Unpacking Single Men’s Constructions of Innocent Men and Culpable Women in a #MeToo Context

Abstract

The #MeToo movement became an important historical moment around the globe, illuminating the pervasive spectrum of sexual harm. This, however, did not exist without significant backlash, backlash which became one of the defining features of our study with men. We individually interviewed 31 single, heterosexual men about their experiences and understandings of contemporary masculinity, singleness and heterosexuality. During this process, participants talked significantly about the #MeToo movement and women’s accounts of sexual violence, with a focus on the implications this might have for men and dating. Using a critical discursive approach, our analysis of men’s talk was patterned by three interpretive repertoires: I just don’t understand…; You can’t do anything anymore!; and She’s really only got herself to blame… Our analysis suggests that while #MeToo has succeeded in starting a conversation about sexual violence, work still needs to be done in interrupting traditional victim-blaming discourses, as exemplified though our data.

Introduction

Sex and sexual violence have historically been framed in a binary way – as either harmful sexual violence, or as (implicitly consensual, and non-harmful) sex (Kitzinger 2004). Within this framing, ‘real’ sexual violence becomes physically violent, overtly harmful and ‘traumatic.’ This construction excludes from societal discussion and recognition a wide range of unwanted sexual experiences – which some have labelled the ‘grey area’ of sexual violence (Hindes and Fileborn 2019). Experiences such as sexual coercion, pressure, unwelcome sexual comments or touching, and sexual contact when one party has not or cannot give explicit consent (e.g., through intoxication) exist within this grey area. Prior to the social media movement #MeToo (and since), dominant discourse positioned these experiences as ‘just sex’ (Gavey 2019), a part of normal heterosex from men towards women, to be expected (and tolerated). Feminist scholars have, in contrast, framed sexual violence as a spectrum, including nuanced and subtle violations, which all have the potential to cause harm (e.g., Gavey 2019; Kelly 2013).

Our analysis of data from interviews with single men in Aotearoa (New Zealand) both illustrates the perseverance of traditional binarized discourse of sexual violence, and demonstrates how men employed such constructs to implicitly (and directly) justify or dispute sexual harm reported by women. These conversations appeared shaped by challenges from social media movement #MeToo, which aimed to call out and redefine this grey area as actually problematic sexual harm. We show that men employed discourse carefully and contextually to manage a delicate task: denouncing a ‘real’ form of (extreme) sexual violence while also effectively dismissing or disputing the arguments of #MeToo in defending a coercive masculine sexuality. Such constructions can contribute to the flourishing of sexual harm under modernised justifications, and without threat to men’s preferred performative identities as progressive and feminist-aligned. It is important we continue to examine (and ultimately disrupt) such constructions which, obscured by some contextualised conciliation towards feminist argument, continue to contribute to a culture of normalised sexual harm.

Literature Review and Context

Normalised patterns of (Western) heterosexual behaviour, which have allowed the grey area of sexual violence to flourish, have been long justified through constructions of natural roles for men and women – including men as more physical, powerful and in control (Hollway 1984). Men’s active sexuality has not only been expected, but celebrated – social research demonstrates dominant discourses in which men will (compared to women): always pursue and be ready for (hetero)sex (Farvid and Braun 2006); initiate sexual encounters (Stephens, Eaton, and Boyd 2017); and be understood to be more interested in, and in need of, sexual excitement (Farvid and Braun 2006; Lai, Lim, and Higgins 2015). Women have been constructed as more ‘responsive’ (and passive) in their sexuality (Gavey 2019; Hollway 1984), with their sexuality often judged negatively and policed (see Flood 2013; Greene and Faulkner 2005; Lai, Lim, and Higgins 2015). Gavey (2019) argues that expected masculine actions of leading or controlling a (hetero)sexual exchange are not diametrically opposed to sexual aggression or violence, but can lead to, or be part of, sexual violence. Coercive male sexual practices can become conflated with norms for, and seen as essential to, ‘flirting’ and ‘seduction.’ Indeed, a key criticism of #MeToo was that it threatened heterosexuality ‘as we know it’ (Fileborn and Phillips 2019).

Despite decades of feminist critique, and some evidence that aspects of this sexual double standard may be changing or loosening (e.g., increased negativity or policing around males deemed sexually excessive or ‘male sluts’ (Flood 2013); constructions of more inclusive (Anderson 2010) and open masculinities (Elliott 2020); positive incorporation of a sexually agentic ‘sassy’ woman (Farvid and Braun 2006)), patriarchal ideas around gendered sexuality appear persistent. For example, Fowers and Fowers (2010) in the US utilised quantitative survey measures to report responses from women and men towards sexual so-called promiscuity in women; these included hostility and sexist attitudes (perspectives on men’s sexual promiscuity were not measured). In Flood’s (2013) Australian interview study, men talked about women who were perceived to be sexually active/experienced as less ‘worthy’ of relationships. Women positioned as ‘waiting’ for sex with heterosexual commitment have been deemed more worthy of male commitment in various studies (e.g., Budgeon 2016; Greene and Faulkner 2005). Reproducing a classic ‘slut’ versus ‘good’ (marriable) woman dichotomy (Crawford and Unger 2004), ‘slut shaming’ persists within societal narratives, articulated by both men and women (Endendijk, van Baar, and Deković 2020). However, such discourse is most aggressively deployed in ‘men’s rights’ spaces, with women routinely sexually objectified and simultaneously berated for being sexual (Ging 2019), reinforcing expectations that women’s sexuality must be submissive/passive to be socially accepted.

