Me, Too. Sort Of.

At the risk of sounding out of touch with the current trend, I want to say that I have not been sexually assaulted. Per se. That is not to say that I have not experienced misogyny, disrespect or pain due to my gender. It’s just that I don’t really know how to qualify my experience. And maybe that’s a similar predicament for other women, as well. Let me share.

Many years ago, I was at a bar/restaurant in downtown Akron with some friends. It’s a place that still physically exists but is in its third or so manifestation since the time of my incident. It was a regular hangout for me and my friends; we gathered there in a group of 10 or 12 most Friday or Saturday nights to share pitchers of beer and talk increasingly loudly until one or more of us staggered out, leaving a tab that someone else had to pay in our stead. It was our rust-belt version of Cheers.

This particular night, I was at a table with my husband and our best friend. There might have been a fourth person, probably another male. So it was me and three guys. I felt safe and comfortable. The bar was a little crowded with most tables full of ringing conversation.

Soon, I noticed a fellow at the table next to ours looking at me but unnoticed by my companions. As I glanced from my husband to our friend, following the conversation, I was distracted by his penetrating stare. Eventually, I looked straight at him, thinking I might be mistaken, that maybe he was looking at someone behind me.

That’s when I noticed his dick. He was sitting sideways from his table with his left leg bent, left foot atop his right knee. He was wearing gray sweatpants. With an intense look on his face directed squarely at me, his right hand was stroking his exposed penis just under the edge of his table while his left thumb secured the elastic waist of his sweatpants away from his member.

I looked away quickly and felt a hot blush begin to creep up my neck. Had I really seen what I thought I just saw? Would someone really take out his dick and masturbate right in the middle of a crowded bar/restaurant? Had my modest t-shirt and jeans attire or carefree and fun attitude somehow provoked this activity? I didn’t know how to react.

After another glance to confirm what I thought I had seen—yep, that was definitely a penis in his hand—I leaned over to my husband and suggested that we move into the back room to play darts. He looked surprised, but conveyed my idea to our friends and we got up to move. A waiter with whom I was a bit acquainted came over just then to see if we needed anything. My husband told him we were going to move. As I walked by, I whispered into the waiter’s ear: “I think that sick fuck over there has his dick out.” I was really embarrassed and walked away quickly, not wanting the waiter to ask me to repeat myself.

Once the four of us were in the game room, I told my husband and friends what I had seen. They expressed outrage, and we all stepped out of the room to see the waiter aggressively giving Mr. Sweatpants the bum’s rush out the front door. That waiter later came to us and said he was so sorry, that I should have said something sooner, and that that man would never be allowed in again.

I should have said something sooner. I should have stood up and pointed at him and loudly averred that he had his dick out. I should have shamed him publicly, rather than feeling shame for witnessing his degenerate act. I should have been angry, not embarrassed. I should have known that I did nothing wrong, that he was wrong, that standing up for common decency was an appropriate reaction to inappropriate conduct in public.

And yet I felt ashamed, embarrassed, belittled, humiliated. It was a long time before I spoke with anyone about this incident. I even questioned what I saw for a long time afterward. Was it just his drawstring, as the waiter said the man claimed while being hustled out of the bar? Had I imagined the whole thing? Did I make a big fuss over nothing? Did I overreact?

My experience was nowhere near as harrowing as that of the victims of Harvey Weinstein or Bill Cosby or the thousands upon thousands of sexual predators who ruin the lives of their victims. And yet, it speaks to the same type of problem. Why do we women feel shame for the offenses of men? Why do victims of sexual harassment, assault, rape, misogyny, discrimination so often feel the crimes are our own fault?

I do not pretend that my experience is akin to rape or assault, but it has left a scar on my psyche after all these years. I like to think that, faced with any similar situation, I am brave enough now to react differently. I am certain that if I witnessed another person suffering some similar offence I would not hesitate to intervene. But the point is that no one should have to strategize how she will meet with offensive behavior, no one should have to give so much of her energy and thought to what is the proper way to react to inappropriate, aggressive behavior.

It is not my responsibility to avoid being assaulted. When we have shifted the paradigm to leave the burden of guilt and shame and humiliation and fear on the perpetrators of such offenses, rather than the victims, then will the world begin to make sense—for all of us.