Sex Education in The Dominican Republic

I was sitting on Brian’s bed. He was in the next room, looking for a condom. My first conscious thought seeped through my drunken haze. How do I get out of here?

A couple of chickens were clucking behind his hut. Purple sky peeked through the cracked windowpane. The light was on, but it was too harsh, too bright. Too present. 

It was early morning in The Dominican Republic, but my night wasn’t over. 

I was sitting on Brian’s bed. He was in the next room, looking for a condom. My first conscious thought seeped through my drunken haze. How do I get out of here?

A few hours earlier, I was still dancing at the local storefront-turned-nightclub. Brian showed up with a cute hat and broken English. We chatted until the rum kicked in; then we kissed. Brian asked if I wanted to see cows on the beach.

Cows on the beach? I was smitten.

We took his motorcycle there. The cocktail of vibrations, salty ocean air, and bellowing bulls was disorienting. It probably would have felt better sober. 

Brian asked if I wanted more rum. Of course, I did. I was 19 and in the US I still couldn’t drink.  

We got back on his bike. Brian said we were heading to his place…so I agreed. I thought this was how adults play. 

I clutched his body as we swerved up the lane. His home was at the very end; 5 minutes away from the main road.

Brian started kissing me as we walked into his 2-room home. But something made me pause; I needed a minute to breathe. The night was moving faster than I was prepared to and I didn’t know it was okay to say no. 

A tad bit of reason started settling in. I didn’t want to have sex. But I was at his house and he was half-naked. I tried to think through my options. 

There were no neighbors around. My cell phone had died a few hours earlier. I could tell Brian my hesitation and risk his disagreement - or worse. 

Or, I could stay quiet and follow along. 

Growing up, my “sex education” classes focused on my responsibilities. If my body excited someone (besides my husband of course), I’d go straight to hell. If I wore a tight skirt or red shirt and was raped, it wouldn’t be the man’s sin; it would be my fault. 

Following this logic, I had consented to sex the moment I danced with Brian. 

I took a deep breath. I didn’t want this and I was too drunk. But if I didn’t tell him, I’d be violating myself.

“I don’t want to have sex.” I quietly said, averting my eyes.

“No sex?” 

“No sex.”, I asserted.

“No sex.” 

He put his shirt back on.

Seconds later, we hopped on Brian’s bike back to my hostel. The chickens were still clucking and the sky was a bit lighter now. I was grateful.

Life had given me the sex education class I needed. 

I had learned about saying no.