Recently, we outlined accounts from single women that (desirable) women should not be the active or controlling party (as men are), either in seeking sexual encounters or in heterosexual interactions more widely (Pickens and Braun 2018). Women reported an expectation to be more agreeable and submissive – particularly in response to sexual advances; direct sexual refusal has been recorded as generally difficult for women (e.g., Kitzinger and Frith 1999). Kitzinger and Frith noted social norms amplified by sexual scenarios where young women might especially face “gendered linguistic problems associated with oppressive expectations about ‘feminine’ or ‘ladylike’ speech” (p. 298), and expectations of a more submissive femininity/sexuality. In a context where directly saying no is difficult, sexual coercion or violence is often justified/excused by the claim she did not directly state no. Beres (2010) theorised these types of justifications as part of a miscommunication discourse that constructs men and women as separate cultures, akin to people from different countries and languages. If gendered communication is positioned as ‘cross-cultural,’ ‘errors’ of communication are expected and bound to occur (Crawford 1995; Tannen 1990). By emphasizing difference, such constructions work to dichotomize men and women. They not only obscure men’s demonstrated capacity to read refusal successfully in the absence of no (O’Byrne, Rapley, and Hansen 2006), they effectively locate the heart of the problem with the woman, and how she acted/failed to act.

These norms and practices of heterosexuality contribute to rape culture: where women and girls are routinely sexually objectified/dehumanised, and sexual violence is trivialised, normalised and even tolerated (Gavey 2019). Examples abound, such the widespread denial and dismissal of Donald Trump’s audio-recorded boasting about his sexual misconduct and harassment – weeks before he was voted in as US President (Ramos 2017). Cultural patterns and practices in Aotearoa also support rape culture. Such “locker room talk” embodies a closed masculinity (Elliott 2020), which promotes sexuality as a type of homosocial competition for men (Flood 2008), utilising ‘Kiwi’ values around sporting competition (Park 2000).

This socio-cultural context was what #MeToo sought to question and interrupt. Originally founded in 2006 in the US by Tarana Burke to connect women and girls of colour to support resources following sexual violence (metoomvmt.org), the #MeToo social media movement exploded in October 2017, after a ‘frustrated’ tweet by actor Alyssa Milano encouraged women to tweet/post #MeToo on social media if they had experienced any type of sexual violence. Innumerable (mostly) women posted online about their experiences of sexual harm. #MeToo ignited a movement beyond social media, forcing into public visibility the range and prevalence of harassment and assault. In 2017 and 2018 in the Global North, following the publicising of allegations against film producer Harvey Weinstein, numerous high-profile men were (publicly) accused of sexual violation (Hawbaker 2018) – with some charged, and found guilty (Ransom 2020). #MeToo adopted established feminist framings around the grey areas of sexual violence, challenging dominant societal framings around (hetero)sexual practice, and expanded conversation about sexual violence as a gendered societal problem (Lee 2018). The public conversation (which has continued, but diminished (e.g., Maier 2023)) included how gendered heterosexual dating norms might be harmful and/or contribute to the spectrum of sexual violence (e.g., see Lily 2018).

The extent to which #MeToo, led and driven by women, has been successful appears limited. The movement sought to dismantle aspects of hegemonic masculinity which support sexual violence (e.g., coercive male sexuality), and to be successful, needed men on board and even driving change. Flood (2019) identified three tasks that #MeToo required of men: to listen to women’s stories; to reflect on and change their own behaviour; and to contribute to wider social change. Flood reported that despite some shifts, not much has actually changed with men. Indeed, while #MeToo successfully started public conversation around coercive sexuality and united survivors globally, it has been evaluated as effectively consciousness-raising, failing to produce substantial change in heterosexual practice, discourse or policy (Maier 2023; Rosewarne 2019). Some argue that we are now post-#MeToo (e.g., Chen, Huang, and Jiang 2022).

