It’s a fact-of-life type thing

If you have a vagina, you’re probably no stranger to random men approaching you on the street or cat-calling you from behind the protection of their reflective construction vests. It’s non-discriminating, it’s often blatant, and 189 times out of 190, it’s someone you are in no way attracted to who is screaming, “nice ass and titties” at you from the window of their 2005 Dodge Caravan.

Let me give you a tip, friends; girls don’t like this! I mean some girls, maybe - you know, the sad ones who need that false self-esteem boost - but in general, I can only insist that acting like this towards girls won’t, in any way, get you laid. It isn’t flattering when a man yells at you and the 6 other women behind you on the street, that he likes the way you look. The fact that some random guy with over-inflated self confidence wants to “tap that” does not make that a compliment. And neither are any of the other derogatory and distasteful things guys spew out of their mouths at women they don’t know.

“I’d fuck you.”
“Work it.”
“Mmmmm.” [accompanied by lip licking and/or eye-molesting] 

In the past 72 hours, I’ve had it worse than usual. I mean, I don’t normally cry when someone comments on his opinion of my rear end, but sometimes enough is enough. You know?

Have you ever been to Harbour 60 Steakhouse? You know, the tastier, more pretentious version of The Keg where douche bags run wild? Long story short, it’s nowhere I would ever just go for the sheer fact of how terribly out-of-place I feel even walking past it on the street in my peasant clothes. 

I worked a VMWare dinner event at Harbour 60 a couple weeks ago and had to exercise every last bit of restraint I had not to stab one of their “elite” patrons in the face with my heel because of his lack of basic human decency.

I was being friendly. I didn’t work at the restaurant but I can imagine that people assumed I did because of how I was dressed, and in the interest of being professional, I made a point to be nice to everyone, not just attendees of the event I was working. If someone made a joke, I’d laugh. If they smiled, I smiled. If they engaged in conversation, I’d engage back. But my politeness has a limit. And that limit is making racist comments to people you don’t know. 

I don’t know who this guy was or how many pints he’d had but he did not take well to my annoyed expression at his racial slur. And that’s when he told me I should be sucking his dick. 

15 minutes later, he apologized. And 20 minutes after that, he called me a bitch. 

#cuuuuuuuute. Money really doesn’t buy class.

But these last 72 hours is where I feel like all my crazy men experiences culminated and almost made my head explode.

I was walking home from work on Friday evening, talking to my mother on the phone about I don’t even know what, when a teenage boy on a bike came out of nowhere and yelled, “nice ass.”

Things like this don’t even make me turn my head anymore. I could have been wearing a parka in the dead of winter and have this still happen. A girl is a girl. A vagina is a vagina. The rest is just details to these types of guys. And because I wasn’t paying attention, for all I knew, he could have been talking to one of the other probably hundred women walking through Chinatown at that exact moment.

Until he biked past again [had he circled the block?] and yelled, “nice ass.” 

[Can you not tell I am ignorez-vousing you?]

“Nice ass. Give me your number.”

“Go away. I’m on the phone.”

“Can I have your number please?”

“I’m ON the PHONE.”

“Come on, I said you had a nice ass. How come you won’t give me your number?”

Because somehow, this horny 15 year old boy was lead to believe that’s all it takes to get a girl’s phone number. In this case, a girl, who, had she been a teen mom, would probably be old enough to be his mother. It only took him about 8 blocks to get the hint before he moved on to some other poor girl with a backpack coming out of the liquor store. 

The kicker of this story? On the streetcar later that night, I was retelling it to the boyfriend on the phone when a man sitting in front of me turned as he got up to get off and said, “the kid on the bike was right, you have a great ass.”

Oh good. So boys never grow up. Cool. Thank you for confirming that.

I supppppose you could argue that it’s my own fault for wearing tight, bum hugging dresses around during the daytime hours. But when you dump a full Iced Capp down your shirt and the only other outfit you have in your purse is said black, bum hugging dress, then you’re kinda out of options. And in that situation, I guess I’d rather people be staring at my bum than at a huge coffee-coloured stain down the front of my white t-shirt because it kind of made me look homeless.

But that’s just me. 

On Saturday, while waiting quietly and unprovocatively on an eastbound subway platform, yet another strange man approached me. At first, he seemed like some normal guy but once he invaded my personal space, I knew that he was either crazy or at the very least a big, fat weirdo. 

He asked me how to get to Finch station. 

In my life, I have never been to Finch station and without the aid of one of those TTC map thingys, I am not good with TTC stops. Not even the ones I use regularly. 

“I’m sorry, no, I’m not sure how to get to Finch station.”

“No, but say you lived at Finch station, how would you get there?”

“Haha I’m not sure, I’m sorry. I’ve never been to Finch station.”

“Okay but say you and your boyfriend decide to get serious, move out of the downtown area, get engaged, eventually married, and decide to buy a house at Finch station, how would you get home?”

By this time, I’m half nervously, half actually laughing, people around me are judging me, and the man is looking as confused as ever. I felt bad but I also kinda felt like he could shank me at any point so as soon as the subway arrived.. I hopped on and sat between 2 people just in case he tried to grab me and take me to Finch station with him. 

In all fairness to the last guy, his mental health may have had something to do with him approaching unsuspecting women on subway platforms, but the others have absolutely no excuse. 

It makes me sad to think that this is what courtship has come to; that this is what some men think is a legitimately acceptable way to interact with women. And being a girl, there’s no way to win. 

Sometimes all I want to do is throw my hair in a pony tail and grab a coffee and I’d like to preserve the right to do that without worrying about whether some guy with paint splatter on his coveralls wants to break his dick off in my ass. 

Because yeah, that’s exactly what every girl wants to hear at 9am on a Sunday. 

Oh wait, no we don’t.
xxoo,