Talking to Sons About Sexual Assault: How We Started the Conversation
“Mom? What does sexual assault mean?”
The question came from the backseat, somewhere between “are we there yet” and “can we get ice cream.” My son was eleven. I had been expecting conversations about algebra, about the kid who got suspended, about why his dad and I split up. Not this. Not while I was merging onto the highway. I took the exit ramp slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“Some older kids were talking about it. They said a girl got assaulted at the middle school. Is that like hitting her?”
I didn’t have a script. I just said the first thing that came out: “It’s when someone touches your body in a sexual way without your permission. Or makes you do something sexual when you don’t want to. It can happen to girls and boys.”
He was quiet. Then he said, “But how would a boy get assaulted? Guys are strong.”
That was the moment I realized I had been so focused on teaching my daughter about predators and strangers that I had never once told my son he had a body that could be violated too. I had told him to be careful crossing the street. I had told him to wear a helmet. I had never told him that if someone touched him and made him uncomfortable, he could tell me and I would believe him.
Maybe some parents are more prepared. For me, this was new.
Over the next few months, I learned a few things the hard way.
Sons don’t usually bring up sexual assault on their own. They bring it up sideways — as a joke, as a weird comment from a friend, as a story about a girl who lied. My son’s way was asking whether a boy could be assaulted. Another parent once told me her teenage son said, “Why do we have to learn about consent? It’s common sense.” That wasn’t dismissiveness, she realized later. It was worry.
If you can name the thing, the conversation gets easier. I stopped saying “bad touch” and started saying “sexual assault” and “sexual abuse.” Those words were uncomfortable, but they helped my son understand that I wasn’t dancing around something shameful. He could ask about it directly.
Sons also need to hear that they can be victims. Not just “somebody’s son,” but them. I said, “If a coach, a cousin, a friend’s older sibling, or anyone else touches you in a way that feels confusing or wrong, you can tell me. Even if it’s a girl. Even if you think it’s your fault. Even if you’re embarrassed. I will listen before I react.”
I also said something that surprised myself: “If someone ever makes you keep a secret about your body, that secret doesn’t count. You can always break it.”
He didn’t respond. He pushed his food around the plate. I thought I had messed up. Then, a week later, he asked, “What if the person says they’ll hurt me if I tell?”
I said, “Then you tell me anyway, and we get help. I can’t promise I’ll be able to fix everything, but I can promise that you won’t deal with it alone.”
That conversation wasn’t dramatic. It was slow and a little awkward. We were sitting at the kitchen table with leftover pizza in front of us. He was eating the pepperoni off the top. That’s what I remember most: not the weight of the topic, but the pepperoni.
Talking to sons about sexual assault isn’t just about protecting them. It’s also about raising boys who understand what it is, who don’t become the person who causes it, and who know what to do when a friend makes a crude joke or crosses a line. That’s a longer conversation, and it doesn’t happen in one sitting.
We started with a rule he first heard in kindergarten: “Your body belongs to you.” When he was little, that meant he didn’t have to hug relatives who made him uncomfortable. As he got older, it turned into “check before you touch.” Before wrapping his arms around someone, before joking about grabbing someone’s phone, before roughhousing with a friend, he should ask. Not because touching is bad, but because people get to decide who touches them.
At first he thought it was ridiculous. “What, do I have to say ‘can I give you a hug?’” Yes. That’s exactly what you do. And when he practiced it, something strange happened. His little sister started doing it too. She started asking before climbing into his bed in the morning. They both learned that permission isn’t a formality; it’s a way of showing respect.
We also talked about what to do when someone says no. Not just “stop,” but “no” in a joking voice, “no” while laughing, “no” while moving away. I told him, “If you’re not sure, ask again. If someone seems uncomfortable, back up. It’s not the same as admitting you did something wrong. It’s just noticing.”
A friend of mine, a teacher, uses the phrase “people are not one of your things” with her sons. The kids laugh, but the phrase sticks. You can’t take someone’s clothes off like a blanket. You can’t poke someone just to get a reaction. People aren’t toys. It’s a strange sentence, but it works.
I know these conversations are supposed to be about protecting sons from sexual assault. And that’s part of it. But as my son got older, I realized the more important lesson is that he has to understand power. A boy may not think of himself as powerful, especially when he’s thirteen and can’t look an adult in the eye. But compared to a younger kid, a smaller kid, he is. And that power has to be managed carefully.
One evening, the conversation came back around. We were watching a movie where a character forced a kiss on someone and the soundtrack played romantic music. My son said, “That’s weird. She looks scared.” I said, “Yeah, that’s assault.” A minute later he said, “Why did they make it look romantic?” I didn’t have a good answer. I just said, “Because people make mistakes. And sometimes the way they tell stories is part of the problem.”
It wasn’t a neat lesson. But it was a real one.
I don’t have a checklist or a script. I don’t believe in the flowchart version of parenting where you input the right words and get a balanced, well-adjusted young adult. What I’ve learned is that talking to sons about sexual assault is a slow, awkward, ongoing thing. It’s asking questions and not just giving answers. It’s being okay with silence. It’s saying “I don’t know” and coming back to it later.
Last week, my son mentioned that a kid on his basketball team said “she was asking for it.” My son didn’t say anything. He just walked away. I felt a flash of disappointment. Then I remembered he’s fourteen. He’s still learning. Walking away is not nothing. It’s a step.
I don’t know if he’ll always understand what to do. I don’t know if he’ll ever tell me if something happens to him. I hope he will. But I know that if he does, I’ll believe him. That might be the only thing we can give them: not certainty, but a door that stays open.
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