Cab driver: So, you just finished work?
Me: No.
Cab driver: You had a night off?
Me: Yes.
Cab driver: You had a night off, because you had a date with this young man? [points to T, who had just escorted me into cab, kissed me goodnight, and was now crossing the road in front of us]
Me: ...yes.
Cab driver: First date?
Me: ...second.
Cab driver: Is he a pushy guy?
Me: ...
Cab driver: You know, does he push you to have sex?
Me: ...no...
Cab driver: Oh good. That means he's a nice guy.
Me: That's a relief.
Cab driver: Some guys are pushy, you know, and just want to have sex. [meaningful look in rear view mirror]
Me: ...uh huh.
IT WAS LIKE HE KNEW.
Except not.
Showing posts with label stop harassing me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stop harassing me. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Because they actually want to dance, not fuck
Lyk ZOMG can't she tell he's teh GAY????///??/?I always have an amazing time at the Night Cat - I love me some live salsa/reggae/funk beats. The only thing is, it can get awkward if I only go with one other girl; invariably some guy will jump in and grab one of us as a dance partner, leaving the other vulnerable. Or we’ll be targeted by college boys’ wingman routines.
So Brenda and I were warming up on the back dance floor, testing the salsa waters, when a young guy sidles up to Brenda and in a loud, aggressively Australian accent slurs, “I couldn’t help but notice you girls are pretty good. Would you mind giving us guys some lessons?”
I notice his friend skulking around to where I’m standing, and sigh. The old wingman routine. Guy #1 engages Brenda under the pretence of wanting to learn salsa steps - the urgency of which suddenly disappeared as he picked up her Brazilian accent and started trying to "get to know her" instead. Guy #2 made feeble attempts at small talk with me, which I am immediately bored by. “So what do you do? Yeah I’m doing my engineering degree. Do you study? What do you study? Where are you from? Where do you work? How do you two know each other? Yeah... nah... yeah...”
Oh, YAWN. I’m here to dance, not die of boredom reliving all my first-year-of-uni conversations.
The band starts up and we make an excuse to lose them, itching as we are to actually dance, as opposed to standing around nodding politely while being chatted up. Later as Brenda and I are in the bathroom she says, "The guy who liked you was cute, didn’t you like him?" I was hard-pressed to explain the whole “turned off by the obnoxious Aussie college boy vibe” to someone with English as a second language, and simply said, “Um, too young.”
Later on in the evening as Brenda is cutting up the floor with a bona fide salsa dancer I found myself flanked by the same two guys again, joined by a third who plonks himself down in the chair opposite to stare from a respectable distance at his mate’s attempted conquest. I grin to myself as I realise the trio are like a Melbourne version of JJ, Freddie and Cook from Skins – "Cook" the bold first guy who used salsa as a way to weedle a conversation out of us, "JJ" the shy but curious outsider, and "Freddie" the dark-haired one hitting on me.
Brenda is dancing with a campy (and holy FUCK he could salsa) guy wearing a beret and scarf with a tank top, and Freddie decides the best way to engage me in conversation is by being a homophobe and assigning me as the sole representative of all womankind everywhere and thus obligated to answer his stupid questions.
“Can I ask you a question?" he begins. "Do girls honestly find that-” pointing disdainfully at beret guy as he swayed against Brenda, “attractive? I mean, how is that attractive? What do you think, the hat, the scarf…” the offending guy broke away from Brenda and performed a spinning spot turn, “I mean, look at that!”
And he got up and performed his own spot turn, waving his arms in an exaggeratedly feminine manner as his mates laughed. “Isn’t that just gay?” Cook and Freddie continue to mock Brenda's partner, complete with hoots and shoulder wiggles as JJ spins his chair around and perches on the opposite side, legs straddling the back like twelve-year-olds do when they think it's cool.
I know this game. This is the part where I giggle insipidly at the boys' incomparable wit, join in making fun of gay guys, and roll my eyes over how stupid the girls who like them are (duh, can't their silly ladybrains recognise boys who wear berets as unsuitable breeding partners?), while also assuring some insecure kid of his superiority and thus encourage his advances. Hell no, Freddie, you’re not tricking me into reassuring you of your manhood. Times like this I wish I'd just pretended I didn’t speak English.
Suddenly, an equally “metrosexual” guy cut into our circle (I like to think he saw my frustration), complete with his own beret and a vest over his t-shirt. He held out a hand for me. “Want to dance?”
