Embodied Injustice: Comparing Lesbian,Bisexual,and Queer and Heterosexual Women’s Accounts of Unwanted Sex

Embodiment

In this study, we use both embodiment and queer theory (below) to understand potential socially patterned differences in understandings of unwanted sex by sexual orientation. The notion of embodiment refers to the ways in which people’s experiences in the world are situated through their bodies (Butler, 2003; Nettleton, 2021; Shilling, 2007; Ward, 2020). Research shows that the body is central for both understanding and processing experiences. In terms of sexuality, bodies can be a site where learning and exploration are key for understanding oneself (Armstrong, England, and Fogarty, 2012; Conboy, Katie, 2006; Fischer and Dolezal, 2019).

Embodiment theory suggests that there is a dialectical relationship between the body and society, which ensures that the body is both the site of engagement with the world and of the enactment of social norms and practices (Bartky, 1988; Bordo, 1989; Fischer and Dolezal, 2019; Foucault, 1979; Piran, 2017). Much research shows how bodily outcomes during sex (e.g., men’s orgasm and men’s receipt of oral sex) are structured by gendered sexual expectations (Armstrong, England, and Fogarty, 2012; Hirsch and Khan, 2020). Women’s bodies are often most relevant in the ways that they are objectified and desired by men (Fine, 1988; Pfeffer, 2014; Ward, 2020). Yet, more attention is needed to understand both how people perform sexuality actively with their bodies and the juxtapositions between people’s bodies, subjective experiences, and their social group memberships (Connell, 2009; West and Zimmerman, 1987). Thus, we seek to engage with women’s embodied experiences to understand how they process unwanted sex. In particular, we are interested in the ways that embodied learning enables a critique and rebellion against sexual violence.

Queer Theory

This paper also draws on queer theory. A central tenet of queer theory is the idea that heterosexuality is pervasive, normalized, and privileged in society (Berlant and Warner, 1998; Butler, 2003). Extensive research documents how college students are encouraged to enact normative sexual and gendered identities on campus, including during sex (Firth and Kitzinger, 2007; Hird, 2002; Hlavka, 2014; Impett and Peplau, 2003; Jackson, 2006; Kampler, 2022; Pascoe, 2011). This pressure to perform heterosexuality frequently reproduces inequality, fortifying social patterns that are difficult to change (Ford and Becker, 2019; Hlavka, 2014; Lamont, Roach, and Kahn, 2018; Wade, 2017). Heterosexual practices, for instance, encourage women to prioritize men’s pleasure, adhere to sexual double standards, and endure sexual disrespect, violation, and violence (Allison and Risman, 2013; Armstrong, England, and Fogarty, 2012; Armstrong, Hamilton, and Sweeney, 2006; Hamilton and Armstrong, 2009; Hlavka, 2014; Wade, 2017).

In our analysis, we use queer theory to understand how sexual experiences where both men and heterosexual practices are decentered enable a queer reading of unwanted sex. While existing research on campus sexuality largely focuses on heterosexual populations, recent work on LBQ students points to the benefits of critiquing heterosexuality (Armstrong, England, and Fogarty, 2012; Hamilton and Armstrong, 2009; Pascoe, 2011; Wade, 2017; Ward, 2020). For example, when LBQ women engage in hookup culture, they report feeling excluded from the heterosexual party scene, which often leads them to seek out or build their own LBQ-friendly spaces that become integral to and positive for their social life (Kuperberg and Padgett, 2015). Ward (2020) and Lamont, Roach, and Kahn (2018) find that LBQ students actively resist heteronormative and gendered practices during college hookups, seeking to transform patterns by focusing on communication, consent and “queering standards of pleasure.” Other studies show evidence that LBQ sexual encounters have the potential to be a space where individuals challenge hegemonic notions of sexuality and gender, using bodies and communication to create new possibilities for sexual intimacy (Kampler, 2022; Rupp et al., 2013; Wamboldt et al., 2019; Ward, 2015).

