Consent: A Memoir

by Jill Ciment

Who kissed whom first? If Arnold kissed me first, should I refer to him in the language of today—sexual offender, transgressor, abuser of power? Or do I refer to him in the language of the late ’90s, when my forty-five-year-old self wrote the scene? The president at that time was Clinton, and the blue dress was in the news. Men who preyed on younger women were called letches, cradle-robbers, dogs. Or do I refer to him in the language of 1970, at the apex of the sexual revolution, when the kiss took place—Casanova, silver fox? And how do I refer to myself? In today’s parlance—victim, survivor? The words are used interchangeably but have very different connotations. Calling myself a victim would imply that I had been helpless, whereas calling myself a survivor would suggest I had empowerment. Or do I employ the language used to describe Monica Lewinsky—bimbo, vixen? Or do I talk about myself in the lingo of the sexual revolution? In that case, I was the coolest, bitchin’est chick on the block because I kissed my art teacher.