I grabbed him straight away with a relieved, “YES.”
And off we sambaed, leaving Freddie, JJ and Cook behind to ponder further why all the gay guys were getting the girls.
So Brenda and I were warming up on the back dance floor, testing the salsa waters, when a young guy sidles up to Brenda and in a loud, aggressively Australian accent slurs, “I couldn’t help but notice you girls are pretty good. Would you mind giving us guys some lessons?”
I notice his friend skulking around to where I’m standing, and sigh. The old wingman routine. Guy #1 engages Brenda under the pretence of wanting to learn salsa steps - the urgency of which suddenly disappeared as he picked up her Brazilian accent and started trying to "get to know her" instead. Guy #2 made feeble attempts at small talk with me, which I am immediately bored by. “So what do you do? Yeah I’m doing my engineering degree. Do you study? What do you study? Where are you from? Where do you work? How do you two know each other? Yeah... nah... yeah...”
Oh, YAWN. I’m here to dance, not die of boredom reliving all my first-year-of-uni conversations.
The band starts up and we make an excuse to lose them, itching as we are to actually dance, as opposed to standing around nodding politely while being chatted up. Later as Brenda and I are in the bathroom she says, "The guy who liked you was cute, didn’t you like him?" I was hard-pressed to explain the whole “turned off by the obnoxious Aussie college boy vibe” to someone with English as a second language, and simply said, “Um, too young.”
Later on in the evening as Brenda is cutting up the floor with a bona fide salsa dancer I found myself flanked by the same two guys again, joined by a third who plonks himself down in the chair opposite to stare from a respectable distance at his mate’s attempted conquest. I grin to myself as I realise the trio are like a Melbourne version of JJ, Freddie and Cook from Skins – "Cook" the bold first guy who used salsa as a way to weedle a conversation out of us, "JJ" the shy but curious outsider, and "Freddie" the dark-haired one hitting on me.
Brenda is dancing with a campy (and holy FUCK he could salsa) guy wearing a beret and scarf with a tank top, and Freddie decides the best way to engage me in conversation is by being a homophobe and assigning me as the sole representative of all womankind everywhere and thus obligated to answer his stupid questions.
“Can I ask you a question?" he begins. "Do girls honestly find that-” pointing disdainfully at beret guy as he swayed against Brenda, “attractive? I mean, how is that attractive? What do you think, the hat, the scarf…” the offending guy broke away from Brenda and performed a spinning spot turn, “I mean, look at that!”
And he got up and performed his own spot turn, waving his arms in an exaggeratedly feminine manner as his mates laughed. “Isn’t that just gay?” Cook and Freddie continue to mock Brenda's partner, complete with hoots and shoulder wiggles as JJ spins his chair around and perches on the opposite side, legs straddling the back like twelve-year-olds do when they think it's cool.
I know this game. This is the part where I giggle insipidly at the boys' incomparable wit, join in making fun of gay guys, and roll my eyes over how stupid the girls who like them are (duh, can't their silly ladybrains recognise boys who wear berets as unsuitable breeding partners?), while also assuring some insecure kid of his superiority and thus encourage his advances. Hell no, Freddie, you’re not tricking me into reassuring you of your manhood. Times like this I wish I'd just pretended I didn’t speak English.
Suddenly, an equally “metrosexual” guy cut into our circle (I like to think he saw my frustration), complete with his own beret and a vest over his t-shirt. He held out a hand for me. “Want to dance?”
I grabbed him straight away with a relieved, “YES.”
And off we sambaed, leaving Freddie, JJ and Cook behind to ponder further why all the gay guys were getting the girls.
(Psst, here's a clue: sometimes, when women go places, the things they want to do actually DON'T somehow revolve around your cock!)
Monday, August 31, 2009
So now I always sit in the back
I’ve never written about this incident – namely because it happened during the Great Four Month Homelessness of 2008, when I was living at Kuya's and had no access to my hard drive or my winter clothes. But Karen Healey’s recent post, Snakes in the Grass has brought it all back.
One Monday evening last year, when I was working at the old place (bar/restaurant in the city) the boys and I finished work so late that I’d missed all the trams and had to get a cab. Curtis flagged one for me after we’d had an after-work beer, and the cab driver (youngish) must have taken in the environment before I was in the front seat heading to Kew.