An immediate backlash (for some media examples, see Albrechtsen 2018; Parsons 2018) continues into the ‘post-#MeToo’ context. The online world has changed visibility both of feminist activism and backlash to it (Sills et al. 2016), often taking forms of extreme hostility and trolling, which can be intensely misogynistic and sexually violent or shaming (e.g., Mendes, Ringrose, and Keller 2018). Such types of backlash responses to #MeToo were commonplace, evoking patriarchal victim-blaming, minimising and disbelieving women’s claims alongside concern around the risks such accusations might pose to ‘innocent’ men (Fileborn and Phillips 2019). Backlash came from individual men and men’s groups, but also from women (infamously in an open letter from 100 high-profile French women, including actor Catherine Deneuve), and much mainstream media. This evidences the feminist claim that problematic and patriarchal ideas are not (just) a problem of individual men, but of society (Fileborn and Phillips 2019; Gavey 2019; Hindes and Fileborn 2019).

Within this #MeToo sociocultural context, we gathered and examined single men’s accounts in relation to heterosexual dating. Our focus was on masculinity and singleness, but issues of dating, consent and sexual violence (and #MeToo) regularly featured in men’s accounts, often arising unprompted. We took this opportunity to explore men’s sense-making in relation to the (then current) #MeToo context, focusing on the ways men navigated and made sense of gendered practices and sexuality in a (ostensibly) changing context, with unprecedented public acknowledgement and push-back around a spectrum of sexual violence. Our paper contributes to understanding contemporary hetero-masculinity, cultures of sexual violence, and an emerging literature around backlash to #MeToo.

Data and Methods

We used a semi-structured individual interview design to explore how men made sense of and reported acting in relation to masculinity, heterosexuality and being single. Following institutional ethical approval, we recruited currently single and heterosexual men over 20 who resided in the study locale (Aotearoa) for more than 2 years. Most participants responded to a media release specifying these desired demographics and asking ‘What is it really like being a single man in 21st Century New Zealand today?’, which was posted on [University] website, shared on social media, and reported by two news websites and two radio stations. A few were recruited via word-of-mouth. Men first emailed to express interest, and 31 subsequently participated. Men were aged 23–68 (mean age 36); various ethnicities were reported but NZ European/Pākehā predominated. Men reported vastly different occupations (such as management jobs, farming, hospitality, IT/software, law, teaching, trades); a few were students (3) or provided no occupation information (2). Just under half identified as middle class (13); seven as working class, three as working-middle, one as upper-middle and three as upper or professional. Four provided no response to class. Two identified as having a disability; one “sort of”. Over two-thirds (22) had been in a relationship previously; four had children.

In recognising data as always co-constructed by interviewer and participant engagement (Finlay 2002), interviewer positionality inevitably shapes participant contributions. Chelsea, who conducted interviews both in person (22) and online (9), presented as an able-bodied, Pākehā (White), feminine-presenting woman aged around thirty (Virginia was not involved in interviewing). Visible gender (and race) could not be obscured as a shaping factor in face-to-face interviews (Schwalbe and Wolkomir 2001), but we otherwise did not reveal personal positionality to minimise their potential influences. As our analysis focuses on participant sense-making, we do not infer these perspectives as internal ‘truths’ but situated and inflective.

Interviews lasted on average an hour (23 minutes - 1 hour 26 minutes). Men were offered a NZ$20 grocery voucher as koha (thanks) for participation. Questions covered topics around experiences of being single and societal expectations of masculinity. #MeToo was not key in our interview guide; discussion around #MeToo and sexual violence was mostly instigated (unprompted) by participants in the context of talk around dating/singleness, with spontaneous follow-up questions from the interviewer. Interviews were audio-recorded and transcribed by Chelsea in an orthographic manner, omitting minor speech hesitations to facilitate readability (Braun and Clarke 2013). We use pseudonyms and only report age, given potential identifiability from other demographic details.

We initially approached analysis using a constructionist thematic analysis (TA) approach (Braun and Clarke 2013; Briggs 1986). Following reflexive TA processes, Chelsea read each interview systematically in hard copy, developing codes to segment meanings across participants’ talk. We then grouped codes into provisional themes, using visual mapping. As our analytic interest focused in on the #MeToo-related content generated by participants, we collated all relevant content, meanings, interpretations and experiences related to heterosexual relating, dating, #MeToo and sexual violence. We explored potential themes that captured patterned sensemaking around heterosexuality and masculinity through an iterative process of data revision and writing. Our analysis relied on a critical discursive framework focussing on language as the tool “giving people ideas of what they can do and of what they have just experienced” (Alcoff 2018, 3). We identified dominant patterns of sense making around gender, heterosexuality, and dating, and the identities or positions made available through them (Wetherell and Edley 2014). And, in the subsequent analysis, we show how such positionings worked to present the speaker – and those they spoke of – in particular ways, such as the ‘innocent man’ or the ‘good man.’ Although our analysis here focuses on patterning, we note the dataset was not singular.

Analysis

As interviewing began in late 2017, ‘#MeToo’ was both current and relevant to the research topic of masculinity and heterosexuality, and was often referred to unprompted by participants. Men’s sense-making in relation to the #MeToo context was largely patterned around three complementary interpretive repertoires: I just don’t understand…; You can’t do anything anymore!; and She’s really only got herself to blame… These robust repertoires formed the key discursive resources available to these men making sense of hetero-relating in (post)#MeToo Aotearoa. Yet men’s talk was also partial and contradictory, and the gendered ideologies men articulated were often fragmented and inconsistent, as men adopted different positions at different times (see Billig 1987).

