Me, too.

We've all been there.

We've all felt the scrutiny of being dressed a certain way, of showing too much or too little or not enough or just enough to get someone else going. We try and cover up with clothes or hands or purses. But it isn't enough.
We've all been the center of a comment that says more about how we dress or how big our tits are or how we could be mistaken for a boy for lack thereof or how sweet is that ass, that you'd just like to tap it or pound on it hard until there's nothing left. Or that pussy that is calling you like a siren, just waiting to be fucked over and over again. Only it isn't.

It's all in your head

I've been sexually abused, but not in the common way, not how everyone thinks. I was forced to open my legs at a massage parlor on the Upper East Side thinking that it was the right thing to do at the time because the guy who didn't speak English said so, while he moved his hand up and down my stomach and grazing my clit whilst giving me a "rub". I kept still and quiet trying to understand what was going on, deciding to give the guy a kick or scream and run and never go back for my clothes. But I didn't. I was a good girl and kept quiet and still: I was a good girl who tipped the lady at the front and went back to her dorm room to cry and take a shower. I went to the doctor who consoled me and told me it was going to be fine and so did his wonderful helper who said it wasn't my fault at all but it wasn't okay. Sex didn't come back until almost a year later.

I slept with a man who didn't understand the repeated no I said to him as he forced himself on top of me, after showing me his gun collection. He left me on the street and paid me so I could get a cab: I should have told him my fare was higher, so at least I would feel my time and my body were worth more than what he gave me. I would never hear from him again, and since then I resent men who say they're nice to people. Nice is such a shitty word, that hearing someone define themselves as nice will give me nausea.

I've had my ass grabbed in crowded buses. I've had someone jerk off on a bus as they walked past me and seen a massive dick just about to come while I was still a virgin in undergrad and feel dirty and used and afraid. I've endured stares -I can't count anymore, because I lost track of feeling humiliated - to my body when all I wanted was to be taken seriously for my work or my brain or what I could say to people.

I've been labeled as cute and sexy and whateveradjectiveyoucanthinkof far too often and have had to see a guy licking his lips when he sees me, even if he doesn't know my name, just because he sees something in me that I refuse to show to other than to my lover. I've felt disqualified from doing things just because of how big my tits are and the amount of unwanted attention I'll get on the street. I've worn baggy clothes to stay out of trouble at night, because night time is not the right time for a woman to be on her own in a big city. I've had men the age of my father talk about me like I was some doll they can play with in front of my father and he approved it. Men. Like. My. Father

Earlier this year I decided to cut my hair short, wear shirts and boots and look more like a boy: my anatomy won't let me forget that I am more of a woman than sometimes I'd like to be. I did it out of frustration, out of anger at life for taking away my parents from me, out of self love because I have none to give. I can't hide anymore. I'm sick to death of feeling afraid, of feeling that all I can give is a pair of juicy tits or a warm pussy or a comely face. I don't want to hide anymore because I'm afraid of being seen and of showing too much and of being a target-I want to stop feeling afraid and lonely and stupid and inadequate and shy and angry because of your stares and your judgement and your lip licking. I want to show my skin and my tattoos and bloom and burn with the rage inside me. I stopped knowing what it means to be a woman, but I know now what it means to feel like one: all it took was to hide from myself for years and years until your scrutiny made me angry enough to take off these clothes and this skin and bare it all.

I know harrassment and I know abuse, and I can't run away from it anymore. I am who I am because of what happened to me, and yet I choose not to let it define me no longer.