On Feb. 5, a video of what appears to be Drake, nude from the waist down and playfully flopping his dick around, was posted on the app formerly known as Twitter by an anonymous account. Drake has yet to address the video in public, and it is unknown whether it is legitimate or was published without his consent. (Deep-fake editing or impersonation are all within the realm of possibility.) Still, it’s fair to assume that he never intended for a video depicting him in a state of undress to be shared with the world. If that’s the case, Drake’s consent was violated.

But the discourse on the video was mostly upbeat and lighthearted. Queer men and straight women expressed their attraction to the rapper in a barrage of thirsty tweets. A number of seemingly straight niggas also added themselves to the public group chat in a brazen display of homoerotic fandom, cheering on the rapper’s dick size and cheekily lamenting their inability to compete with Drake for the sexual attention of women. Media outlets rounded up the most “hilarious reactions” to the footage. Not many people let the sinister nature of the video — which could qualify as revenge porn — stop them from their collective fun.

During a livestream the day after the video dropped, content creator Adin Ross allegedly texted Drake a voice memo, complimenting him on the size of his privates. He claims the rapper responded with “like eight laughing emojis” and joked that the voice memo would be the opener for his next album. Apparently it was no harm, no foul. If anyone thought a Black man being victimized by rape culture would lend itself to any meaningful progress, they were mistaken.

Rape culture is characterized by activities including catcalling, negging, and sending unsolicited nude photos. It is reinforced by men’s performance of heteronormativity and disproportionately impacts the women they intimately engage with. Yet with this recent violation of Drake’s consent, we see even a rich and powerful man objectified as a result of the hellscape niggas have created and sustain. It begs the question: Will we, particularly Black folks, ever realize a world free from sexualized violence when the primary perpetrators don’t even recognize when it has happened to them?

Later that month, the producer Rodney Jones, who goes by Lil Rod, filed a lawsuit against Sean “Diddy” Combs, alleging that he was forced under the threat of physical violence to “solicit sex workers and perform sex acts to the pleasure of Mr. Combs” at sex parties attended by underage girls where drugs were available. Lil Rod worked on Combs’s most recent project, The Love Album, and lived with the mogul during the collaboration. He claims he was sexually harassed and groomed for a “homosexual relationship” with Combs and that Combs was involved in a shootout.

Jones’s lawsuit is now one of eight accusing Diddy of sexual misconduct and the only one initiated by a male accuser. While this pileup of legal trouble has impacted Diddy’s businesses and reputation — similar to the takedowns of Bill Cosby and R. Kelly before him — Jones’s statements prompted less serious reactions than the accusations from women. In response to the anecdotes alleging same-sex encounters among Diddy, Jones, and other notable men in hip-hop and R&B, many social media users found Diddy’s potentially predatory behavior to be comical. One powerful man allegedly sexually assaulting another warranted not concern or outrage but an onslaught of “pause,” “no homo,” and “no Diddy” jokes. Black feminist scholars including bell hooks have long reminded us that men are also victims under patriarchy. In many ways, they’re the perfect victims under patriarchy — able to write off their negative experiences with jokes, diversions, and a willful refusal to question the system that enabled their harm.

If men really interrogated their own bodily autonomy, they would be forced to acknowledge when they have breached that of others. Yes, they can recognize and disavow overt physical violence, but the more mundane behaviors and patterns that uphold patriarchy, and the rape culture that thrives within, are all but invisible. Revenge porn featuring men is minimized as “leaked footage,” and the men featured in it are meant to take it on the chin. Same-sex harassment gets buried under a mountain of homophobic sensationalism and caricature, like the barrage of “No Diddy” zingers. Under this cloak of invisibility, predators and their enablers not only flourish but also can deny there’s anything for more marginalized genders to worry about in the first place. Instead everyone is urged to overlook red flags and blatant patriarchal violence even though it’s happening all around us all the time.