“I just don’t Understand…”

This interpretive repertoire included data coded such as ‘men can’t read signs well,’ ‘men make the first move’ and ‘men and women as fundamentally/biologically different.’ These centred around the premise that men are, naturally, relationally incompetent in their interactions with women, but also presumed leaders in this space, rendering the contemporary context confusing. We focused our analysis on men’s understandings of their roles within heterosexuality, as opposed to direct responses to the #MeToo movement/context. However, we propose this repertoire forms part of the foundation of (broader) pushback against #MeToo-inspired issues through positioning men as innocent/not culpable.

Considering the idea that men were expected to make the ‘first move’ (i.e., be the initiator of contact) within a heterosexual dating context, for example, many men framed this as naturally the man’s job to approach a woman he might be interested in, for any (romantic or sexual) interaction to happen:

“I suppose it does come down to you know the man is umm I mean nature is a man is the pursuer” – Frank, 50

Frank evoked a biological/evolutionary basis for this social pattern – positioning it as effectively unchangeable. Essentialist reasoning was common in relation to topics surrounding heterosexual dating, serving as a genetically-determined explanation for behaviours and rationale for their (uncritiqued) persistence.

This discourse of nature/biology constructs men and women as essentially different, with naturally different roles and behaviours within heterosexuality (Ging 2019). Such differences were positioned as a cause of difficulty, with women often ‘misunderstanding’ men’s behaviours and intentions, particularly within a first move encounter, and men unable to interpret women’s behaviours in response. Some men expressed concern that their first move might not be welcome, but it would be difficult for them to interpret behavioural signs from women:

“I can't read body language whatsoever (…) I can't tell whether they're hinting that they like it hinting that they don't hinting that I'm like a crazy guy and want me to go away I just can't tell” – Jarrod, 40

Jarrod’s account presented women and men as equipped with entirely/essentially different ways of communicating, echoing the miscommunication discourse outlined by Beres (2010). With this framing, Jarrod could position himself as an innocent and unwitting party who “just couldn’t tell” what women want, despite effort and sincerity. This discourse creates a sympathetic position for men as ‘good guys’ trying their best in difficult situations for which they are situated as naturally ill-equipped. Like Jarrod, Simon (29) described making the first move as risky and precarious:

“I've only done it (made the first move) a couple times it's difficult because you don't know uh if they're even interested sometimes because some will have very uh some people who just are friendly but you don't want to misinterpret that friendliness (…) for guys it's a guessing game”

Generalising to (all) “guys,” Simon described making a move as a “guessing game,” evoking an almost impossible scenario for men where women’s interest/communication could be indecipherable, putting men at the mercy of chance and luck. Women, in contrast to “guys,” were implicitly and explicitly constructed as relationally competent, understanding any signals men gave in heterosexual encounters, effectively able to give clear responses after correctly interpreting men’s behaviour (and at fault if they did not – see our final repertoire). Drawing on a discourse of women’s communication as more ‘intimacy’ based, and men comparatively as relationally limited and unskilled (see Tannen 1990), men often described these ‘differences’, specifically locating women as better at emotions and relationships. Craig (30), for example, stated:

“It does bear out in like broad statistics that women are better at interpreting nonverbal cues because with raising a baby and that kinda stuff”.

Evoking the rhetorical power of “statistics” (e.g., Urla 1993) to produce gender differences as real and credible, Craig positioned himself as a rational, unbiased science man merely reporting the facts. Drawing on the idea of biological nurturers (i.e., that women through roles as mothers and wives are naturally more emotionally capable (Terry and Braun 2011)), this natural differences discourse automatically allocates the burden of emotional work and relational/caring roles to women in heterosexual encounters and relationships.

This uncertainty around how women might interpret their first move – and often an expressed fear of being a ‘creep’ – reportedly inhibited some men from acting in ways they might want to:

“There's that line like being smooth and being creepy well I don't want to risk being creepy so I don't risk being smooth (…) but at the same time I feel that not acting is limiting or like resulting in me going home and sleeping like a starfish every night” – Liam, 27

By positioning the difference between a “smooth”/successful or a “creepy”/unsuccessful approach as unknowable to him (in advance), Liam situated himself as the unwitting/incompetent male. The viability of this subject position relied on the construction of men naturally having essentially unchangeable difficulties with hetero-communication. In a changed world, where women now have the power to define ‘well-intentioned’ men as “creepy”, this nature has become risky and dangerous. Such discursive rationalising effectively legitimises the notion that men do not mean to harass women; they are simply interactionally incompetent. This has the effect of discursively removing accountability and normalises men’s behaviours (including harassment), with the justification that their behaviours are not their fault – it’s all just a gendered misunderstanding (Tannen 1990).

