Tonight, I biked to a school function downtown. As I neared my destination, I rode past a middle-aged man and nodded politely. “Damn!” he mumble-slurred, “I’d like to lick that pussy.”
Some of my sweet little elementary students were playing outside, just out of earshot.
I don’t have a car. When I travel without Mr. Jaunty, I’m either biking or hoofing it. This makes me an easy, slow-moving target for unintelligible jeers from ill-bred men in cars. It doesn’t matter where I live. It doesn’t matter what I wear. Even baldness didn’t deter them. Night or day, it makes no difference— though the honking is scarier in the dark. On most days and on most streets, someone shouts at me. Today’s mumble-slur was noteworthy only because the harasser was moving slowly enough for me to make out his words.
The good news is, I think today’s offender was drunk. Not that a drunk man strolling downtown in broad daylight is swell news.
I’ve shied away from this topic many times before, for fear someone might read it as boasting. Right:“Golly, men sure love intimidating me on public roadways! Guess I must look pretty special!”
Not a chance. Nice men pay no attention to me: no one smiles, strikes up conversation, offers me their number— nothing like that. It’s only strange men who try to ‘put me in my place’, only when they’re moving too fast to be held accountable, and only the ones raised in barns.
But don’t you wish we didn’t have to?