This growing body of research challenges the premise that being heterosexual is somehow easier, demonstrating instead the possibility of “queer joy and pleasure but also queer relief to not be straight” (Ward, 2020). Queer sexual experiences may do more than satisfy sexual desire—they may also spare LBQ women from having to manage the feelings and behaviors of men by shifting the focus away from men’s pleasure and accompanying sexual scripts (Ward, 2020). Moreover, the exploration of sexual possibilities beyond heterosexuality may illuminate for LBQ women the violence that can arise from heterosexual relationships. Pfeffer’s (2012) idea of normative resistance, or conscious and active efforts for making life choices different from those most socially expected, sanctioned, and celebrated, helps theorize the strategies queer women employ to protect themselves from the perceived dangers of heterosexuality, especially if they have experienced sexual violence from men in the past.

Overall, this research fills gaps in knowledge about the gendered social organization of sex in college for LBQ and heterosexual women and, specifically, differences in how they make sense of the experience of unwanted sex. We explore moments where LBQ women’s experiences of embodiment and queerness provide them a structural reframing with which to push back against the heterosexual norms and sexual violence enacted by men.

Findings

In this study, we mainly compare across two groups of women: heterosexual women who had unwanted sex with men and LBQ women who had unwanted sex with men. We also explore a small number of accounts of LBQ women who had unwanted sex with women. Our presentation of the results is as follows: The first theme relates to the aspect of physical embodiment during sex—specifically, women’s bodies as a site for negotiating sexual norms, participating in heterosexuality or exploring new sexual possibilities. The second theme explores how LBQ women’s queer perspective on sexuality may broaden their conceptualization of sexual possibilities. In particular, we are interested in the idea that exposure to sexual interactions where men’s needs/pleasure are not the priority engenders a queer critique of heterosexual experiences. In a third theme, we explore LBQ women’s struggles to name sexual violations by other women.

Embodiment

Embodiment was a major theme in interviews. The testimonies of participants outline the body as a site for the performance of sexuality. The body is critical for the application of shared cultural meanings of sex, including dominant sexual scripts (e.g., the expectation that if a woman goes back to a dorm room with a man and she is implicitly consenting to sex acts) (Bartky, 1988; Bordo, 1989). The body also serves as the site of the management of desires, and sometimes, a conduit for making sense of sexual violence/unwanted sex. One difference between heterosexual and LBQ women that arose early on in interviews related to how they discussed the body and sex.

I think there is an expectation with men—or with people who identify as men and have penises—that if you’re hooking up with them, it doesn’t stop until ejaculation has occurred...I’ve honestly never felt that way with a woman. With my limited experience with women or with non-binary people or people with vaginas it’s always felt a lot more engaged in a bodily sense. There is not a specific endpoint that you’re trying to get to. It’s more like here we are...they seemed to be perfectly content with caressing or the exploration of it all. Foreplay.

Jenny references a heterosexual presumption that male orgasm is an endpoint, which creates momentum and constraint within a sexual encounter. Throughout interviews, it was common for LBQ women to make note of the emphasis on ejaculation with people who identify as men. Jenny’s account insinuates the importance of embodiment comparing pensises and vaginas and equating them with different levels of engag[ment] in a bodily sense (Piran, 2017). The decentering of men during sex means there is not a specific endpoint you’re trying to get to, thus freeing the participants to be able to explore each other’s bodies from a place of curiosity. Sexual experience, then, becomes driven by engagement with the body rather than by internalized scripts. While heterosexual women also referenced the body in their interviews, it was largely in reference to the power exerted by men during sex—either implicitly through their size or through explicit force.

[T]he physical aspect. I couldn't fight him off even if I was sober. He's bigger and stronger.

Above, Blair and Meg discuss men’s bodies in terms of their size and strength during sexual encounters. Blair references the feeling that she would not be able to fight him off even if she was sober, while Meg describes an instance in which a man was unacceptably forward, pushing her head and hands as he sought oral sex from her.

LBQ respondents also made references to men’s size in their interviews, yet there was often a caveat or a second part of the story where the respondent explained why bodily differences mattered. Layla (below) explains that men’s size made her feel small, vulnerable, and exposed.