With making the appropriate move (and not being creepy) located in terms of women’s response, Ben (34) framed women’s interest as a tenuous, unknowable thing:

“There is an expectation that you're confident and that you exhibit that confidence that you make a move but then it's it's almost like that's expected that it's only done if you think she finds you attractive and you can't always know that”

Ben echoed the idea of a guessing game for men, who were trying their best in a difficult situation where they cannot read women’s desires. The unfairness of heterosexuality for men was emphasized in Ben’s account, where men were burdened with the responsibility of making the move, in a particular, confident way, and at risk of negative reactions from women through making such a move. Rejection by women of these first moves was positioned throughout men’s talk as a risk of heterosexual interactions, an unwanted failure to be avoided, rather than a normal or expected part of dating. Women, who were not expected to make the first move (something unacceptable within hetero-femininity, see Pickens and Braun 2018) and suffered no parallel risk of rejection, became positioned as accepting or vilifying vulnerable men, almost on a whim.

A discourse of men and women as unable to understand each other’s dating behaviours became a popular media focus in the wake of #MeToo. Media around this time published advice, guidelines or dating rules instructing men about how to read signs of interest/disinterest from women – and what not to do (See Eriksen 2018; Parsons 2018; Robinson 2017). Such guides position men within a discourse of natural communication confusion, where sexual violence accusations can result from innocent miscommunication (not malintent) – a discourse echoed by men in our study. We have argued that a miscommunication discourse (Beres 2010) operates in gendered ways to position women as (more) culpable and men as innocent for what becomes constructed as a well-intentioned interaction gone wrong. Through this, men are effectively, naturally, positioned as under-resourced and in need of help, as opposed to accountable. This positioning of risk and action connects to the second interpretative repertoire.

“You can’t do Anything Anymore!”

This repertoire included data coded as ‘aggression/power/confidence valued in masculinity,’ ‘fear of being accused’ and ‘women/society treat men badly.’ It cohered around the expressed fear that men (themselves or others) might (unfairly) be perceived as, or accused of being, inappropriate, sexually harassing or sexually violent – an escalation from being considered a creep. The potential that men might be (falsely) accused of some type of sexually harmful behaviour (due to women’s empowerment, such as via #MeToo) was explicitly spoken about – unprompted – by almost all participants, and more implicitly underpinned much talk around heterosexual dating. Sometimes #MeToo was specifically referred to and in other instances men referred to more general societal changes in this direction. Such fears were often discussed in the same dating context as the previous repertoire, and men continued to take up the subject position of innocent, well-meaning victim of misunderstandings by women.

“I think the expectation still is that the guy needs to make the first move and um this has become a bit of a problem because with all the um expectations these days about harassment and all the ahh like it’s a grey line grey area basically and there’s no clear line you know where it says this is ok and this isn’t ok and um (pause) um yeah I’m not really the best person to ask in that area but apparently there are signs” – Ali, 36

Many participants discussed the potential for accusation as a recent phenomenon, related to ‘modern’ societal discussion around sexual violence (i.e., #MeToo). In claiming that “these days” the first move has become a problem, due to potential accusations of sexual violence, Ali evoked a simpler, ideal past where men could make the first move without scrutiny or risk. The problem was effectively constructed as changing times/expectations, not men’s (potentially “harassing”) behaviours. Ben (34) described differences in how men (and women) act in recent times, that evoked a (problematic) change from the past:

“Whether it's just purely male anxiety or just a sense of arrogance that some women have started to develop over the past couple of decades but yeah there are guys who feel very very self-conscious I'm certainly a lot more careful and um (sigh) particularly in the workplace particularly at universities and stuff like that to not say anything now that is complimentary because yeah I mean it only takes one comment now”

Here, women were positioned as over-reacting in how they read men’s innocent compliments, evoking a confused and fearful context. Men’s positioning of women in heterosexual encounters was contradictory across the dataset: as relationally competent and superior when men can’t understand women, but relationally lacking or (wilfully) misinterpreting when they should understand men’s ‘true’ intentions as harmless not harmful. Within both, men were set up as the victim: of their own inability to read signs from women, and of what may follow women’s misinterpretation of their ‘innocent’ actions. Discourses of fear around ‘false’ accusations can be used to excuse and exonerate men from inappropriate or harmful behaviour, by portraying them as victims of (at best) women’s misunderstandings or (at worst) maliciousness – through women’s false allegations (a discourse which continues to flourish, despite extremely low false reporting (Flood 2008)). Where men situate themselves as victims, women are invoked as their counterpoints – unreasonable, unnecessarily sensitive and accusing, misunderstanding or actively ignoring the truthful intent behind men’s (innocent) behaviours.