After a moment’s silence along Victoria Street, the driver broke the quiet with, “So, you like drinking? You like drinking with boys?”
The implications of that (abrupt) sentence would normally get me into a debate. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue about double standards and whatnot – I was in the mood to suddenly detect a threat and mentally calculate both the time it would take to get home and strategies for concealing my actual place of address while answering the question in a way that might deter any further conversation.
Which is not so much a mood, but y’know.
“Actually, that bar is where I work,” I answered stiffly. “Those guys are my colleagues.”
During that answer I surprised myself by indignantly thinking, I’m just wearing my work clothes and a hoodie! Why is he suddenly implying I’m a drunken floozy- no, stop right there. Even if I’d stumbled into the cab in a gold mini dress he’d have no right to harass me. Clothing should not make the slightest difference to the manner in which I am treated by a cab driver. Not that it made a difference later.
The driver attempted more conversation, most of which I answered untruthfully. What do you do? What do you study? How often do you work? Do you go out on weekends? Do you live alone? (to THAT one I invented several older brothers as housemates) Then, it was a sly, “So, are there any bottle shops around here?”
“What?” I asked, feigning confusion as my heart started to pound. “I don’t know, there’s a Dan Murphy’s coming up but I don’t think it’d be open this time on a Monday night, why?”
He grinned. “We can get some beer.”
Skin now crawling. “But you’re driving.”
“The beer is for you!”
At this stage I’m half out of my mind with fear, looking around the dark streets as we approach Kew Junction and knowing nobody is around. “No thank you, please just take me home.”
In response he turned off the meter. “The rest of the fare is on me.”
I squeaked a thank you, snaking a hand in my bag for my apartment keys and wallet.
We reached my street, and I told him to drop me off ‘on the corner’ – my actual apartment building was therefore hidden from view, but by this time I’m frantically wondering how fast I can run, how quickly I can turn the key in the door of the building (and let me tell you, I’m the kind of person who will muck any simple thing up in a state of panic).
I hand him cash for the fare, unbuckle my seatbelt, and he asks, “Ok, what about a tip?”
It is polite but not customary to tip cab drivers in Australia, so that was an unusual question but I put aside my fear long enough to reason, sure, he did give me a fair portion of the ride for free. I start scooping some coins together when he grabs my arm.
“No, I mean my sweet tips,” he insisted, using his other hand to tap his cheek. “My sweet tips.”
My mind exploded. Oh my God, he wants a kiss, he’s bigger than me, it’s so dark, he thinks I like drinking with boys, he’s still in control of the car, how fast can I run, how loud can I scream, is there anything in my bag I can use as a weapon, nobody knows where I am, does my phone have enough battery to call 000, would anybody be in that house over there, what if the childproof lock is on the car door, now he’s leaning closer...
Finally, I SMILED (probably trying to preserve myself best I can, but it still makes me angry) and threw the loose change at him.
The driver jerked backwards as the coins scattered everywhere, I threw the door open and ran for my life.
He did not follow me by car or by foot. I got into my apartment, barricaded the door with a lounge chair, and shook for about an hour before ringing my work friends and telling them.
“I’m shaking, what do I do? Do you remember what he looked like or anything?” I asked.
“No,” Curtis answered, “Jesus, did you get down his ID number?”
I froze. The name and identification card of Victorian taxi drivers is displayed on the windshield along with a six digit driver number. I hadn’t thought of that. “No.”
“Why not? If you did you could report him – you know there are security cams in taxis now, right? And he’ll probably try it on someone else, I mean don’t you remember anything? Did his picture match his ID? Or did you get the numberplate of the taxi?”
So here’s something I wish I'd thought of to say.
No, I did not record his identification number, the numberplate of the vehicle, and today I would probably be hard-pressed to give a detailed description of the guy. I am not of the habit of carrying around a notebook and pen and whipping it out in order to calmly record ‘useful’ such details DURING MOMENTS OF UNIMAGINABLE FUCKING TERROR.
I was scared OUT OF MY MIND. I took what I thought were the best courses of action - for all I knew, I had to protect my LIFE! Sure, it might’ve been useful if I’d had the presence of mind to memorise the ID number at some point. But try going back in time, to that moment in the dark passenger seat when you’re alone with a guy bigger and stronger and in control of the vehicle and SEXUALLY INTERESTED IN YOU gripping your arm and asking for a kiss and see how useful YOU feel!
