A Thousand Clowns
Donald Trump, the man who claimed to grab his prey by their private parts, came out today with a tweet to Al Franken ridiculing the comedian turned statesman for his lewd and harassing behavior. Roy Moore, the former chief justice of the Alabama Supreme Court, dismissed his own accusers as liars and political operatives. Bill Cosby plans to set up a support group for men alleged to have raped unconscious women. Bill Clinton did not have sex with that woman. An Ohio anti-LGBT legislator was found on top of another man in his office. Anthony Weiner just went to jail for falling on his own wiener, er, petard.
Boys boys boys. What are we gonna do with you men? I talk to women every day who tell the same sad story of you guys groping and harassing and expecting sexual submission. I gotta tell ya, I’m ashamed of our sex. We’re evidently shameless predators. And if you think it’s just friendly flirtation, c’mon, I’ve talked to a few of you who hate it when a gay guy hits on you. You feel queasy, uncomfortable, maybe even violated.
It’s a tough subject, sex. Intimate, primal, taboo and all the rest. Throw in some religion, some workplace politics, some power plays, add some provocative attire, some gamesmanship in navigating promotional opportunity, what you got is a whirlpool beneath a calm surface. What seemed a fine line suddenly becomes a gaping maelstrom that will suck down the unsuspecting. No innuendo intended here or implied.
I got a buddy who likes to play the ‘artist’ card. Meets an attractive woman and in that pseudo-European way he’s fostered over the years, doesn’t merely say hello or offer a small touch, no, he goes for the lips and unleashes a probing tongue. His target, new acquaintance, fresh victim, whatever you want to call her, usually responds with shocked surprise. But … she figures it’s harmless enough, after all, often times his wife is right there in the room, not something she might let loose a slap on the face and ruin the party, although … later she feels a bit, oh, violated. Artist or no artist. Boss or no boss. Co-worker or no co-worker. Relative or no relative. Friend or no friend.
Later she’ll shrug it off, maybe even make a joke of it. And this guy’s friends, myself included, say, well, that’s just old Ted. So by the end, we’re all complicit. I don’t want to say, “geez, Ted, knock off the dirty old man shit, buddy. Have a little respect. Some tact.” Of course, a few of these same victims become models for his nude sculptures. So you tell me….
Fine lines. Dangerous waters beneath. Nevertheless, the times are changing fast now, the buried assaults are surfacing, the rules are becoming clearer and the danger for those who never thought they applied to them anyway, well, good luck to you. Time for all of us to become feminists, boyz. Women are mad as hell and they aren’t going to take it anymore. Let me repeat it for the tone deaf. Women are mad as hell and they aren’t going to take it anymore. And Ted, the artist card won’t work now that you really are an old man. A dirty old man.
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Tags: sexual harassment
I know the lines might seem blurry to the newly awakened man, but really, the rules are pretty simple. Ask before touching. No means no. If you’re dealing with a woman who says no but seems to be saying yes, ask for clarification or walk away. Not all women have this figured out either.
Thanks for continuing to confront this, Jack.
Newly awakened man? I think of myself as eternally somnabulistic.
I wasn’t really speaking to you specifically, but to that rhetorical newly awakened man, as so many men, at least if you read the apologies, seem to be waking up to the fact that women have not for some time — centuries? millenia? — really been enjoying those quick squeezes and full-tongued kisses and grabbed pussies. This seems to have come as news to many of the recently exposed gropers, kissers and grabbers. But better late than never. You, sir, have always been a paragon of propriety.
You’re kind … altho I hadn’t really thought your comment was accusatory personally. A paragon of propriety is probably better than a paragon of priapism. At least in genteel circles such as mine.