Two Public Masturbators, One Night

So, reading Today A Man Touched Me On The Subway And So I Hit Him has driven me to write about my own experiences with street harassment, in the hopes that I can empower other women to fight back against the cat-calling, the kissy and hissing noises, and the disgusting comments.

My most vehement recent memory of this disgusting behavior actually occurred in early April, before it was very hot.  I was at a burlesque show, hanging out and drinking.  After the main performances, several performers took the stage to do a little go-go dancing and make some money.  The bar began to empty out, and I headed to the bathroom.  I turned the corner and saw a man standing half in, half out of the bathroom.  I was a few shots of whiskey in, but I knew something was both not right and instantly recognizable about the situation: the man was jerking off in public, hoping to get caught.  Perhaps he assumed that, because the girls were dancing and seductive on stage, they were equally as accessible and accommodating off stage.  Whatever the reason, I was appalled.  What vile behavior.  What a disgusting breach of decorum at a show where the idea was to celebrate sexuality and the women who embodied it.  I used a separate bathroom, hurriedly, and when I came out, the perv had closed the door.  I ran to tell my friend Peter, who's a huge planet of a man.  Of course, the perv had hidden himself, and Peter didn't find him.  10 minutes later, a performer went to the bathroom and came back in a panic; the pervert was out again.  Once more, he hid himself before Peter found him.  By this point, all the performers knew what was going on and we had crowded into a single booth together.  The perv came out of the bathroom and, astonishingly, tried to come sit with us.  I felt a visceral revulsion as he sat next to me.  He tried to chat us all up and he smelled like fear and sweat.  No one wanted to talk to him, and we tried to ignore him.  Eventually, he got up and moved to another booth... only to start jerking off in plain sight.  This, of course, was the last straw, and both Peter and the DJ told the guy to get the fuck out.  He left without any trouble, but the night was over.  Everyone felt scandalized, and more importantly, unsafe.  We said our goodbyes, and I made my way to the subway station.  Stunningly, this evening of sexual predation wasn't over.

I dozed off on my long ride uptown.  The train was deserted, so I stretched out a line of seats and leaned my head against the wall.  A few stops later, I was awoken by a strange feeling.  I rubbed my eyes and saw a man, sitting across from me, jerking off to my sleeping body!  What the fuck?!  I was in shock, grabbed my bag and moved to the end of the car, where a single woman was sitting.  I immediately told her what the guy was doing, and she grimaced in disgust.  "It's late," she said, "All the perverts are out."

What sort of sick sub-conscious permission is there for things like this to happen and exist?  Seriously?  Masturbating in public?  To a sleeping woman?  To a performing woman?  This is terrifying.  This is disgusting, and terribly, makes me feel like I did something to deserve it, when I most certainly did not.  None of the performers at the burlesque show did; burlesque is the opposite of deviance and predation, it's a celebration of women and sex.  But they were made to feel as if they could not express themselves and remain safe from sexual predators. I was made to feel like I couldn't ride the subway and be safe from some man pleasuring himself while looking at me!  What if I hadn't woken up when I did?  What if the pervert had been allowed to finish, just me and him on that subway car?  What if I'd been drunker, completely passed out?  This behavior is unacceptable and stupefyingly scary.  This is what cat-calling, hissing, and kissy noises implies: That a woman is an object made to stimulate and satisfy a man, any man, any time he wants, no matter the woman's comfort level or mental state.  This is why street harassment is inappropriate and contributes to an atmosphere of fear, where I question whether I should wear shorts or a skirt for my own comfort and desire to express myself.  We have to fight back.  Throw the middle finger up, brush your shoulder off and keep walking.  Let the assholes know we have brains and hearts and are not there to stimulate their misogynist fantasies.  Fuck up the paradigm of misogyny that fuels street harassment.