‘Cos I was feeling pretty fight or flight, myself.
It’s just... when you’ve been victimised, you really don’t need to be treated like an idiot on top of that, you know? I was already blaming myself plenty. And given the way the situation turned out – unpleasant advances, minor physical altercation, escaped safely – I know it could have been worse. I protected myself as best I could in a situation I was not in control of. To add to that, “Yeah, but you should’ve...” is so undermining and wounding, to take away what I DID do to protect myself and blame me for what I DIDN'T do to protect some imaginary future person?
Don't. Don't ever, especially if you consider yourself a friend to the person who has just been traumatised.
So I’m going to end this disturbing story with Karen’s wise words to me, something she insists I should not have waited so long for:
One Monday evening last year, when I was working at the old place (bar/restaurant in the city) the boys and I finished work so late that I’d missed all the trams and had to get a cab. Curtis flagged one for me after we’d had an after-work beer, and the cab driver (youngish) must have taken in the environment before I was in the front seat heading to Kew.
After a moment’s silence along Victoria Street, the driver broke the quiet with, “So, you like drinking? You like drinking with boys?”
The implications of that (abrupt) sentence would normally get me into a debate. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue about double standards and whatnot – I was in the mood to suddenly detect a threat and mentally calculate both the time it would take to get home and strategies for concealing my actual place of address while answering the question in a way that might deter any further conversation.
Which is not so much a mood, but y’know.
“Actually, that bar is where I work,” I answered stiffly. “Those guys are my colleagues.”
During that answer I surprised myself by indignantly thinking, I’m just wearing my work clothes and a hoodie! Why is he suddenly implying I’m a drunken floozy- no, stop right there. Even if I’d stumbled into the cab in a gold mini dress he’d have no right to harass me. Clothing should not make the slightest difference to the manner in which I am treated by a cab driver. Not that it made a difference later.
The driver attempted more conversation, most of which I answered untruthfully. What do you do? What do you study? How often do you work? Do you go out on weekends? Do you live alone? (to THAT one I invented several older brothers as housemates) Then, it was a sly, “So, are there any bottle shops around here?”
“What?” I asked, feigning confusion as my heart started to pound. “I don’t know, there’s a Dan Murphy’s coming up but I don’t think it’d be open this time on a Monday night, why?”
He grinned. “We can get some beer.”
Skin now crawling. “But you’re driving.”
“The beer is for you!”
At this stage I’m half out of my mind with fear, looking around the dark streets as we approach Kew Junction and knowing nobody is around. “No thank you, please just take me home.”
In response he turned off the meter. “The rest of the fare is on me.”
I squeaked a thank you, snaking a hand in my bag for my apartment keys and wallet.
We reached my street, and I told him to drop me off ‘on the corner’ – my actual apartment building was therefore hidden from view, but by this time I’m frantically wondering how fast I can run, how quickly I can turn the key in the door of the building (and let me tell you, I’m the kind of person who will muck any simple thing up in a state of panic).
I hand him cash for the fare, unbuckle my seatbelt, and he asks, “Ok, what about a tip?”
It is polite but not customary to tip cab drivers in Australia, so that was an unusual question but I put aside my fear long enough to reason, sure, he did give me a fair portion of the ride for free. I start scooping some coins together when he grabs my arm.
“No, I mean my sweet tips,” he insisted, using his other hand to tap his cheek. “My sweet tips.”
My mind exploded. Oh my God, he wants a kiss, he’s bigger than me, it’s so dark, he thinks I like drinking with boys, he’s still in control of the car, how fast can I run, how loud can I scream, is there anything in my bag I can use as a weapon, nobody knows where I am, does my phone have enough battery to call 000, would anybody be in that house over there, what if the childproof lock is on the car door, now he’s leaning closer...
Finally, I SMILED (probably trying to preserve myself best I can, but it still makes me angry) and threw the loose change at him.
The driver jerked backwards as the coins scattered everywhere, I threw the door open and ran for my life.
He did not follow me by car or by foot. I got into my apartment, barricaded the door with a lounge chair, and shook for about an hour before ringing my work friends and telling them.
“I’m shaking, what do I do? Do you remember what he looked like or anything?” I asked.
“No,” Curtis answered, “Jesus, did you get down his ID number?”
