Risky Business

I woke up angry. Somehow, it always seems to be the rants that get me back to my blog. Something’s gotta change, but right now, that’s not it.

Pardon my selfie.
Pardon my selfie.

Last night was Halloween. As many people know, I like to go all out for these festivities. Costume parties are kind of my forte. Although not an original concept by any means, I chose to don the famous Tom Cruise costume à la Risky Business. The men’s dress shirt, white socks, sunglasses. With the short black wig completing the look, there was no denying I was committed. And I was dressed for comfort.

Let’s fast-forward to midnight-ish. I was walking around part of the bar, looking for familiar faces, when I say hi to a guy I know. Another male, who I’ve never met or seen before in my life, in his drunken douchebaggery debauchery decided it would be a good idea to pull off my wig to see if that was actually my hair. No intro, just pull it off. In all honesty, I should have just punched him right then and there. You’re not funny, you’re just an asshole. But I didn’t. And he took it further.

I was obviously a little pissed. You don’t just mess with a chick’s hair, especially on Halloween – but his lack of manners didn’t prepare me for what happened next. His response: “Oh, sorry, I was going for your tits.” And that’s when he reached his hand in my shirt, and then in my bra, and tried to pull my bra open to expose one of my breasts. It didn’t take long for me to shove him off and throw my drink on him. As quickly as it all happened, his friend immediately got in the middle, pulled me aside, and told me it was “okay.” Um, excuse you, actually, it’s not okay. It wasn’t okay last night and it’s still not okay this morning. Call me innovative, but it’s really, actually, not cool to shove your hand down the shirt of a girl whom you’ve never even met, with the intentions of exposing her breast to a bar full of people. In no way is that okay.

But that’s not even the kicker. Fuming, upset, and on the verge of tears, I went to find my friends. Most of them were supportive of me and tried to find the asshole – the way normal people should react after an incident happens to someone like that – but nothing prepared me for what was said to me by not 1, but several young men.

“Well, you were asking for it.”

Dafuq?

Yeah. That happened.

Now, I’m going to remind you that I was wearing a men’s XL dress shirt, nylons, tube socks, and a cropped black wig.  I wouldn’t say I was really in the running for any slut-of-the-year award. The men of the world must be confused, since now apparently college girls have started showing up to Halloween parties totally nude, but it’s still no excuse. There is no excuse. Having one extra button undone to spice things up is absolutely not a valid reason for a man to be able to do that to a woman. Like, that’s the sort of thing really horrible people say to rape victims. Would you say that to a rape victim? “Oh, well, I could see your bra, so you were asking for it.” Showing some cleavage on Halloween may be asking for a little more male attention, but it is not asking for molestation from strangers.

I’m sure there’s a much more eloquent way for me to phrase all of this and dive into a feminist monologue, but all I can really say is: Fuck that guy. And fuck you for telling me I was asking for it.

Society, get your shit together.

I’m still so angry. I still feel violated. I still regret not giving that prick a swift kick in the nuts and a punch in the face. I’m still mad he was able to bail before anyone could find him. I don’t want to allow some needledick in lederhosen to have this kind of control over my emotions. I don’t want to feel like a victim. I don’t want this behavior to be tolerated by our society. I don’t want you to tell me I was asking for it.

This wasn’t what I had in mind when I dressed as Risky Business for Halloween.

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