Talking to Sons About Sexual Assault: What My 14-Year-Old Asked Me in the Car
The question came from the passenger seat of my car, which is maybe the only place my 14-year-old ever talks to me about anything serious. We were on the long way home from practice, and out of nowhere he said, “Mom, is it true that if a guy is drunk he can’t consent?”
I didn’t answer right away. I thought about the true crime podcast he has been listening to, the half-finished conversations in school hallways, the fact that he is a boy who is starting to look like a young man and still carries his hoodie in a ball under his arm like a five-year-old. I thought about how no one ever asked me that question when I was his age. I thought about what I actually knew.
“Yes,” I said. “If you’re drunk, you can’t say yes. If the other person is drunk, you can’t assume yes. And if you’re both drunk, nobody is in a good position to decide anything. That means you wait.”
He was quiet. Then he asked, “So what is sexual assault, exactly?”
This is the part that always trips people up. We tell boys “don’t rape” and “respect women” and “no means no,” but we rarely sit down with them and say what those words actually look like. So I tried to say it without making it a lecture.
“It’s not just a stranger in an alley,” I said. “It’s any sexual contact without consent. It’s pressure. It’s guilt-tripping. It’s threatening someone. It’s ignoring a no. It’s touching someone who’s asleep or drunk or scared. It’s saying ‘Come on, you’ve been leading me on.’ It’s ‘Everyone is doing it, what’s wrong with you?’ It’s a guy who won’t stop after someone says stop, over and over.”
I told him that consent is not a permission slip you get once and then keep in your pocket. It’s ongoing. It’s “Can I kiss you?” and “Do you want to keep going?” and “Is this OK?” It’s an enthusiastic yes, not a maybe, not a shrug, not an “I guess.”
He asked, “Do you think I would ever do something like that?”
I said, “I don’t know. I hope not. But I know plenty of boys who were considered good kids and still did things that hurt someone because nobody ever taught them what to do instead of just what not to do. So we’re having this talk now.”
I also told him that sexual assault happens to boys too. That took me longer to say because I almost didn’t. Somewhere in my head, I still had the old road map: talk to daughters about being careful, talk to sons about not being predators. But boys get hurt too. One in six boys is sexually abused before adulthood, and most of them never say a word because the world tells them they’re supposed to be strong, that it doesn’t happen to them, that if they speak up they’ll look weak or weird.
“If anyone has ever touched you in a way that made you uncomfortable,” I said, “or made you feel like you couldn’t say no, you can tell me. It’s not your fault. It doesn’t make you less of a guy. And it’s not too late to tell me.”
He looked out the window for a long time. I didn’t push. I just let the silence sit there.
That conversation didn’t end with a hug or a promise. He said “OK” and we drove the rest of the way home with the radio on. But something shifted that night. I heard him on the phone with a friend, and I couldn’t make out all the words, but he said “consent” once. That felt like something.
A lot of parents don’t know where to start, and I didn’t either. What helped me was using everyday moments instead of waiting for a perfect moment. Now, when we watch a movie or a show together and a character doesn’t take a no seriously, I point it out. Not with a heavy hand. Just “Huh. That would’ve been over if he’d listened to her instead of following her down the hallway.”
I have also started asking my younger son before giving him a hug or a tickle: “Can I hug you?” And when he says no, I say “OK” and go find something else. It’s a tiny, low-stakes model of consent. It teaches kids that their bodies are their own, and that a “no” on the small stuff makes it easier to say “no” on the big stuff.
With my older son, I have tried to make space for the conversations that don’t start with me. I’ll say, “What does the word consent mean to you?” or “You mentioned something about that game you’re playing. What do you think about it?” These questions often go nowhere. Sometimes he shrugs. But once in a while, he’ll tell me something he was actually wondering about.
Practical things I have learned to say:
“If she says no, you stop. If she says ‘I don’t know,’ that’s a no. If he’s too drunk to talk straight, that’s a no. If you have to convince someone, that is not consent.”
“If you see a friend doing something that worries you — putting pressure on someone, not listening when they say stop — don’t just stand there. Make noise. Go over and interrupt. Ask your friend to come with you to get food or water. Stay near the person who might be in trouble. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than doing nothing.”
“Sexual assault is never the victim’s fault. Not because of what they wore. Not because they were drinking. Not because they went home with someone. None of that matters.”
I’m not pretending we got all of this figured out. The other day, my son asked me why anyone would do something like that in the first place. I didn’t have a clean answer. I told him I think some people are angry, some are lonely, some believe their own wants matter more than other people’s safety. None of that excuses it, and it’s not his job to psychoanalyze anyone. It’s his job to be the kind of person who doesn’t hurt people and who speaks up when he sees it.
I also told him he can always come to me if a friend tells him something upsetting or if he’s not sure what to do. I said, “You don’t have to have the right words. You just have to stay there and listen.”
The conversation about sexual assault is not a one-time talk. It’s not a “good talk” with a bow on top. It’s a cycle of awkward car rides, half-open doors, and moments where nobody knows what to say next. I don’t know if my son will remember everything I told him. I don’t know if he’ll ever tell me he was scared or confused or okay.
But I know that boys are watching us. They notice when we stay silent. They notice when we make jokes to smooth over the discomfort. They notice whether we are willing to sit with the ugly parts of the world instead of turning the radio up.
So I’m going to keep asking questions. I’m going to keep answering them, even when I don’t have a script. And when he asks something I don’t know, I’m going to say “I don’t know, let’s figure that out together.” That’s the job. It’s not clean, but it’s worth doing.
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