Without My Permission...

I saw Taylor Swift play at Hyde Park on Saturday just gone; her only England show in her tour for her 1989 album. Sadly, this post is not about how amazing the concert was, or how much fun I had.

After the concert, my friends and I walked along Oxford Street to get back on a tube at Bond Street; the start of our journey to our respective homes. It was busy, there were lots of people around (shocker, it’s London after all) and we were all focussed on sticking together and not losing anyone in the crowds. 

One of the four of us, who is absolutely Darling and was pretty damn drunk at the time was lagging behind, so we stopped every now and again to let her catch up. It was in one of our paused moments, that I felt a hand run up the back of my leg, hook a finger under the brim of my shorts and give me a harsh tug. 

I spun around on my heel and my eyes found the man in the crowd. He was walking away and not looking at me. “Hello!?” I shouted out, daring him to turn around and say something. His friend turned around and pointed back to me, telling his friend I was looking at him, as if he couldn’t tell. The man didn’t turn around, he simply ignored his friend and continued to swagger away. 

I felt the heat rise up my neck as I felt my friends staring at me. I’d previously been engaged in light hearted banter and then suddenly, to them, I was shouting after a man in the street for seemingly no reason. Suddenly, I was embarrassed. 

I was embarrassed because a man I didn’t know had touched me,  without my permission and I didn’t like it. 

Why should I be embarrassed? 

“Did he bump into, did he bump your shoulder?” One friend, asked. 

I watched the man walk away, in complete shock. 

“People make me so angry.” I said, turning on my heel and starting to walk away again. 

“Did he touch you?”

“No, yes. It’s fine.” I said, hurrying my friends along

“No. Lex, did he touch you?” My friend repeated her question, I could see she was angry but I told her it didn’t matter. I took her hand, which I didn’t let go of until we got on the tube. 

It did matter. It wasn’t fine. 

It wasn’t a huge gesture, but it was a thing none the less. 

My friends made light of the situation, joking entirely of course, that I must have been asking for it because I had been drinking or because I was wearing shorts.
Not that I need to explain myself, but I went to a concert in Hyde Park and I’m an adult, so yes, I had been drinking.
It is the height of summer, and I’m in one of the busiest cities in the world, so of course I’m wearing shorts. 

Does this mean that people can touch you without your permission, in any way?
Absolutely not. 

I was walking home from work last week, and just in case you’re not reading this from the UK, it’s hella warm right now. I was wearing a summer dress; it’s black, strappy and the hem is just above my knee. 

I was coming home from work, and I currently work with the public, so I’m sure you can imagine my dress was not inappropriate in any way. It was a hot, humid summers evening and I’d been working all day. 

As I’m walking through Bedford Place, which is the row of shops and bars nearest my house, a skinny, bedraggled man who couldn’t have been any less than forty years old cleared his throat and shouted across the street at me “You’ve got banging legs, darlin’.” 

Some people may have considered that a compliment, I did not. 

I felt embarrassed. 

He made me feel like I was doing something wrong and like I had a reason to be embarrassed. 

Characters on TV or in Movies are so often portrayed as ‘the bitch’ when they say things like ‘Don’t call me darling…’ - but, don’t call me darling. Darling is reserved for those who care about me, and for those who I care about. Man in Bedford Place and Man in Oxford Street; I do not care about you. 

I’m not sure what the point of this post was, aside to voice my frustrations, but maybe it’s to question what these men think they’re going to get out of these situations? Do they expect me to go weak at the knees and beg them to take me home with them? 

Part of me wishes that I gave the man on Oxford Street more of a piece of my mind but admittedly there was a part of me that was intimidated which now I look back on with hindsight and the utmost frustration.
Who is he to embarrass, frustrate and intimidate me? 

I’m sure there are a million girls out there who get catcalled in the street every day (and more) but I’m done with it. I was never into it. It was never hot. We’re all done with it. 

Obviously, before we all board the hate train, I understand that this is not all men. 

There is no realistic solution to this problem and therefore no conclusion to this post.