I froze. The name and identification card of Victorian taxi drivers is displayed on the windshield along with a six digit driver number. I hadn’t thought of that. “No.”
“Why not? If you did you could report him – you know there are security cams in taxis now, right? And he’ll probably try it on someone else, I mean don’t you remember anything? Did his picture match his ID? Or did you get the numberplate of the taxi?”
So here’s something I wish I'd thought of to say.
No, I did not record his identification number, the numberplate of the vehicle, and today I would probably be hard-pressed to give a detailed description of the guy. I am not of the habit of carrying around a notebook and pen and whipping it out in order to calmly record ‘useful’ such details DURING MOMENTS OF UNIMAGINABLE FUCKING TERROR.
I was scared OUT OF MY MIND. I took what I thought were the best courses of action - for all I knew, I had to protect my LIFE! Sure, it might’ve been useful if I’d had the presence of mind to memorise the ID number at some point. But try going back in time, to that moment in the dark passenger seat when you’re alone with a guy bigger and stronger and in control of the vehicle and SEXUALLY INTERESTED IN YOU gripping your arm and asking for a kiss and see how useful YOU feel!
‘Cos I was feeling pretty fight or flight, myself.
It’s just... when you’ve been victimised, you really don’t need to be treated like an idiot on top of that, you know? I was already blaming myself plenty. And given the way the situation turned out – unpleasant advances, minor physical altercation, escaped safely – I know it could have been worse. I protected myself as best I could in a situation I was not in control of. To add to that, “Yeah, but you should’ve...” is so undermining and wounding, to take away what I DID do to protect myself and blame me for what I DIDN'T do to protect some imaginary future person?
Don't. Don't ever, especially if you consider yourself a friend to the person who has just been traumatised.
So I’m going to end this disturbing story with Karen’s wise words to me, something she insists I should not have waited so long for:
You are, like everyone, absolutely entitled to the basic right to go about your day unharassed and unmolested. When someone acts as if you don't have that right, it is not because you suddenly don't deserve it. The failure is not yours.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Cigarettes (or probably me) will kill you
Don’t you hate it when you’re walking home with a couple, and that couple have just had a fight, and so you’re walking home smack in the middle of huffy awkward silence?
Well that’s what I was trying to avoid Saturday night with Kuya and Charm. After karaoke I ran ahead on
So us gals were both steaming along, angry-drunk, her pissed off with Kuya and me pissed off in general, and this group of five or six guys walk past. One stops to remark, “You ladies both look beautiful tonight! Especially the one in the pink!”
Charm and I exchanged glances. Both of us were wearing black.
Shrugging, we continued walking, trying to quickly overtake the stumbling group, but alas the clicking of our heels gave away our gendered presence. One turned around, waving an unlit cigarette and slurring, “Hey, you girls have a light?”
Charm, who was actually taking a drag from her own cigarette, glanced at him with a straight face and goes, “… No.”
I would have laughed if I wasn’t already boiling with alcohol-induced rage, and we both quickened our pace. Skirting over
“Oh, c’mon… do you have a light? Give us a light, c’mon…. hey, hey, can you tell me a secret?”
We waked faster, trying to lose him with the old ‘pretend you can’t hear them’ routine but he would not let up. At this stage I’d started muttering to myself, so Charm chose to engage with our pursuer.
“No, I don’t have a lighter, there’s a 7-eleven nearby, try there.”
“But um… I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t have any money either.”
“Oh… C’mon…”
We walked faster. He followed.
“Can I just light my cigarette off yours?”
Finally Charm grudgingly obliged, slowing down to hand him her cigarette, and Kuya – who had hitherto been following us a hundred metres back ‘cos he was still shitty with Charm – chose that moment to play Protective Boyfriend.
He shouldered in between Random Guy and Charm, towering over him, and snatched her cigarette back. “You enjoying that?”
The guy took a moment to register confusion and possible hostility, when Charm explained, “This is my boyfriend.”
“Oh – sorry man!”
End of saga. As soon as the bulky presence of The Boyfriend appeared Random Guy magically didn’t want a lighter anymore, funny that. I stood with my eyes narrowed and arms folded, seething until Kuya gently guided me back across the road. “C’mon darl.”
“Grrr…”
I really wish I’d said to the guy, “We don’t have to give you shit, you weird obsessive freak. Get your own lighter and leave us alone.” Or maybe a more polite variant. No fuck it, why do I have to be polite, you’re fucking scaring me!