He was as tall as I was. I’ve actually put on weight since as a response to the fact that I didn’t want to feel that vulnerable and that small anymore. But the fact that he could physically pick me up and throw me on the bed scared the crap out of me afterwards. It made me feel really vulnerable and exposed.

Layla’s experience of feeling like her male partner could physically pick [her] up and throw [her] on the bed was not only fear-inducing but led her to change her body in response. Her choice to put on weight demonstrates the long-term impact of the sexual encounter. In instances of unwanted sex, including sexual assault, many queer women explained that their interpretation of events was more informed by a general intuition about how an encounter felt, not necessarily the sexual acts themselves. This notion of a “gut feeling” in the body (one of our qualitative codes) came up more often in interviews with LBQ women, suggesting an embodied tool for assessing an experience.

Afterwards what happened?

Following unwanted sex with a friend, Amanda recalls feeling that the friend knew he had done something wrong. She questions his overly nice behavior but fears causing a dramatic scene, yet in our interview she describes an intuitive feeling of knowing something is amiss. For some LBQ women, the body becomes a tool for learning, where physical sensations in the body shape how women understand sexual situations.

I had only been with women for the first few years of my sexual life. I didn’t have sex with a guy until I was 18. For three years it was just women. And it was great. Time of my life (laughs). It’s a lot more comfortable because I didn’t know what I was doing and neither did they so it was kind of figuring it out together and also just discussing everything first and making sure everything is okay. It was never in a way that was pushy or from intoxication. It was very forwardly consensual.

Above Naomi describes early sexual experiences with women in which figuring it out was key. Her language suggests that shared sexual inexperience may be equalizing, and that mutual curiosity or exploration might help facilitate consent. Similar to other LBQ women in our sample, Naomi’s experiences with women suggest a co-construction of sexuality through dialectical interactions with the body, mutuality, and consent. Naomi also explicitly names her experience of rape, even if it has taken a very long time to do so. She shares that she has only had sex with men while heavily intoxicated, impacting her ability to figure out what [she’s] supposed to feel about them. Overall, her account brings attention to the impact of physical embodiment (e.g., being present, conscious, aware, and sensitive to bodily sensations) on interpreting sexual situations. Alcohol may be used here as both a tool to help re-explore the possibility of sex with men and a numbing agent that prohibits full embodiment during sexual encounters and prolongs the arduous process of figuring it out (i.e., how to have sex with men) again.

Heterosexual women also referenced bodily experiences during sex. Bodies were used less for exploration than as a means of tolerating and fixing bad sexual encounters with men. Below, Danielle describes an unwanted encounter that happened at night. The next morning, they have sex again; she has no curtains and describes the awkwardness of being in the bright of day.

It just really started happening, like, really fast. He was taking off my clothes, making out, he took off my shirt, took off my underwear and started going down on me in literally 3 seconds. I was like, “Ok. This is happening.” ... But… it just was, like, very sloppy…just not a good situation whatsoever…

Danielle references being naked and curtains being absent, explaining that the bright light was horrible because you can see everything. The encounter is described more in terms of clothes being removed than the actual sex acts that took place. Danielle sees the next morning as an opportunity to have sex - in effect using her body to make up for the previous night. Her account reveals a pressure to do well during sex with men that is also referenced by Rachel (LBQ) in the following section. Yet, Danielle’s description differs from Naomi’s in the use of her body to control a man’s impression rather than for mutual sexual exploration. This encounter is not focused on mutual pleasure, but a chance to resolve any negative thoughts from the night before. This leaves Danielle in the vulnerable position of proving she can please the man. Thus, her body becomes the site of both embodiment (the performance of heterosexuality and the attempt to be the object of desire) and disembodiment (the abandonment of her desire and pursuit of pleasure, an experience of vulnerability, nerves, and awkwardness).

Across interviews, it was not uncommon for heterosexual women to describe putting up with bad treatment from men in relation to their bodies. They expressed great frustration with this behavior yet also spoke about it matter-of-factly. Below, Cynthia (heterosexual) describes a series of negative events around sex with a man.

