Men who achieve a certain level of celebrity have long been rumored to carry a particular type of prophylactic in their wallets. Not the foil-wrapped kind that prevents an unwanted pregnancy, but the consent-form kind—to which a woman signs her name before she leaves, lest she become regretful, or resentful, and hence tempted to make certain accusations of the life-ruining variety.
Reports of this practice surface periodically, usually in connection with a news story that conveniently illustrates its usefulness. In 2004, a Colorado-based condom manufacturer claimed to have sold more than 4,000 condoms pre-packaged with a “pre-sexual agreement” form (cost: $7.99)—a product inspired by the case of NBA star Kobe Bryant, who stood trial that year for felony sexual assault over an encounter he claimed was consensual. Last year, after a series of high-profile sexual misconduct allegations against Spanish footballers, coach and activist Miguel Galan posted an image on X of a consent form, which he claimed multiple players were using as a safeguard in casual encounters.
The credibility of these reports is debatable, but they persist for one obvious reason: It is easy to believe that for certain types of men, this is a going concern. Musicians. Actors. Athletes. Guys who spend a lot of time on the road and in hotel rooms, and who are surely aware of the potential for catastrophe should a casual encounter go sideways—a particular hazard in places governed by the notion of “affirmative consent,” which is official policy on many American college campuses, and a national policy in Canada. Affirmative consent requires continuous, voluntary, enthusiastic agreement to each sexual act at the moment it happens; it is a paradigm in which sexual assault becomes a question not of ignoring a no, but of failing to get exactly the right kind of yes.
Which brings us to a video that played in a courtroom in London, Ontario, earlier this month.