Fuck you, drunk guy. We were just trying to make our way home. We had both had it and were shitty as hell. We did not want to be harassed by you. We are not obliged to give you a cigarette lighter or in any way respond to a stranger’s demands attentively and politely at
Thursday, May 28, 2009
F.Y.I, I am Filipino-Australian
Dear everyone who thinks its any of their God-damned business what ethnicity I am:
First of all, it’s not. Any of your damn business, that is. I mean shit, here I am just waiting for the tram/trying to have a conversation with my friend/taking your order/entering my apartment building/studying in the library/ordering a beer, who the hell are you that I have to disclose personal information to satisfy your fascination? I mean, the mere fact that I'm a young woman in public doesn't mean you have a right to get up in my face in the first place, let alone ask intrusive questions.
When you look me up and down and start loudly proclaiming stuff along the lines of, “You soooo do not look Filo!” “You don’t look Asian at all!” you are perfectly entitled to your opinions. Far be it from me to tell people that their perceptions of what so-and-so ethnicities are supposed to look like are right or wrong. I can argue or disagree but I can’t tell you not to have an opinion.
I ask only that you keep this in mind. This is my RACE you are talking about. My mixed race, to be exact. Not a kooky t-shirt, or my hairstyle, or some teapot off Antiques Roadshow – my race. This is an unchangeable, significant and unique part of my identity that is completely removed from you and your preconceptions of race. This is something personal and important to me.
And you think you can just waltz on up and tell me I'm doing it wrong. Usually while HITTING on me. For God's SAKE.
Here’s something else: you are not the first and unfortunately won’t be the last to make these observations about my looks. I have to defend my own racial background to nosy people every day. Oh yes, I do. I have to smile obligingly and nod knowingly every time somebody stares at me like I'm an exotic flower and says, “Wow, you’re different, what are you?” I'm a girl minding her own damn business, what are you?
I have to laugh with them (over and over and fucking over again) when they say (often repeatedly), “But you don’t look Filipino! You don’t even look Asian! You look Italian/ South American /Thai/ Maltese/ Spanish/ Egyptian...”
Yes, you know, I think I get it! I’m biracial! I look a bit different! I’m not quite one race, not quite another! IT’S CRAZY!
When you tell me in what to you is a casual remark that I don’t look how I’m supposed to look, you make me feel like I have somehow failed something. And you are talking about MY RACE.
It’s like going up to random kids and saying, “Oh, is that your mum? You don’t look anything alike! No really, you don’t look like her at all, how funny! Are you sure that’s your mum?”
I mean come on, is that polite? Maybe to your eyes it’s the truth, but you don’t have to go talking shit about the way people look, do you?
You can say what you think I "should" be based on my looks.
Just like I can say for the love of God’s arse you need to shut the hell up, I’m sick of hearing it and you’re being fucking rude.
And no, I don't want to catch up for a drink sometime.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Serves you right, perv
SCENE: Early afternoon, I am standing innocently at the Uni tram stop waiting to cross the road.
ENTER white van, the driver of which leans out the window and hollers at me.
DRIVER: Well hello, he-LO!
Thus distracted, driver of white van then crashes into the brand new Mitsubishi Lancer in front of it.
ME: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
FIN.
ENTER white van, the driver of which leans out the window and hollers at me.
DRIVER: Well hello, he-LO!
Thus distracted, driver of white van then crashes into the brand new Mitsubishi Lancer in front of it.
ME: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
FIN.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Now I remember why I hated being a teenager so much
Went for drinks at Cookie with the old work crew, was sitting at one table with Charmaine et al, while the next-door people (none of whom I know, barring Jess) were sitting opposite. I knew the guys were staring at us but I just ignored it, when Jess skirts over and casually asks, “Hey, you’re still single, yeah?”
Me thinking she’s making conversation answers in the affirmative. Suddenly, drink in one hand, other hand clawing my arm, huge grin on her face, she’s trying to drag me out of my seat. “Come sit with us! The guys want to get to know you.”
Charmaine read the look on my face instantly – oh, brother, I just want to have a fucking drink, do you have to be so obvious, not only are they watching your progress now they’re going to know I’m rejecting them, I’m outnumbered and uncomfortable, you're seizing my arm so tightly it hurts, this is so fucking immature, I’m so not interested, I'm too old for this, somebody get me out of here – and valiantly tried to be my defence. “Uh - we're going for a cigarette!”