We got in the bed and started having sex, straight from kissing to vaginal, he couldn't get hard. I told him to take the condom off because I was trying to please him. I was worried he wouldn't like me, which is stupid … I texted him later to ask if he came in me, he was like “I think so.” I asked him to get me plan B and he was like no I'm with my friends, sorry.

Cynthia’s story is full of violations; the sex progresses from kissing directly into intercourse, suggesting little attention to her pleasure. She worries when the man couldn't get hard and removes the condom to please him, leading to unprotected sex and later a request for Plan B. Throughout this account, the body is a central player. Cynthia abandons her own physical pleasure for the sake of a “successful” sexual encounter, in which the man’s pleasure is paramount and the metric of success (e.g., she has condomless sex, creating a significant health risk for her). Importantly, her indication that she was invested in the success of this encounter and her willingness to concede her enjoyment and to put herself at risk of an unwanted pregnancy demonstrate the internalization of heterosexual norms surrounding sex and pleasure. In this heterosexual pairing, Cynthia’s body functions less as a place of exploration than an object (and ensurer) of the man’s pleasure, at the cost of her enjoyment and safety.

Gaining a New (Queer) Perspective

A second theme in our analysis relates to LBQ women developing a queer perspective through these experiences. In our study, we became aware that queer and heterosexual women were using different language to speak about unwanted sex with men. LBQ women were generally harsher with their critiques, saying things like, he’s an idiot, or he’s stupid. Some LBQ women took this even further, generalizing about all men (e.g., men are trash and college is a stinking cesspool of guys who pretend to be nice). Heterosexual women, in contrast, were less harsh (e.g., guys are careless I would say; insistent; and very forward). Their comments were often focused on the difficulty of understanding men than a reprisal of men’s failure to treat women equitably during sexual encounters.

These findings might be interpreted through the aforementioned work by Ward (2020), which illuminates queer spaces as joyful and empowering—where there is relief in avoiding heterosexuality. By being less invested in sex with men, perhaps LBQ women are spared from having to manage men’s feelings and behaviors. In contrast, heterosexual women may not speak as negatively about men because they anticipate relationships in the future, despite the harm enacted by men in the present. And while there may be a performative element to LBQ women’s outward critiques of men, our findings suggest these comments may be indicative of respondents’ queer perspective on sex, which offers a framework to critique heterosexual norms within hookup culture.

Our findings suggest that there is something particular about having also had sexual experiences with women/non-binary partners that calls the heterosexual structure into question. Below, Sadie (LBQ) draws upon an awareness acquired through different types of sexual experiences, describing how she has evolved. She describes no longer being “mad” about prior experiences of unwanted sex. In her words, she has evolved to know how to directly, confidently say no.

I’m not mad about it [unwanted sex]. I moved on from there. After that I chose to have vaginal sex with someone else. I took charge of it… And I actually yeah, the first time I had a threesome [with a straight couple] it almost escalated to vaginal sex. And I said before it escalated, I said, “wait I don’t wanna do this.” And they were like “that’s cool, no worries”... well I learned you really have to be obvious and blunt with things like no’s.

Sadie’s story channels the possibility of growth and empowerment through experiences with men and women, including a threesome, which taught her to take charge, asserting her boundaries confidently. Of course, the onus should not be on individual women to protect themselves from unwanted sexual advances, nor should perpetrators be absolved of responsibility. Sadie’s choice to move on and to explore other sexual possibilities at her own pace hints at a growing self-efficacy (Ward, 2020).

We found that throughout the interviews, LBQ women were more likely to identify and critique heterosexual practices, whereas their heterosexual women counterparts who only had sex with men were more likely to result in individualize sexual violence (e.g., suggest that some men are worse than others, that unwanted sex was partially the woman’s fault, or that sexual violence is caused by mere social ineptitude on the part of men).

I said, “it's ok if we make out but I don't want to have sex.” Then we made out and he was like “no we're gonna have sex” and forced himself on me….it was the typical thing where you think it's your own fault. “I shouldn't have said 'oh I'll make out with you', I probably should have gone.” Then I kind of started to deny the whole thing and said it wasn't like “that” so I could kind of deal with it. I was really hurt but didn't want to accept that. A lot of denial and self-blame.