Many men talked in ways that implied moves to call out/reduce sexual harm had gone too far, making men unnecessarily nervous and careful around women – a commonly heard backlash against #MeToo (Hindes and Fileborn 2019). The implication was that changing times had changed women for the worse. Ben explicitly described ‘arrogant’ women evoking an over-entitlement on women’s part, with the power to vilify innocent and well-meaning men over something as benign as just “one comment” (Ben, 34). Here, Ben effectively set up the current environment as neither fair nor logical – instead, it offers a risky scenario where men cannot do anything safely, resulting in men feeling anxious about how to behave.

This repertoire positioned women as having (illegitimately) gained such power through a subtle backing from society/the media, evoking common ‘post-feminist’ backlash discourse which positions ongoing feminist attention to women’s issues as (now) going further than equality (Nicholas and Agius 2017), and overly empowering women at the expense of men (Jordan 2016). Within this repertoire, women’s positions were evoked as untenable (and unnatural): women should not be believable with their own stories of sexual assault, because they see (wilful) harm where none exists.

Another way participants positioned men as reasonable (and women as unreasonable) was through disclaiming any objection to #MeToo and related issues:

“(There’s) a lot of degenerates out there of course, but now it’s like political correctness has done away with due process” – Cameron, 38

The classic disclaimer “but” (Edley and Wetherell 1999) allowed men to position themselves as allies against real sexual violence, yet oppose what was constructed as overreaction or hypersensitivity from women and society over not real sexual violence (Hindes and Fileborn 2019):

“You see a lot of stuff on social media you know the whole #MeToo movement where it's well the movement is fantastic but it's sort of morphed away from actual sexual assault rape and harassment to just men trying to hit on a woman and that's sexual harassment now you know like saying hey how it's going and you touch someone and they're like you're harassing me or a bad date with Aziz Ansari you know (…) I am a nice guy I would never do that kind of stuff, but because someone may regret something, because I'm not a beautiful person like physically, that does inhibit me a little bit yeah (…) regret sex that turns into he raped me sort, it's not common but it is a worry” – Craig, 30

Craig referenced a popular “bad date” media article (Way 2018), in which a woman described her experiences of her date ignoring her signs of discomfort, pressuring and failing to obtain explicit consent, as sexual coercion. The legitimacy of her claims was publicly debated and contested, with many (including our participant) arguing these acts were not actual sexual violence or really problematic (Flanagan and North 2018). Within accounts like Craig’s, ‘real’ sexual violence was condemned, achieved through rejecting any notion of a spectrum of sexual violence (Gavey 2019), and instead constructing discrete sex and violence categories. Cameron’s comments illustrate this patterned discursive strategy:

“There’s an expectation now or a perception that men engaging in behaviour that they’ve always engaged in you know they’ll go out and get drunk on a Friday night and Saturday night and they go and try and hit on chicks you know it’s always the way it’s been done and it’s a mad fumble um but today that’s perceived in a negative light um it’s seen as toxic or I don’t know potentially offensive and destructive and all the rest of it, but young men need to make mistakes you know that’s how they engage that’s always been the social lubrication so I think that perception is I don’t know, it’s unwarranted” – Cameron, 38

Here, men effectively need to “hit on chicks” as a masculine rite of passage, with the drunken “mad fumble” or “mistakes” (i.e., potential harm to women) part of the (natural) social order. Such behaviours were positioned as innocent through naivety, based in the logic that as the behaviours have persisted over time, they must be necessary, natural and right (for men, and therefore, society), consistent with essentialist explanations of hegemonic masculinity which naturalise male behaviours as biological and evolutionary (de Oliveira Pimenta and Natividade 2013). Women – and contemporary society – were positioned as overreacting, as not understanding and accommodating men’s true needs and intentions; women’s/society’s changing read of men’s behaviours was rejected as illegitimate.

Men not only expressed fear of being perceived negatively or accused of inappropriate behaviour that they perceived as actually harmless, but also of a serious accusation of sexual violence:

“You're definitely kind of a little bit assumed guilty until proven innocent as in you know an aggressive sexual predator dude” – Tom, 40

The implication here is that men like Tom are naturally good, if misunderstood, in contrast to a rare specimen, “an aggressive sexual predator dude.” Such polarising constructions worked to position any idea that he could actually be “guilty” of problematic sexual behaviour as unreasonable, implicitly presenting #MeToo or related concerns (and women’s responses) as exaggerated, unreasonable claims. Some men articulated a distinct and legitimised fear of being ‘falsely’ accused in this unreasonable context:

“One day I was yarning to a girl at a bar once and she was really drunk and she like waved at me and I'm like what's going on and then she lent in to kiss me and I was like really freaked out and you know like even then I felt like I was like the pest (…) I feel like men are often perceived as the instigator and the pest and the one that wants to instigate things and the one that's guilty” – Patrick, 32

Patrick evokes the contemporary context as impossible for men. Contrasting a situation where he is the recipient of an unwanted act, but feels like he is “the pest”, captures the essence of the repertoire you can’t do anything anymore! There is no perceived/imagined space of genuine interest or innocent intent for men. This repertoire constructs the problem not as men’s behaviour, but rather society’s positioning of men as “guilty” and as “pests”. This rejection of men as potential instigators of problematic behaviour was the underlying backbone which structured this interpretive repertoire, and contributed to a broader (overall) discourse of disbelieving women who report sexual violence.

