A L S O_ T O D A Y

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Penned off in gilded ghettos, the scholars of sex miss the complex biological and cultural story of human sexual nature

T A B L E_ T A L K

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THE RELUCTANT ACCUSER | PAGE 1, 2
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About two weeks into our friendship, he and I were sleepily sprawled on my common-room couch during a 3 a.m. chat about our respective long-distance loves. We hadn't seen our significant others since we had started college earlier in the month, so it was nice to be close to someone of the opposite sex.

"I have a big problem," he whispered into my ear.

"What's that," I yawned.

"I really want to kiss you right now." He moved closer.

"You're right," I said. "That's a problem." I gave him the patented platonic pat on the back and pull away two-second hug and said good night as he left the room.

Afterward, I mused about how it might have been interesting to get involved romantically with him -- we did have fun flirting -- but I dismissed the option because I already had a boyfriend.

They don't tell you about this limbo of uncertainty -- the college counselors, anti-violence educators and rape awareness activists for the most part stick to the cut-and-dried circumstances that make for easily defined crimes.

"If you're writing an article on sexual assault," the Sexual Assault Peer Education spokesperson informed me, "you have to mention alcohol. You have to mention [the date-rape drug] 'roofies.' And you have to mention rape."

But what happened to me, as what happens to many of the victims of unreported cases, did not involve alcohol, drugs or rape. It is hard to pinpoint whether the act even fell under the category of sexual assault in the first place. While the legal definitions of sexual assault vary by state, they are fairly similar in their wording: "Second degree sexual assault: sexual contact (intentional touching of a person's genital area or buttocks, or a woman's breasts) when there is a) force or coercion or b) mental or physical unwillingness to engage in such an act."

The problem in cases like mine is that it is much easier to gauge the mental unwillingness afterward than to sort through feelings during the few seconds it takes him to make his move. If I was unsure about my own feelings at the time, how could a court be sure about what really happened?

He had clearly thought for more than a few seconds about how to lure me into his bed. About 10 minutes after he left my room one afternoon, I noticed that "The Republic," which I desperately needed to study for an exam the next day, was missing from its usual spot on the floor. I checked behind the couch cushions, underneath my bed, underneath my roommate's bed -- no Plato. Soon, I received a call.

"Are you missing something?" It was him. The bastard took my book.

"Give it to me! I need it for the test."

"You'll have to come and find it." He hung up before I could chew him out.

I called him back, but his roommate answered the phone in his thick Puerto Rican accent.

"Is your roommate in?"

"Oh no, he just ran out the door."

"Good. Is there a Plato book lying around your room somewhere?"

"Let me check. Yeah, the book is in his bedroom."

"I'm coming down to get it."

I ran downstairs to his hall, noticed that the door was open and barged into his common room.

"Hello?" I figured the roommate had gone to the bathroom, so I could just take my book and leave. I ventured farther into the room.

"You looking for something?" I jumped. There he was, peering at me from the doorway to his bedroom.

"I thought you weren't here!"

"Yeah, the book is in his bedroom," he laughed in a thick Puerto Rican accent sounding exactly like his roommate's.

"That was you?!" My heart was pounding, but I couldn't tell if it was because I had just run down a flight of stairs, because he had duped me into thinking I was talking to his roommate or because the flirting had seemed to escalate to a new level in weirdness. Hormones can make your heart pound.

He waved Plato in front of me and jerked it back when I swiped for it. As he high-stepped into his bedroom, I chased him down, now more frustrated than anything else. When he leaped onto his bed, I lunged for the book and he pulled me down on top of him as we wrestled. It happened quickly. With one large arm, he tightened his grip on my waist so that my back was right up against his stomach as we both faced the ceiling. With the other arm, he reached across my collarbone so that he could swiftly and decisively grab my chest.

And I paused before I reacted. Or maybe I reacted by pausing.

I suppose he could have been testing me to see if our relationship could become more physical. Perhaps he was just being playful. Either way, I don't know how anything could have remedied the situation unless our college had adopted the legendary Antioch rules -- "May I put my arm around your waist?" "OK." "May I touch your breast?" "NO."

The next morning, he overheard me recounting the experience to my roommate as we walked toward the dining hall.

"Stop being so melodramatic," he sneered.

"Stop being such a prick," I responded.

More than four years later, we still haven't spoken. And while that's what hurt most at first, what hurts now is that it took me so many months to realize that I hadn't done anything wrong.
SALON | Feb. 10, 1999

Alexandra Robbins graduated from Yale University in May 1998.