In our interview, Abby chooses not to use language of sexual assault even though she describes the sex as physically forced on her. She says that she denied the whole thing, telling herself it was not that. These types of stories were common among heterosexual women who sometimes found it easier to deny the harm that came from their experiences rather than to acknowledge their pain. Much like Abby, many heterosexual women whom we interviewed diminished or individualized violating sexual experiences rather than critique the broader cultural norms that empower men to force themselves onto other people.

This difference was particularly noticeable when speaking with queer women about their experiences in the context of a structural system of oppression. Through this framing, women moved beyond individual modalities of blame and toward a universalization of their experience as part of a widespread form of violence.

The next morning, I told my roommates what had happened. And my sweet little roommate. Sweet little [Name] just immediately was like “Well you were dressed kind of slutty last night so” and I was like “fair. You’re right, thank you. Thank you so much for telling me that. It helped a lot.” Ugh. I know [talking to interviewer]! Gross.

Vivienne uses sarcasm to demonstrate what she perceives to be the absurdity of her roommate’s reaction. Her frank description of the interaction makes clear her distaste for victim-blaming, concluding that the entire exchange is gross. This kind of critique provided Vivienne, as well as other LBQ women and some heterosexual women, with more clarity around sexual violations, at least pertaining to sexual violations enacted by men.

Importantly, we found evidence that some queer women were employing strategies to protect themselves from both real and perceived dangers of heterosexuality, especially when they had experienced sexual violence from men in the past. In one instance, Susanna (below) describes being in such anticipation of men’s inappropriate behavior following a sexual assault that she is surprised by a positive encounter with a man on a fraternity party dance floor.

I was at a frat party…. this guy came up to me and was like, “Do you wanna make out?” and I was like, “Ok.” And then we were on the dance floor and he started kissing me and he was just not a good kisser. It was maybe a minute and I was like, “K, I’m gonna go now.” And he was like, “Thanks for hooking up with me,” and I was like “Yeah, you’re welcome.” [laughs]. It was just very cordial and polite and, like, I appreciate that he just came up to me instead of, like, grabbing my ass and other stuff like I’ve seen guys do to all the girls.

Susanna contrasts this man’s behavior (asking for her consent to kiss) with the usual stuff I’ve seen guys do. Her observations echo the other critiques raised by queer women—where straight men are described as predictably problematic. We see Susanna’s observations as indicative of self-protection but also of developing a queer perspective on sexual encounters.

The testimonies of participants who had experienced some type of non-heterosexual sex highlight the stark contrasts between straight sex and queer sex. For example, individuals who engaged in non-heterosexual sex described partners checking in more often, more time allocated for foreplay, and sexual encounters not being shaped around a man reaching climax. Our findings suggest that consensual, same-sex sexual experiences may expand women’s horizons and, over time, create new possibilities for pleasurable sex.

It took me a long time to realize that engaging in sexual acts shouldn’t make you feel bad about yourself. It took me a long time to realize that once you are truly a hundred percent consenting with someone else that you trust and you know cares about you…even with a casual hook up - that if I trust, am consenting, truly want to and the other person cares about my pleasure and I care about theirs, afterwards you don’t feel shitty.

Jenny comes to realize that sex with consent, pleasure, trust, care is sex where she does not feel bad or shitty. Crucially, elsewhere in the interview, Jenny credits this realization to experience with women or with non-binary people, suggesting that it was her experiences of non-heterosexual sex that facilitated to this shift in perspective. Jenny’s revelation might be interpreted through the lens of Pham’s (2019) findings showing that college women whose lives revolve around heterosexual hookup scenes have a narrower sexual lexicon. It seems possible that LBQ women who move beyond heterosexual encounters may have broader conceptions of sex and a more critical lens toward heterosexual practices.