“She’s Really Only got Herself to Blame...”

Our third interpretive repertoire built on the previous two and positioned women as rarely actually the victims of sexual violence, and as culpable for failing to take necessary preventative actions. This repertoire included data coded ‘responsibility of women not to be assaulted’ and ‘justification of sexism/sexual violence’; it appeared primarily through evocations of not believing women in their accounts of sexual harm. Men articulated this in mostly subtle and implicit ways, such as by displaying hesitancy in believing a female victim’s account, or by questioning her behaviour. For example, Craig (30), continued his commentary around the Aziz Ansari story:

“I mean the way I read it was like it was just like she didn’t enjoy it so she outed him for it (…) because he’s a man he tried it again because he wants to be successful but again if she said no and the first time it was successful I don’t see why she can’t say no again”

Evoking earlier repertoires, Craig normalised the idea that men should be expected to be persistent or pressuring in sexual encounters (something separate to real sexual violence). Heterosexual conquest and access to women’s bodies was positioned as men’s natural priority, something they are entitled to and expected to act on – echoing longstanding discourse around active male sexuality (Hollway 1984), legitimising elements of sexual coercion as normative within heterosexual encounters (Gavey 2019). Our third repertoire appeared through Craig positioning the woman as effectively at fault for giving up on what was framed as an effective resistance strategy; for not continuing to say no. This account positioned the woman as having mishandled the situation. Craig reiterated the miscommunication discourse, where unwanted sexual experiences were explained through men’s claimed inability to understand sexual refusal in the absence of a woman explicitly saying “no” – or repeatedly saying no (see O'Byrne, Rapley, and Hansen 2006).

In framing the author as ‘outing’ Ansari for an experience she simply “didn’t enjoy,” Craig not only constructed this in opposition to something actually sexually problematic, he normalised ‘not enjoying a sexual encounter’ as unnoteworthy (for women). Evoking a wider discourse where heterosexual encounters are predominantly for men’s enjoyment, not only was Ansari’s ‘coercion’ rendered legible only as sex, her complaint was delegitimised. Within a longstanding “missing discourse of desire” for women (Fine 1988) and constructions of (hetero)sexuality which have allowed “heterosexual women to be defined in terms of men's sexual needs, rather than as female sexual subjects who can negotiate with men” (Holland et al. 1992, 279), she is expected to accept the absence of her pleasure, or indeed discomfort, to enable his. Craig’s comments evidence that traditional interpretative frameworks coexist alongside more progressive discourses which frame women’s sexual pleasure as important (see Farvid 2014).

Tom (40) similarly subtly blamed women for putting themselves in a situation where men might make an unwelcome move:

“You know women going out to you know have a good time you know might go out with a group of girls and then they get super pissed off when a guy comes up and tries to talk to them and I'm like um you know you can put Beyoncé on in your lounge you know in a super safe environment”

Men’s advances were positioned here both as a feature of public space and as innocuous – as ‘just trying to talk to women.’ Through extrematization, women’s responses were constructed as both unwarranted and over-the-top, evoking irrational, emotional women. Drawing on ideas that real sexual violence or harassment is rare, and men’s behaviour is usually innocent and benign, women’s affective possibilities for complaint are bounded.

Within Tom’s account, staying home offered a way for women to save themselves (and men) from their overreactions. By creating a contrast between out and the safety of the home, Tom constructed “out” as normatively unsafe for women (despite men being positioned as rarely actually dangerous). Being “super safe” becomes an unrealistic expectation for women outside the home. This understanding is not uncommon (despite the majority of gendered violence occurring within the home); women report numerous precautions to avoid gendered violence in public spaces, including staying home (United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime 2018). Public spaces were here constructed as spaces for all men, but only for women who manage risk and display the appropriate behaviour for a particular context. Liam (27) discussed women’s clothing choices as indicative of their failings in managing risks in public spaces:

“Like Laneway [Music Festival] and stuff there were scantily clad girls and obviously they can wear what they want but sadly due to you know stereotypical guys you know getting drunk and you know touchy they also need to have that education of you know dangers out there”

Liam positioned a risk of unwanted sexual touching from men as “sadly” unmovable; women’s behaviour, instructed by the right “education,” becomes key to solving public space dangers for women. Liam’s caveat that women should be free to “wear what they want,” which works discursively to situate him as equal-minded and not like them (i.e., men who touch women without consent) also positions women as accountable for what happens to them if they don’t follow the necessary precautions. Within this framing, those who are negligent to their own safety risk being excluded from the category of legitimate or actual victims. In this way, Liam’s account reiterated traditional rape myths of women ‘asking for it’ (Edwards et al. 2011) and discourses around women’s bodies as unsafe sites of seduction for hapless men, unable to control their sexual impulses (Ringrose and Renold 2012). This victim-blaming sensemaking framework was evident even in relation to Liam recounting a (woman) friend’s unwanted sexual experience:

“A drunk guy that was hitting on a friend of mine and he ended up like kissing her on the neck, like they set up a support line for this kind of stuff I don't know how she didn't know about it, but he was like hooking and then ended up hooking up with her and all that kind of stuff and she was like trying to escape (…) but then again she's the kind of, I hate to be like the devil's advocate, but she does like drama so I'm wondering if it was to the extent that she said it was”

Constructing his friend’s account as untrustworthy, because she “likes drama,” positions women as unreliable narrators of their sexual experience, echoing a rape myth that women lie about sexual violence (Edwards et al. 2011). By bringing in the possibility that she may have exaggerated/made up a story up to create a reaction, Liam also evokes patriarchal narratives of ‘hysterical,’ ‘attention-seeking’ women, and consequently blameless men (Muehlenhard, Harney, and Jones 1992). Liam’s ‘victim blaming’ account was articulated as a “devil’s advocate” position, a term often used to legitimise a disavowed position as equal in an (unequal) argument context (Deeb et al. 2018), which discursively allowed Liam to position himself as logical and fair, in rhetorical opposition to her emotional or dramatic state. Her recounting of an experience of sexual assault becomes a claim to be rationally disputed and assessed.

Mention of Liam’s knowledge of services for sexual violence, that his friend failed to access, offered a subtle reworking of the ‘women only have themselves to blame’ repertoire. Her failure to know about a support service that even he (implicitly outside the sexual assault victim category) knew about, rendered her almost irresponsible as a woman, for not knowing, and not using, such services. The responsible woman should embody knowledge around how to protect herself from, or support herself after, sexual violence. To not do so becomes negligent and a failing in appropriate womanhood. It also rendered her status as really a victim of sexual violence suspect. She became an imperfect victim and therefore not believable or worthy of empathy (Meyer 2016), echoing the longstanding discourse that works to keep women quiet about experiences of violence from men (Franks 2019) and sustains the cultural scaffolding for sexual violence.

Conclusion

We highlighted three key interpretive repertoires articulated in men’s talk related to heterosexual dating, #MeToo, and women’s experiences/allegations of sexual violence. Men positioned men as misunderstood by women – as generally good guys, trying their best in a dating atmosphere where the rules are unclear, and their abilities for interpreting (confusing) signals from women were limited. This repertoire worked to remove accountability from men for their actions in heterosexual encounters. The regularly articulated plausible explanation for women’s accusations of sexual harm (and #MeToo) was that women were reacting in overly sensitive, irrational, or even arrogant ways, misunderstanding men’s innocent dating behaviour. Men discursively became victims, rather than instigators – moves not dissimilar to men’s discursive denial of masculine privilege (e.g., Bridges 2021). Women’s experiences of sexual violence were often questioned or not fully believed, at the same time as men expressed condemnation for real sexual violence. These discursive juxtapositions allowed men to position themselves as allies against sexual violence while also logically questioning and critiquing (and ultimately rejecting) individual stories of sexual violence or coercion. The often intermeshed repertoires evoked familiar rape myth discourses to make sense of – and undermine the validity of – women’s reported experiences (see Edwards et al. 2011).

Neither disbelieving women’s reports of sexual assault nor victim blaming are new – society has long held victims of sexual violence to account as opposed to their perpetrators, resulting in well-entrenched and extremely high rates of gendered violence, particularly in Aotearoa (Gavey 2019). What was new – and unprecedented – was #MeToo: a widely taken up, global pushback against gendered patterns of sexual violence, with public and widespread calls for men to stand in solidarity with victims. It brought normative everyday heterosexual men’s practices into attention – an uncomfortable position for some men (Flood 2019) who through patriarchy have been long conditioned into the status quo (and privilege). In this context, these repertoires offer a discursive ‘win win’ for men, who through them, get to occupy the position of both ‘good guy’/critic of (real) sexual violence, without the demand to confront its subtle enablement and their (possible) complicity.

Analyses such as ours risk a sense of disillusionment in the current sociocultural context (as women continue to have to tell stories of sexual violence and hope to be believed; Rosewarne 2019). However, if #MeToo provides a “moment of rupture” (Fileborn and Phillips 2019, 111) through which we have an opportunity to expand and evolve discursive constructions, perhaps our understandings of boundaries of sexual violence can meaningfully shift – a call articulated by many others (e.g., Fileborn and Phillips 2019; Flood 2019; Kelly 2013). Understanding the ways men navigate the current moment – both in support and resistance – is part of creating space for change. Our analysis highlights the need to weaken the discursive scaffolding that perpetuates existing gendered understandings that undermine change around gendered sexual violence.