Alas Jess continues her pulling and insisting until I pry myself away and duck out onto the balcony juggling my cocktail and Leo’s jacket. And lo and behold the entire table follows us. Charmaine literally tried to block the door by sitting in front of it (she cracks me up sometimes) but Jess pointedly asked, “Charmaine can you move?” And one of the staring faces peers outside and asks me if they can join us.
Charmaine’s like, “Jesus, you’re like honey! Everyone’s buzzing after you!” and I’m embarrassed as hell, Jess is still pushy, and I actually take a cigarette just for something to do. Dude, I don't even smoke.
And so begins a game of cat and mouse wherein I cling to Charmaine and Zach for dear life throughout the rest of the night, Jess tries to pry me away, various guys hover around me and I can’t socially circulate as much as I wanted to.
Times like this I miss having a boyfriend shield. I can still pull that ‘sorry, I’m taken’ shit with unwanted advances from strangers, but not so much people that actually know me. I’m sure there will come a time when I will love attention from groups of twenty-one year old guys who want to have a conversation with the contents of my bra, but now? NOT SO MUCH.
So guys, if you want to know what was wrong with that uppity bitch at Cookie last night, here’s a heads up:
Nothing personal.
Ok, maybe a little.
Me thinking she’s making conversation answers in the affirmative. Suddenly, drink in one hand, other hand clawing my arm, huge grin on her face, she’s trying to drag me out of my seat. “Come sit with us! The guys want to get to know you.”
Charmaine read the look on my face instantly – oh, brother, I just want to have a fucking drink, do you have to be so obvious, not only are they watching your progress now they’re going to know I’m rejecting them, I’m outnumbered and uncomfortable, you're seizing my arm so tightly it hurts, this is so fucking immature, I’m so not interested, I'm too old for this, somebody get me out of here – and valiantly tried to be my defence. “Uh - we're going for a cigarette!”
Alas Jess continues her pulling and insisting until I pry myself away and duck out onto the balcony juggling my cocktail and Leo’s jacket. And lo and behold the entire table follows us. Charmaine literally tried to block the door by sitting in front of it (she cracks me up sometimes) but Jess pointedly asked, “Charmaine can you move?” And one of the staring faces peers outside and asks me if they can join us.
Charmaine’s like, “Jesus, you’re like honey! Everyone’s buzzing after you!” and I’m embarrassed as hell, Jess is still pushy, and I actually take a cigarette just for something to do. Dude, I don't even smoke.
And so begins a game of cat and mouse wherein I cling to Charmaine and Zach for dear life throughout the rest of the night, Jess tries to pry me away, various guys hover around me and I can’t socially circulate as much as I wanted to.
Times like this I miss having a boyfriend shield. I can still pull that ‘sorry, I’m taken’ shit with unwanted advances from strangers, but not so much people that actually know me. I’m sure there will come a time when I will love attention from groups of twenty-one year old guys who want to have a conversation with the contents of my bra, but now? NOT SO MUCH.
So guys, if you want to know what was wrong with that uppity bitch at Cookie last night, here’s a heads up:
- Straight off the bat your little wingwoman cornered me and embarrassed the shit out of me.
- There was a big group of you sitting there staring at me. That does not a happy Black Cat make.
- Neither of you let it up all night, significantly reducing my having a good time.
- I’m pretty sure if I looked like Magda Szubanski you wouldn’t want to ‘get to know me’ so much. Clearly you wanted something (and don’t we all) and just wanted to know how much it was gonna cost you to get it. Wasn't in the mood to play along.
Nothing personal.
Ok, maybe a little.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Can't I get a bacon burger without being sexually harassed?
On my way home from work on Saturday night I stopped by Hungry Jack's to get a takeaway bacon deluxe burger. Mmm. While I was in the line I was approached by some guy, probably 23-25, probably drunk but still able to carry on a conversation, holding his own takeaway bag and asking me what I was 'doing later'. I told him I was going home. He suggested I might want to come out with him and his friends instead. I declined, then placed my order. To my dismay he was still waiting for me when I stepped away with my burger, and continued following me and insisting I hang out with him after I left the store.
Halfway down the block his cries degenerated to, 'Waaaait! Don't leave me like this! Hey- hey what's your name? Oh come ooooonnn....' And then I think he got cold and went back to his friends.