Many LBQ women were emphatic in identifying pressure to manage male desire or enact heterosexual scripts as a central part of the problem. In the below excerpt, Rachel describes the pressure that some women may feel to do well during sex with men, such that individuals have an internalized standard for sex that they attempt to achieve (Gagnon and Simon, 2011).

I just feel like I guess this also comes from a confidence thing. I feel like I’m way better at having sex with girls than with guys. When I’m having sex with a guy I’m really stressed out about trying to do well. When I’m having sex with a girl, I’m not. And it’s more enjoyable for that reason.

Here, Rachel’s desires during heterosexual experiences are tethered to doing well, while the freedom from heterosexual scripts gives her confidence to have better sex and to enjoy herself more in non-heterosexual sex. Across interviews, we would note here that LBQ women’s perspectives seemed to grow from both an internal processing of experiences in one sense (Gagnon and Simon, 2011) and broader social context.

But there’s definitely more of a community between me and other queer people because I know most of my queer friends have been assaulted, than there are between me and my heterosexual friends where like I can’t relate.

Layla references having a community with other queer people, in part because of shared discussions and experiences with sexual violence. LBQ women were often involved in groups, networks, and institutions that provided space to name and critique heterosexual dynamics, especially sexual violence. These types of social interactions shaped women’s willingness to identify sexual assault. Therefore, these findings point to the necessity of having the space for processing sexual experiences with other queer friends and the importance of the social/institutional/friend group context.

Given the potential for social context to provide a new (queer) perspective on sexual experiences, we explored whether heterosexual women had similar opportunities for sharing. We found that most heterosexual women lacked this community or institutional context where a critique of the violence in heterosexual sex could be named. Yet, our findings suggested that shared survivorship, when it occurred, did offer a new perspective for some heterosexual women.

Before that, I thought it was just some confusion, like I didn’t wanna sleep with him… like we got confused or something. I thought it was a confusing thing that happens between friends, maybe he just has problems.

Above Margie recalls thinking that maybe he just has problems; individualizing her experience. In the interview, Margie told us that she had come to see the experience as sexual assault, explaining that it was other women’s stories of assault that helped her understand her own. Her account points to the potential for collective sharing to help all women label their experiences.

Struggles to Name Sexual Violations by Women

Despite their possibility for new sexual realities, however, queer hookups are not always entirely free of violence. Our results suggest that when faced with unwanted sex or sexual assault perpetrated by other women, LBQ women struggle to identify and conceptualize their experiences. These instances remind us that although LBQ sexual encounters can create space to challenge hegemonic notions of sexuality and gender, they also have the potential to replicate and/or produce new forms of violence.

Below, Libby (LBQ) notes that it may have been easier to name an experience as sexual assault had it occurred with a man. Unlike many LBQ respondents who emphasized their views of heterosexual sex as problematic, Libby wonders in this instance, whether the familiarity of heterosexual sex might have been helpful for identifying and naming a sexual violation.

I think if she was a man I would know this was nonconsensual. If that makes any sense? If she was a man I would be so much more comfortable calling this a real sexual assault. As opposed to this sort of confusion where I think it’s a sexual assault but it’s hard to talk about it and admit it. If it was a man, I would know. I would be like yes that was an assault. That makes more sense.

Libby might label such an experience nonconsensual if it had happened with a man. She would feel comfort and certainty calling this a real sexual assault. However, her partner’s gender seems to cloud her interpretation here, leaving her with confusion and reluctance to admit it was nonconsensual. Thus, while LBQ women’s embodied and queer perspectives may give them tools to critique sexual violations by men, the focus on straight men as both the perpetrators and root cause of sexual violence leaves some LBQ women without the ability to critique similar violations enacted by fellow women.

In a related case, Layla (below) describes the pressure to stay quiet about a sexual assault when it happens with another woman or non-binary person. In line with existing work, many LBQ women with whom we spoke described wanting to engage in queer solidarity and movement-building on campus (Hirsch and Khan, 2020). They sought to avoid perpetuating shame, concealment, or oppression among fellow queer students that would occur by pointing out wrongdoing within the community. Yet, experiences of unwanted sex within the queer community complicate this desire.

