The Sexually Abusive Female

Sexual assault can be perpetrated by people of any gender

More often than not, when men find out I’m a feminist or read one of my pieces, they assume I think women are perfect and never do anything wrong. Or that’s the impression they give, anyway. They point at things like rape, assume I think it only happens to women and it’s only committed by men, then come at me from there.

No. Just no.

I know sexually abusive females exist. They aren’t nearly as prevalent as their male counterparts, but that doesn’t lessen the damage they’re capable of inflicting on their victims.

Meet Angel: the female sexual predator

She starts young, like any sexual abuser. Made by nature, circumstance, or a twisted blend of the two. She begins in her own family — playing you show me yours turns into touching. Her games evolve from there.

She plays off the assumed innocence of girls and cultivates a sweet girl persona to avoid detection and mindfuck her victims. I grew up around one. Her mother gave her the nickname Angel (I kid you not), so that’s what I’ll call her. (And so, the mindfuck begins…)

Angel was older than me by several years, but we were constantly being thrown together for the convenience of the adults around us. She was a diehard pick-me girl who would do any sexual thing with absolutely anyone.

She once showed up on my front stoop with four boys and strong-armed her way into my living room. I was around ten at the time — they were all much older than I, and attended the middle school. After pushing their way in, the group proceeded to act as though they owned the place, raiding the fridge and touching whatever they felt like.

Things devolved quickly from there. Angel started making out with the oldest and largest of the guys — he was a teen who already had facial hair. Kissing turned into petting. I was deeply uncomfortable — terrified down to my bones as the speculative glances of the other boys lingered on me. They started to nudge each other and gesture to me among themselves. I realized it was only a matter of time before one of them worked up the nerve to approach me.

How dare she push her way into my space and put me in this position? I had been trying to think of a way to end the situation and get them out of my home. But something shifted in my mind as things continued — my anger overtook my fear.

I peeled myself off the end table I’d been sitting on and walked behind the loveseat that contained Angel and Atley. That’s where he’d tossed her shirt and bra. I collected the latter and took it with me into the kitchen.

Angel was on of those small breasted girls that desperately wanted larger endowments. Her bras were of the Victoria’s Secret, designed-to-entice variety that were “push-up” (a euphemism for heavily padded). I took the pink and white confection to the sink, squeezing it like a sponge under the tap, wetting it thoroughly. Then I shoved it in the back of the freezer.

I didn’t sit back down — even on a table that didn’t have enough space for another person. I mentally thanked myself for my well-earned reputation as someone who says “no” with violence. After all, this hadn’t been my first encounter with Angel, and it wouldn’t be my last. Boys, especially young boys of the 90s, believed they could get consent even when the girl was protesting. If you were there, you must be up for it. If you wear this or that, it means you’re up for it. Your protests are just for show, as far as they’re concerned — just a way to safeguard your reputation.

I was saved this time by my mother’s unexpected arrival. There was no way they could make it out unseen, by back door or window. It was quickly decided that they would act like we were all just hanging out, nothing to see here…

I told Angel where her bra was. She snatched up her shirt and dashed into the kitchen to hide as she put herself back together, unable to stifle a shriek when the frigid material touched her overheated skin.

Angel and her boys made it out of my house completely unscathed. I, however, was grounded because I wasn’t supposed to have kids my mom had never met in the house when I’m alone. A fair rule I didn’t ever break on my own. C’est la vie, I suppose.

My youth is littered with moments like this with Angel. I once got stuck in a pit with her and the adult man who was fingering her. I was twelve. Not something I wanted to witness but at least I wasn’t worried I was going to be assaulted. It took a really long time for me to realize that I was being sexually violated in that moment. Forcing me to witness things I didn’t want to, making sure I couldn’t get away before she made things sexual, and constantly trying to pressure me into doing physical acts I had no interest in — all forms of sexual violence I had no language for at the time.

I know she didn’t limit herself to non-consensual exhibitionism. When I was in high school someone sent her to pick me up from a friend’s house. I had arranged a different ride but when she showed up saying she’d been sent instead (I think by my mother who, like every other adult who knew Angel, thought she was perfect) we let her in.

Less than 10 minutes later she was locked in a bedroom with a freshman. He was younger even than I, just 14 years old. She was an adult. Even if she got his consent in the scant time she had, it’s still sexual assault. I am the only person he’s ever spoken candidly with about it (as far as I’m aware).

Days later, we ditched school to hang out on a children’s playground. On the swings, where we could speak without looking at each other, he expressed a muddled tangle of feelings including shame and questioning his masculinity because the experience led him to conclude he didn’t want to have sex again for some time. He had accepted the prevailing social expectation that pubescent boys are up for sex all the time and now felt broken.

Erections and clothing are not consent

Angel is an equal opportunity sexual predator. She doesn’t care if you’re old or young, male or female, able to consent or heavily impaired — she’ll do whatever she wants just the same.

She isn’t alone. I’ve met other women who give off the same red flags. I’ve met women (and men) who believe it’s not physically possible to rape a man. To them, an erection is consent. Similar to those who feel a woman’s clothing can consent on her behalf.

Sexual assault is unequivocally repugnant regardless of the gender of the perpetrator.

Some of you are waiting for a “but…” to follow that statement. There isn’t one. Still waiting? Here, I’ll say it again:

Sexual assault is unequivocally repugnant regardless of the gender of the perpetrator.

Let’s end rape culture for everyone

I’ve known my whole life that female sexual predators exist. I warned people about Angel (though the only one who ended up negatively labelled by that was me). I came up against a lot of entrenched gendered thinking which enshrined her innocence according to her biological sex rather than her actions.

I, and most feminists who speak out on the topic of sexual assault, do not focus on people like Angel when constructing our arguments or sharing facts and resources. This isn’t because we don’t know about female sexual predators. It isn’t because we believe men are unrapable by women. It’s not because we don’t care about their victims.

It’s because focusing on them will not solve the problem. It doesn’t start with them. Nor are they the most common expression of the underlying issues. Deconstructing rape culture cannot begin there. We have to dismantle the systems that support and perpetuate rape culture. We have to keep having conversations about consent. Yes, that does include the consent of men.

Let’s build a world where no one has to fear sexual violence and all sexual predators are held accountable.

© Maevyn Frey 2024

Maevyn Frey is a neurodivergent wordsmith with a passion for justice and equality. If you’d like to support her writing, you can leave her a tip on ko-fi.

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