Now. I have a feeling this guy probably meant me no harm, as weird as it seems to say that now. It looked like he was just having a guy's night out in the city with his friends, and as they stopped by Hungry Jack's he felt the need to chat up the girl in the next line. It kinda reminded me of my guy friends when they get pissed and sometimes start chatting up random girls. This guy actually seemed nice - just a normal, albeit drunk guy with his friends, probably didn't expect me to take him up on his offer, probably thought he was complimenting me, and just wanted to chat. He probably laughed to his friends later about the 'bitch' who ignored him. But he wasn't menacing, he didn't threaten me, besides the fact he followed me out of the store techinically I was pretty safe for the interim of our exchange.
So why was I terrified?
I was alone being accosted by a stranger who 1. Could physically overpower me 2. Expressed a sexual interest in me 3. Outnumbered me. 4. Followed me after I left a well-lit public area. That could have ended worse.
It didn't. But I am trained to analyse every interaction in EVERY walk of my life - not just meeting strange men at Hungry Jack's - with the possibility that I might be attacked. I've had that drummed into my head since I was a kid. Don't go there alone, don't go there after dark, don't wear this, don't act like that. YOU MIGHT GET RAPED AND THEN WHAT, LITTLE GIRL?
Question 1: Do guys do the same thing? I mean, apart from obvious things, like don't wander around the city alone after dark which probably applies to men as well (??). Do guys AUTOMATICALLY analyse situation in terms of whether they'll be attacked or not?
Question 2: If you're a guy I was just wondering, when you and your friends approach girls during nights like this, especially girls who are alone/outnumbered by you, do you ever feel that you might be threatening them? As in, you probably don't have the slightest intention of harming her in any way, but do you ever go back and think 'oh shit, we might have really scared her', that maybe your actions could be threatening in the circumstances? (i.e she is outnumbered, you are bigger than her, you're in an isolated/unsafe area, you are drunk and she isn't, you have just expressed a sexual interest in her, etc.) And would it offend you if you realised this?
Because maybe you've never thought about it that way?
And that burger was GOOD.
Halfway down the block his cries degenerated to, 'Waaaait! Don't leave me like this! Hey- hey what's your name? Oh come ooooonnn....' And then I think he got cold and went back to his friends.
Now. I have a feeling this guy probably meant me no harm, as weird as it seems to say that now. It looked like he was just having a guy's night out in the city with his friends, and as they stopped by Hungry Jack's he felt the need to chat up the girl in the next line. It kinda reminded me of my guy friends when they get pissed and sometimes start chatting up random girls. This guy actually seemed nice - just a normal, albeit drunk guy with his friends, probably didn't expect me to take him up on his offer, probably thought he was complimenting me, and just wanted to chat. He probably laughed to his friends later about the 'bitch' who ignored him. But he wasn't menacing, he didn't threaten me, besides the fact he followed me out of the store techinically I was pretty safe for the interim of our exchange.
So why was I terrified?
I was alone being accosted by a stranger who 1. Could physically overpower me 2. Expressed a sexual interest in me 3. Outnumbered me. 4. Followed me after I left a well-lit public area. That could have ended worse.
It didn't. But I am trained to analyse every interaction in EVERY walk of my life - not just meeting strange men at Hungry Jack's - with the possibility that I might be attacked. I've had that drummed into my head since I was a kid. Don't go there alone, don't go there after dark, don't wear this, don't act like that. YOU MIGHT GET RAPED AND THEN WHAT, LITTLE GIRL?
Question 1: Do guys do the same thing? I mean, apart from obvious things, like don't wander around the city alone after dark which probably applies to men as well (??). Do guys AUTOMATICALLY analyse situation in terms of whether they'll be attacked or not?
Question 2: If you're a guy I was just wondering, when you and your friends approach girls during nights like this, especially girls who are alone/outnumbered by you, do you ever feel that you might be threatening them? As in, you probably don't have the slightest intention of harming her in any way, but do you ever go back and think 'oh shit, we might have really scared her', that maybe your actions could be threatening in the circumstances? (i.e she is outnumbered, you are bigger than her, you're in an isolated/unsafe area, you are drunk and she isn't, you have just expressed a sexual interest in her, etc.) And would it offend you if you realised this?
Because maybe you've never thought about it that way?
And that burger was GOOD.
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