The other night, I made a mistake.
I was closing up at work, and as usual, there was a lollygagger. A behinder. A walker amongst the tombstones.
There was someone who wouldn’t hurry up and leave after we were closed is what I’m saying.
This is not unusual. Most nights, I lock the front doors to make sure no one else gets in. Then I wait for the slowpokes to get to the front, unlock the door, and then hold it open for them, like a doorman who, instead of letting someone in, is letting them out into the big, beautiful world where I don’t work.
The other night, like normal, I did this for a waiter-arounder, and unlike normal, I was facing the door and holding it open as opposed to putting my back to the door. And as this person walked past, she brushed, unmistakably, against my butt.
And then, as she walked away, she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch your butt.”
And my first thought was, “OMG, it was my fault.” Because I NEVER face the door, and because I’ve been doing a lot of squats lately and have a much juicier, more bodacious posterior than ever. It’s getting to be more difficult to walk through tight spaces sideways than it is regular-ways. Okay, that’s an exaggeration.
Anyway, you know what I did first? I blamed myself. Blaming the victim. Of having a butt touched. The society we live in has taught me to think that if something bad happens, it was probably my fault. What with the Barbies that have the huge cans and whatnot.
And this is the part where I use a stat to make my point.
Study shows that 100% of men who are me have their butts brushed up against when they’re me at work.
Study also shows that these men are confused that the offender didn’t, you know, go for it a little more. No squeeze? No open palm? I’m not sure whether I’m offended that the person lightly touched my butt or that the person didn’t take time to give with a more harassing caress. Is there something wrong with my butt? Is this a harsh critique in the guise of playful butt-touching performed by a complete stranger, a guise that’s weirder than the critique itself? Am I now mad at myself for suggesting that this critique is a problem? Am I now double-mad at myself for suggesting it’s a problem to suggest it’s a problem?
And did she have to say anything? I didn’t really think it was fishy until she apologized. That was so disempowering. “I can touch any butts I want just as long as I apologize.” That’s nice. Typical whatever socioeconomic class she was.
And now that I think about it, the very next morning I was asked to help clear a jam in the shredder with this phrase: “I need your man muscles.”
Yep.
I’m a fella who went to a women’s college to get a master’s degree, and what am I asked to do? Clear a shredder with my “man muscles.” That’s all I am to these people. A pile of sweet, oiled, beautiful muscles. And a butt also. Let’s not forget about or discount dat aforementioned ass. Assforementioned. And also don’t forget the handsome face. And Riche$. I’m a lot of things, and all of them too sexy. I’m like that song where the guy individually lists all the things he’s too sexy for. Just say “Everything,” buddy. It’s 2016, we’re fucking busy.
And then this is the part where we tie into a larger social issue so nobody can be all like, “Big deal, I brush someone’s butt all the time.”
If we turn to the literature, we learn that the nexus of this crisis, the origin of storms, if you will, begins back in the Petticoat era of the reformation of Protestant valuations of the brotherhood of blah blah blah don’t even bother, this part is even boring to me.
And then let’s throw in an ad here. Because that’s how web sites work. I’m thinking, because this is a thing about equality, a t-shirt ad featuring a woman with giant jugs.
Perfect. Especially because she’s not even wearing a tee, and you can’t even see what the fuck is printed on whatever she’s barely wearing, and because the world is so fucked up that you can just use my butt brush incident to sell t-shirts with boobs.
Let’s tie this all up.
Something about Beyonce, something about slut-shaming, something something Donald Trump, Twitter death threats, catcalling, gross spiders, women in porn secretly hold the power, I don’t really like the ice cream with the bubble gum in it, #MaybeSomeDudes, Top Gun is secretly gay, and so on.
Tune in for my next thinkpiece about how the term “extra large pizza” is offensive for 74 reasons. 68 will blow your mind. 69 won’t. It’s just a joke because it’s a sex thing AND a number. But hang in there, because 70 brings it all back around to a second mindblowing.