It Was Just a Kiss…

What’s the big deal? It was just a kiss!

I can hear you now. You’re asking, “What’s the big deal? It was just a kiss.”

But here’s the thing: it was never just a kiss.

It was a man taking advantage of a woman. He violated her body.

“It’s not like he raped her! It was just a kiss.”

He violated her body. He made unwanted contact with her. He forced himself on her.

“It’s just a kiss!”

As sick as I am of reading (and writing) this, let me ask you. What if that woman had been your mom? Your sister? Your daughter? Your niece?

The reason I’m sick of that question is because it abso-fucking-lutely should not matter who the woman is.

It abso-fucking-lutely should not matter what she’s wearing. Or where she’s walking.

None of that should matter.

The only thing that should matter are the words that come out of his and her mouths.

Him:

May I kiss you?
OR
Is it OK if I kiss you?

Her:

God, yes. Please do. Now.
OR
No.
OR
Hell no, get away from me, you creep!

It’s really quite simple.

Wait, what’s that? You have more questions? Let me guess…

“But what if you’re at a bar or club and have been dancing with this woman all night and she’s giving you all the right signals? Can I just kiss her then?”

No.

Because honestly, how damned difficult is it to ask, “Can I kiss you now?”

I wanna go back to your question, though. Because I’ve been in that position. At a concert (with my then 10-year-old daughter!). When the man behind me thought it would be a good idea to rub his crotch on my ass. Aggressively.

Before he started grinding on me, I never said a word to him. Before he started grinding on me, I never made eye contact with him.

And I had to turn around and tell him to knock it off.

“Oh, come on. It was a concert! Bodies are tightly packed in. I’m sure it was an accident.”

No. This was no accident. He was intentionally thrusting his hips forward and grinding his pelvis into my ass.

“What were you wearing?”

Does it fucking matter?

No. That question (and all the other ones you have on the tip of your tongue) is blatant victim blaming.

If, in today’s world, your first instinct is to question the clothing or behavior of the victim, YOU are the goddamned problem.

“What? Wait a minute… I didn’t…”

Don’t care. By shifting blame to me…

“That’s not what I said…”

Yes. Yes it is. When you question my clothing or anything else, you’re shifting blame.

The fault no longer rests with the fuckwit behind me who humped my ass.

The fault is now mine.

See how that’s a problem?

When you shift the blame to the victim (because we can agree that’s what you were doing), you’re exonerating the ass humper.

You’ve given him a pass. You’ve told him that it’s not his fault, because we were tightly packed together. It’s my fault for being there.

You’ve told him that it’s not his fault, because it was a loud concert and he got carried away by the heavy, driving beat of the music. It’s my fault for being there.

You’ve told him that it’s not his fault, because I was wearing shorts and that means I was just asking for it.

But here’s the thing. I go to concerts because I love listening to live music. That’s it.

I don’t go to get molested by some pervert with hydraulic hips and roaming hands.

So back to your question…

“…been dancing with this woman all night and she’s giving all the right signals…”

Tell me, please, what do ‘all the right signals’ look like?

I’ll wait. Go ahead…

“She was dancing and we made eye contact. She smiled. So I started grinding on her.”

Um… That’s your definition of all the right signals?

A woman made eye contact with you and smiled and you took that as an invitation to grind up on her ass?

“Well, yeah.”

What do you do at work when a woman makes eye contact with you and smiles?

“Nothing! We’re at work. That’s totally different!”

Explain to me how that’s different.

“Well, the woman in the club was dancing.”

So?

“Come on! Everyone knows that the dance floor at the club is an open market!”

Ah… I see.

So what I hear you saying is that a woman’s presence at a club is an open invitation for you to assault her, right?

“What? No! There was no assault! She was sending signals!”

And what signal was I sending to the ass humper at the concert?

“…”

Let’s move on, shall we?

I waited several, very long minutes before I built up the nerve to confront the ass humper.

“Several minutes? Why? Did you like it?”

Are you even fucking listening to anything I’ve said? No. No, I did not like it.

But here’s what I had to think through in my head. Here’s what took me several minutes:

Damn, I love this band! I’m so glad I could bring the kid with me to see them! There’s so much energy in this crowd. I love dancing.

Wow. The guy behind me just got a little too close. Maybe I’ll just stop dancing for a little…

Whoa! He’s got a fucking hard on and he’s rubbing it on my ass. My kid is standing right here, dude. Seriously.

Now I’m just standing here. I can’t even enjoy the band anymore because ass humper is thrusting at me hard enough that I’m damned near humping my kid.

Shit.

I need to say something.

What if he gets mad?

What if he does something worse to me?

I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to drag my kid out of here. She’s been looking forward to this for months.

Deep breath. I’ll just move forward a bit. Maybe he’ll get the hint.

Shit.

That didn’t work.

Deep breath. You can do this. Sick feeling in my stomach. I hate conflict. I turn around to face the ass humper and say, “Dude. Stop grinding on me. I’m here with my kid, for fucksake.”

He takes a step back and puts his hands up. Doesn’t say a word. Just moves somewhere else.

I turn back around and enjoy the rest of the concert sans ass humper.

 

“Why the long inner monologue?”

Sigh.

Did you catch that part where I said, “What if he gets mad? What if he does something worse to me?”

You remember that?

Here’s the thing… Men don’t like to get called out on things. Especially in a group setting.

“Not all men.”

Just shut the fuck up with that shit.

When I’m standing at a concert and the buy behind me starts assaulting me…

“Whoa, when did this become an assault?”

The moment his erection touched my ass, you fucking nimrod!

“No. That’s not…”

Stop. Just stop.

You do not get to define what assault is.

I was at a concert. A man I’d never seen before, never talked to, never smiled at… That man assaulted me. At a public, open-air concert.

Am I supposed to just know that a man who thinks it’s OK to assault a woman by ass humping her as a concert is really just an OK dude?

Should I assume that the ass humper with an erection doesn’t also think it’s OK to punch a woman who dares speak up?

The man had no problem assaulting me. Not just once. Repeatedly. He repeatedly and vigorously thrust his hips and erect penis into my ass.

He simulated having sex with me.

My 10-year-old daughter was right in front of me.

A man who is OK with assaulting a woman like that could very well be a man who is OK with punching, slapping, stabbing, or shooting a woman.

“That’s a bit of a leap.”

Is it? Is it really? Do me a favor. Do a quick Google Search for women killed by men they turned down.

What’d you find?

“But… this isn’t all men.”

And you’re missing the fucking point.

How could I have known what the man assaulting me would do if I confronted him?

“He just walked away, though.”

How could I have known that?

Here’s what needs to happen:

Men, stop assaulting women. Just stop.

When we’re on the dance floor at a club, it’s because we want to fucking dance. It’s not an open invitation for you to grind your crotch on our bodies.

You have no right to touch any part of our bodies.

You have no right.

It is, in face, a criminal act. A criminal, sexual act.

So stop.

Stop trying to read our signals. Because the vast majority of you are obviously completely ignorant about the signals we’re allegedly giving you.

Stop touching our boobs, butts, bellies, thighs, faces, hair.

Unless you have been given very clear permission to do otherwise, keep your fucking hands (and lips and penis) to yourself.

We are not flattered by the attention. My lipstick is not an invitation to kiss me. My skirt is not an invitation for you to reach under it.

Just stop.