On two separate occasions in the last two years I’ve been violated by men who clearly felt entitled to me and my body. Me. Fucking. Too. I won’t get into too much detail in regards to the first time it happened, because I don’t have to. All I’ll say is that a grotesque gesture, and a joke was made at my expense, in front of a group of men, in an environment that was supposed to be in my favor.
And then that video went viral of that waitress in Georgia who body slammed a man for grabbing her tush… and she’s my fucking hero.
Don’t get me started on her work uniform or her choice of career, honestly, fuck you if you even bring it up. She did what any woman in her position wished they could do themselves.
When I talk about my experiences the question I get everytime is, in some way, did you stick up for yourself? No. I didn’t. Both times, I froze. I did nothing in the moment other than stare wide eyed in disbelief. I hate that. As much as I wish I would have body slammed them, or made a scene exposing their nasty entitlement, I know that’s not the norm.
With that being said, the next time some guy wants to rub his dick on me, or grab my lady parts, I have a plan…and it includes more than just a verbal lashing.
Don’t touch people if they don’t want to be touched. Don’t assume a stranger will welcome your advances. Don’t allow acquaintances to over step their boundaries. Speak up, use your voice, or just body slam those bitches.
Georgia waitress, I love you. I’m also super awesome and we can be friends if you want. Totally up to you though.
When I started seeing, “Me Too” splashed across my social media feeds my negative side instantly brought me to a place of status updates you’re urged to share with an Amen! or you’ll go to hell. I hate that shit, I actually can’t scroll past it fast enough. Not because I want to go to hell, I just think it’s lame. There, I said it. But to each their own, if that trips your trigger, share away friends. Amen until your heart explodes with happiness – I do not judge you, it’s just not my jam.
I shared a personal story about sexual harassment a few weeks ago, and I battled with whether or not I should call this guy out publicly. Why? Why would I even hesitate? I did not ask for this to happen to me, I did nothing to welcome it, and I certainly never forgave this guy, mostly because he never apologized.
Now here I am, faced with this crossroads where women are being asked to speak up and I feel more of an urge to be dismissive than I do to proclaim my victim status. I genuinely believe that’s what keeps ladies from speaking up. We don’t want to be perceived as the victim, or that we’re seeking pity.
We assume that whoever is listening will think we’re exaggerating or even worse, we think we’re exaggerating. Real life, I have been sexually harassed and thought to myself how nasty it was, only to backtrack and tell myself I was overreacting. Pardon my french, but that’s fucked up. If it’s nasty, it’s nasty. End of story. If a human being, male or female is grossed out by someone’s behavior towards them they are not in the wrong for being offended. I’m not sure why that’s such a hard concept for anyone to grasp, including myself.
#MeToo isn’t a pity party for women and men who’ve dealt with this. It’s real proof that this isn’t ok and it happens. Every. Single. Day.
I have been sexually harassed walking down the street; I have been sexually assaulted by boyfriends; I have been sexually harassed while at work; I lost my virginity to sexual assault – there’s a whammy I’ve been holding onto. How’s that for, me too?
Sexual harassment and assault are shameful. It does not matter how many times you’re told it wasn’t your fault, the simple statement you’re often left telling yourself is so much louder:
It wasn’t that big of a deal.
Who are we trying to convince other than ourselves? I’ve told my stories to a select few people, sometimes not even the whole story, and their faces gave me expressions tagged with resounding disgust. I wish I had an answer as to why I was less disgusted when I was the one it happened to. That’s a problem.
It’s no one’s responsibility to come out as a victim (or a less crappy word that doesn’t make it feel so vulnerable) to declare unity. This is a choice. The clash that I’m having privately is that if I’m willing to share a story on my blog about this guy grabbing my lady parts… why can’t I bring myself to post that me too status?
I don’t know, I’m literally just talking this out for my own clarity, and the consensus that I’m coming to is that it’s just an all-around unpleasant experience that is uncomfortable to discuss in basically any situation and THATis what every single “Me Too” expression embodies.