In the realm of celebrity pop culture, stories of Black men on the receiving end of consent violations are routinely minimized. Boosie facilitating sexual contact between an adult woman and his underage son is just as much a part of his lore as blatant homophobia. Both have raised a few eyebrows and perhaps relegated Boosie to C-list status, revered only by his fellow Southerners and the Black millennials who watched fraternities and sororities strolling to his music. That demotion is hardly justice for his little boy or members of the LGBTQ community impacted by his trolling. Lil Wayne has always maintained that his first sexual experience, at age 11, was rape — and that he “loved it.” By his account, it was arranged by Birdman, a father figure and head of his then record label, Cash Money. Wayne recounted the experience during a filmed studio interaction to Lil Twist, a 15-year-old-rapper who was signed to Wayne’s label, Young Money. Wayne then suggested that the teen be similarly initiated, ready to pass on a legacy of collusion that is accepted and applauded within the lifestyle of the blinged-out and famous.

It would seem the harms perpetuated in these situations are obvious. Why do men repeatedly miss opportunities to interrupt the cycles of exploitation and raise standards for boys and younger men? The problem is the messenger. Women have explained what sexual control, subjugation, coercion, and harm are and how each form of aggression affects them. But patriarchy has created a language barrier that limits men’s ability to fully comprehend it. That language barrier, the Teflon shield that keeps women’s explanations from penetrating the male consciousness, is toxic masculinity. This is a key and often misunderstood component of the conversation, said Amber J. Phillips, a cultural organizer and storyteller with a background in reproductive justice. “When [Black girls and women] suffer at the hands of patriarchal violence, we tend to talk to each other about it, lean toward each other, be there for each other, and support one another. We become each other’s place of confession and vulnerability,” she explained. “I think men never get that. They don’t see the value of it because they’re operating within a system that, technically, they should be the masters and commanders of. But they know that they’re not.” Instead they double down on performing a heterosexual masculinity that reinforces their position as powerful and dominant.

Because women have been loud about Drake’s offenses, more people recognize the blatant contradiction of him recklessly detailing his exploits in his music and easily making enemies out of women (Rihanna, Megan Thee Stallion, and Esperanza Spalding) while being branded a heartthrob. Thanks to Cassie filing a lawsuit, more people can trace Diddy’s trajectory from tyrannical label CEO to sexual aggressor. But unless we tackle the institution of patriarchy and the toxic masculinity it breeds, concepts like sexual assault, intimate partner violence, consent violations, and lack of bodily autonomy will remain consigned to murky territory and deployed as mere buzzwords while continuing to wreak havoc on people’s lives — including Black men’s.

In mid-June, Power actor Michael Rainey Jr. appeared on TyTy James’s Twitch livestream and his privates were groped by James’s sister. He was visibly uncomfortable, looking around for support, and left the stream shortly after. Clips of the incident circulated online with many people calling out the sexual assault. Yet 50 Cent, Rainey’s Power co-star and the series’s creator, questioned whether the incident should be classified as such. The veteran rapper wrote on Instagram, “From a male perspective this was an aggressive advance.” Several commenters pushed back on 50’s perspective, pointing out what would happen if the roles had been reversed and Rainey had groped a woman without her consent. Rainey expressed a similar sentiment in a statement posted to his Instagram stories: “I can’t take it lightly because I know I would be in serious trouble if the roles were reversed,” adding, “This is an unfortunate situation that I do not condone in any way.” He concluded, “The fact is, sexual assault is never okay, regardless of gender or status. We’re all human, and we should respect each other. Most importantly, we should always respect ourselves.” While I completely agree with his stance that sexual assault is never okay, the fact that women still must be invoked for it to be recognized is disheartening. It is a martyrdom — and sometimes a villainization when we hold perpetrators accountable — that we would be better without.

Men respect the opinions of other men the most. (It’s worth noting that when West Coast rapper Kendrick Lamar questioned Drake’s manhood over several diss records in May, it was hailed as the ultimate smackdown for the Canadian, who has struggled to maintain his grasp on the street credibility so treasured in his genre. When Megan Thee Stallion did the same in her “Hiss” record, it was written off as “he said, she said” gossip.) Men have to start the conversation about predators within their own community. Those most primed to speak are the men, like Lil Rod and Lil Wayne, who can personally attest to the devastation of sexual assault. Until they do, there isn’t much hope for the rest of us.

Parts of this essay were originally published on Notes From a Trap Feminist.