Is there anything else that you think is important for me to know about your experience?

Layla expresses concern about not being a good queer if she chooses to talk openly about sexual assault in gay relationships. Respondents were left grappling with how to name unwanted sex, including sexual assault, as a source of individual pain without demonizing and stigmatizing their entire community. We conclude with these two cases (Libby and Layla) to illustrate a tension in the data. In many accounts, LBQ women were better situated than heterosexual women to recognize sexual violations because they could attribute them to the pernicious effects of heterosexuality. Libby’s and Layla’s cases present exceptions, however, in that they are reluctant to associate female sexual partners with sexual violations. Their reluctance suggests that while problematizing heterosexuality may be a productive framework for interpreting sexual assault that happens with men, it does not help women understand or name unwanted sex (including sexual assault) within the LBQ community.

Prevention Implications

These findings have prevention implications. First, we need to better address the gendered power dynamics happening during sex on campus. We find evidence that heterosexual women’s investment in heterosexuality makes it difficult to label what they have experienced as assault. While the onus should never be on victims, heterosexual women in particular might benefit from seeing sexual assault as a product of the violence built into cis-heterosexuality rather than the result of bad actors. Healthy relationship training for all individuals, and in particular men, to learn how to slow down and listen to women and/or partners would also be beneficial. We found evidence that communicative, co-created sexual experiences produce better outcomes, pointing to the upstream benefits of pre-college healthy relationship and comprehensive sexuality education for reducing sexual assault perpetration (Schneider and Hirsch, 2020).

Second, interviews revealed that, in some instances, the label “assault” acts as a barrier to learning and processing. This suggests a need for spaces on campuses where people can have conversations about sex feels uncomfortable, embarrassing, or creepy, not just sexual assault. Likewise, structures and feedback loops are needed to remove the burden of re-educating others from the people who feel harmed, so that the people doing the harming can learn to do better (e.g., non-punitive notification systems on campus). Creating such structures could be a compliment to a sex-positive approach to prevention.

Third, we advocate for more institutional support to be given to queer student organizations as these were important contexts for naming injustice and possibly healing. Our findings suggest that the higher rates of sexual violence documented among queer women are partially an artifact of a willingness to name something as assault. Rather than always framing these higher rates as something that is wrong with the queer community, we see such data as indicative of a lack of tolerance for a level of sexual harm that is otherwise normalized (Armstrong, Hamilton, and Sweeney, 2006; Khan et al., 2018).

This study has several important limitations. Our analyses are based on interviews with volunteer college students at one university; they are not representative or generalizable. The sample sizes for other important identity characteristics (i.e., race, ethnicity, year in school, major, and group membership) were not large enough to draw any particular conclusions but given the importance of these distinctions (Logie and Rwigema, 2014), these factors should be addressed in future work. This study examines women’s unwanted sexual experiences at one point in time. Prospective, longitudinal analyses would provide more insight into the ways that women make sense of these experiences across time, particularly if interactions with others matter in giving meaning to sexual experiences. Despite these limitations, by comparing the ways that LBQ and heterosexual women account for unwanted sex, we hope that we have contributed to ongoing literature related to the gendered social organization of sex in college and how we think about sexual violence. Our results suggest that LBQ women’s understanding of unwanted sex experiences reflect the embodied experience of sex with women and non-binary partners as well as the development of a new (queer) perspective that allows for a critique of the violence that sustains heterosexual hookup culture. Without a structural reframing, heterosexual women are often left individualizing and/or internalizing the blame for their victimization.

Ultimately, these data cannot tell us whether LBQ women’s more overt recognition of injustice ultimately serves as a resource in that it empowers them to move away from self-blame or whether these efforts only mask suffering. Our findings do, however, raise the possibility that when women name and claim their unwanted experiences, including sexual assault, this lens may help them process experiences, attribute them to systematic harms from gender inequality and heterosexuality, and negate victim-blaming, all of which result in a more empowered victim narrative. We hope future research will continue to explore the link between a structural reframing of sexual violations and the associated potential benefits for victims.