That’s why it’s important to use your platform of choice – power in numbers. I’m so proud of everyone who has come forward with their stories. We’re not wrong for feeling disrespected and we’re absolutely allowed to feel upset, more importantly, we’re not alone.
I will leave this asking for a favor:
If you see a ‘me too’ status don’t think it’s lame. You don’t have to feel bad for the person who posted it or apologize for their experience. Just acknowledge the amount of them you see, even if it’s just to yourself. Recognize not only the problem but the size of it.
Maybe he didn’t grab it. Perhaps it was more of a slap. I don’t know, and to be frank I have no obligation to explain details – he put his hand on my private parts, end of story. It doesn’t matter how, when, why, where or what the specifics were that day. What does matter, to me anyway, is that I call him out publicly, in hopes that he stops being such a goddamn creep.
I’ll tell you the whole story, but first I want to let other people know, if you’ve been disrespected, or sexually harassed – stand your ground. The humiliation does not lie on you. Maybe it doesn’t seem significant enough but at the very least… call them out. Spread the word, because shame on them, not us.
So anyway, I went to a bar to celebrate my friend’s birthday and a guy took it upon himself to grab my crotch, unprovoked and absolutely uninvited. He legit, Donald-Trump-Pussy-Grabbed me. This man was, and is not a stranger but he’s certainly not a friend. I’d maybe call him an acquaintance if he wasn’t such a douchebag, and if that term didn’t sound a little friendly. Unfortunately, our lives seem to cross paths about once a week, so I was less than surprised when he was also there to celebrate.
I was walking towards the bathroom when the birthday girl and crotch-grabber started walking in my direction, excited because they had just won some money on the gambling machine. Happy for her, who shouldn’t win on their birthday? I hugged her, not paying much attention to the guy at the center of the story. This is when it happened. I felt it, grasped my friend’s face and with wide eyes exclaimed:..
OH MY FUCKING GOD, HE JUST GRABBED MY PUSSY!
Yes, I am a lady, and sometimes ladies use that word also. Especially when the situation calls for more serious vocabulary, of the colorful variety.
I walked away, shocked, passing another friend and without hesitation I told her too. I did not, and still do not care who knows. I have no interest in protecting him and ideally he’d be as embarrassed as humanly possible.
After I exited the bathroom he approached me, and hold onto your shorts folks because you’ll never guess what he said to me. He did not apologize, rather told me that I need to simmer down. Me. Simmer down. I am not typically one to have a filter, and looking back now I’m disgustingly surprised that I did not lose my shit on him right then and there. I was so offended that I simply walked away.
Then, after already taking it upon himself to make my body his entertainment, and after his snarky attitude followed… he had the audacity to approach me yet again.
He rested his elbow on my shoulder, I looked up at him and plainly stated: My husband will kill you. His response? “Are you threatening me?” If you didn’t stress that statement with a solid douchebag accent, feel free to re-read it. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, while all of this is taking place my husband is at the event with me. That takes balls, his confidence is astounding.
I don’t know if he’s stupid enough to believe women, married women at that, are into grotesque social graces such as those or if he’s simply just a tasteless little boy with a lack of morals. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not impressed, and sincerely hope he finds himself reading this and feels even the most mild sense of shame.
This happened three month ago. Initially I kept this from my husband because 1.) I didn’t want him to go to jail and 2.) I didn’t want to put myself, or my man in a position where he’d have to ask me – Why would he think it’s okay to do that? It’s a fair question. Why did Creeper McCreeperston feel like that was okay? What gives someone that caliber of entitlement? I have no answers, but secrets out. Now everyone knows.
So to you: you know who you are, you know that other people know who you are. I’m hoping that since I got this off my chest I can finally start doing what you asked and simmer down. None of the questions I asked here require an answer, you’re not worth my time. I’m not threatening you, but politely warning: don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, and keep your fucking hands off me. Don’t offer to put my drink on your tab, and stop pretending that we’re friends. To me, you’re nothing more than a disgusting bar rat.