember thinking “I’m going to wear this dress because I need to make sure more guys are looking at my boobs than the girl next to me.”

But maybe I did, because he seemed pretty sure.

He went on to say,

“Rachel, I’m just going to be honest with you. You aren’t going to get a good guy wearing a dress like that. All guys are going to think is “If she’s comfortable wearing that in public, I bet she's comfortable wearing nothing in private.”

“I want someone who treats me with respect no matter what I wear.” I said, sounding less sure of what I was saying with every moment. I mean, I want a good guy. I want someone who loves God. Maybe he has a point. 

He laughed.

“Men don’t work like that dear. We are hardwired this way and you need to understand that.”

Modesty has never come too easy for me. I grew up in a liberal town where everyone wore whatever they wanted, and I have the personality of that one four year old boy that always takes off his clothing and runs around in the backyard naked. I try to be more conservative, because that’s what my religion, and my culture, teaches me to do, but its not like a natural thing that I enjoy doing. Sometimes I like to cover my body so my personality can shine, but sometimes I just don’t think about it, maybe as much as I should. 

His roommate came and knocked on the door.

“Shut the f*ck up, I’ve got a girl in here!” He yelled.

I looked at him with surprise. 

“He’s my best friend, it’s just how we joke.” Was his reply.

He stood up and said, “Let’s go back to the party and continue this conversation when everyone leaves.”

We walked out, and I immediately walked to my car, and searched through the pile of clothes in the back seat for a shirt to put over my dress. Because I want to send the right message to the right guys. Right?

The night went on, and I felt more comfortable. Now guys won't look at my body, I think. Now I won’t have to worry about not being respected.

The party comes to a close, and he returns to my side.

“Don’t go anywhere.” He says.

“I can only stay for a minute, I’m meeting up with some friends for food.”

I sit in his kitchen, and twenty minutes later he returns. 

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“I only have a minute, i’m already late.”

“Just get in.”

I don’t protest, partially because i’m intrigued, and partially because I’m not sure he would let me leave even if i tried. 

He pulls out his phone and begins to blast music.

“Can I play you something?” I ask.

“No.”

A little while later, I ask again. And without words he hands his phone to me. I play a song as we pull back into his driveway, and halfway through he turns it off. 

“That’s boring. Indie music is boring.”

We walk into his house, and I tell him that I have to go.

He pulls me down next to him, and says “You’re already late, just stay.”

I look at my clock, and I realize he’s actually right. My friends were done eating, and had already texted me that they were leaving and going home. So I sit down.

He puts on Sportscenter, and pulls me in next to him.

Okay. This is okay. I think.

Moments later his hand is under my skirt, grabbing my bare butt.

I freeze. This doesn’t feel right, I don’t want to be touched like this right now, but I put this dress on, so I already said this was okay. Right?

No. That’s not right.

I push him away. 

“What? What’s wrong with you?” He asks.

“You’re a hypocrite,” It spills out of my lips without thinking. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong. What’s wrong with me grabbing your butt? Huh?”

I don’t say anything, because I feel foolish. I mean it’s just a butt. Right? What is wrong with me? Isn’t this what girls do? We let boys touch us when they want right?

No. That’s not right. 

“I don’t feel comfortable.” I say.

“What, it’s not like I grabbed your boobs.” He demonstrates. “Or grabbed you between your legs.” He demonstrates again.

“Don’t touch me.” I say. 

“Leave.” A voice in my mind whispers. And I immediately stand up to leave. 

His words flash through my mind again. “If she’s comfortable wearing that in public, I bet she's comfortable wearing nothing in private.” 

My mind responds. “If he’s comfortable touching you, even just a little bit, against your will, I bet he’s comfortable touching you a lot a bit, against your will.”

“I’m going” I say.

“No you’re not.” He replies.

“Rachel, you just don’t understand. I could try to explain this all to you, but you just wouldn’t get it. This is how I prefer to get to know girls. Up close and personal. Why can’t we just talk, up close and personal. Why does me touching you have to be a sexual thing, why can’t we just enjoy each other’s company. I’d be a fool to not enjoy the company of a girl like you.”

“I need to leave. I have to be up early.” I say.

“Ten more minutes, please? Don’t be mean.”

I falter, and sit back down. I’m not mean, I’m nice. I’m a nice girl. If I leave I will be rude. I want nothing more than to be anywhere else, but I feel too guilty to go. I asked for this anyways. Right?

No. That’s not right.

“Leave.” A voice in my mind repeats again.

I stand up to go and walk to the door, as he sits across the room on the couch. 

“You’re not leaving.” He says, and I see him slowly start to sit up.

“Run.” A voice in my mind says more urgently than ever.

I push myself through the door and run down the alleyway to my car. I can’t breathe, because suddenly fear is exploding through me. I lock my doors and drive away.

No. This is not right.

This is my body. And I decide who can and cannot touch me. Regardless of what I choose to wear on a hot summer night, I do not lose this right. A woman’s beauty is a sacred and delicate thing. and when she gets dressed, whether she puts on something simple or something sexy, she is still sacred. 

A short dress, does not mean yes.