I’ve had a trying week. I lost a perforated metal buckle that sat pointlessly, but perfectly, on my black, suede, square-toed pump.
It turns out those shoes are not really appropriate for chasing public masturbators down alleys and along D.C. streets. And probably, when you’re a 5’5” woman with no self-defense training, there are smarter things to do. But I couldn’t take it any more.
Last year, we were subjected to this one guy who, at his worst, woke me up by ringing the doorbell at 1 a.m. so that I could witness his performance. Of course, I called the police, but you can guarantee in D.C. that they will never arrive. Godot will likely arrive first. The same guy had previously stood outside our garden gate one night while all our girlfriends were chatting and drinking. Once we realized he was there, I sprang up and turned the garden hose on him. At least that time I felt like I was the victor.
So this summer, it’s a new guy. Taller, better dressed, but same routine. I get out of my car one afternoon and he’s a few feet away. I arrive home from work one evening and he’s waiting for someone to be home; I go inside and then hear something at the window. Surprise! And then, this last Wednesday, I take a trash bag of cat litter into the alley as I leave for work, and… good morning!
I yell at him and call 911 on my cell phone and he runs off. I start walking to the Metro pissed off, then see him walking down 13th Street. He sees me and walks away, but I call Parrish to get her camera – to get a photo to give to the police – and we start a 30-minute Cagney & Lacy episode. He obviously needs to get somewhere very specific, because every time we frighten him off one street, we run across him again just a block or two away. At one point he is 20 feet from me and sprints down an alley, I chase him – and fired up on adrenalin I actually pursue him for quite a ways. Parrish cleverly heads him off at another corner and points her camera…but her failing batteries mean she didn’t get a usable shot.
I’m ready to give up and head back towards the Metro when he appears again ahead of me. I run down the street yelling “Stop him! Stop him!” A guy pulls his I-pod earphones out and asks what he did. When I tell him, he laughs. I carry on running and hear clinking metal, then turn round to grab my fallen shoe buckle. At this point, I-Pod guy has to walk past me and, boy, does he regret laughing. He apologizes in the face of my angry tirade. A teacher in a playground has seen the perp pass by and wants to know why I’m chasing him. I tell her and she doesn’t laugh.
Eventually, we give up. I’m gratified that he must be taken aback at our vigilante action. But depressed that this low-grade harassment is apparently so hard to stop.
I get on the Metro, with my shoe buckle in my purse. I make the mistake of trying to fix it myself. I step off the train at my stop and look down. It’s gone. Now I feel really defeated. I thought that taking action would make me feel less of a victim. But somehow, it just feels futile. And buckle-less.
Since then, I have felt really jumpy coming home in a way I never was before. I carefully close the shades at our windows and keep checking the alley. He hasn’t been back, as far as we know.
maybe we should hook this guy up with wendy’s stalker and then let farrell and trixie carry out their threatened punishment. they are doctors. they wield knives. (and farrell will get inside their heads and mess with them.)
did you file a police report, stella?
I’m embarrassed to admit that I laughed a little bit when I started reading this post (c’mon, you’re chasing a pervert-public-masturbator down the street), and then felt totally guilty, like the IPod guy, because I wasn’t supposed to laugh. Anyway, I can’t believe it happened more than once. Super creepy.
Stella,
It’s interesting to me that you wrote this post, because I was considering a documentation of all the times in my life I personally have witnessed a flasher or a public masturbator– in smaller context to what happened recently in Colorado and Lancaster, PA. It’s definitely not humor that inspired you to chase after this guy, so why do others find it funny?
Because it’s uncomfortable? Would it have been funny if you were twelve instead of 30-something? Are we really expected to just ignore such assholes, when they’re sometimes right outside our windows?
I’m sorry you lost your buckle. I wish the chase had given you what you needed so that it would’ve been worth it.
So frustrating, this. The lost buckle is insult to injury, and its absence will be the unfortunate reminder of this encounter. Thanks for turning it into a good post, though. Generally, I think most men are blissfully unaware of the creepy behavior of many of their brethren - leering, comments, gestures, masturbation, etc. - and how upsetting it can be. It only takes one incident like this to make one very wary. Unfortunately, it seems you’ve had more than your fair share.
I was definitely unaware of the frequency of this kind of thing until this post and Lisa’s comment. I’m both disgusted and angry. One more sex-related thing that women are subjected to on the continuum between a pat on the ass and rape.
No, I didn’t file a police report, but should have done. It just seems so pointless and awful to think of describing everything in detail. Last summer when the doorbell-ringing incident happened I emailed our local listserve and caused a furore because so many other women in the neighborhood were getting harassed by that guy too and the police were doing nothing. I think they arrested him eventually. I hate vigilante action, but it’s interesting to find myself so exasperated by the police that I’ll circumvent them.
It definitely is so absurd that sometimes it’s almost funny, but then it isn’t.
Lisa - It’s interesting that you too want to document…it gives some kind of witness to what happens. I actually got through the first 38 or so years of my life with relatively little harrassment of this nature, but now it seems to be starting.
For some reason I have always attracted strange people. It’s been such a part of my life that I think it has made its imprint on my personality. I have fretted over the reason of why me?
Sometimes I believed that because I was molested a stench was left on me and these men like tomcats sniffed me out. Now that is a disturbing thought and of course it somehow leaves the blame on me….
but I digress …
here is one of the most random assaults…
when i was in my early twenties i had a job interview…my dad had just died and i had up and moved to this new town…usually i loved interviews but i wasn’t myself quite yet. i decided to pace around the outdoor mall in the upscale downtown sector.
i walked down a corridor that snaked around and grew darker as I searched for the bathroom. The corridor was all cement and I had felt embarrassed at how my heels made a clicking noise that echoed too loud when I noticed another set of steps behind me but when I turned I didn’t see anyone.
I found the bathrooom and went into a stall as I lifted my skirt and sat on the toilet I heard the door open and heavy footsteps. I instantly tried to look under the stall but it was as if the person intentionally walked along the wall to avoid detection. But the sound reverberated in my head those steps were masculine.
I heard the stall (not next to me but one over) close and all was quiet except for the tinkling sound of my pee and what I thought was a sigh. I felt odd a little nervous like it was the day of my recital…slight stage fright…and that’s when I just knew.
I slowly leaned down my head tilted in the direction of the silent yet occupied stall my heart raced as I peered underneath the putty colored divider. There on the bathroom floor crouched on his hands and knees was a proper looking man (my father’s age) in a brown three piece suit and shiny brown dress shoes. We stared eye to eye for a millasecond before I gasped. I swear I remember a weakness in his eyes. I guess it was shame for being caught but that is what he wanted.
Of course after my gasp his thunderous steps ran out and faded down the corridor.
I wondered if it was worth it to him. I mean it’s not like he could really see anything except my bare ankles. I guess it was the soundtrack with the ankle.
I ran up the corridor absolutly frightened back into the sunshine and across the street to my interview.
The residue of that man and all the others is embedded in me. They leave a lasting impression and swim deep in the under currents of me. They come up for breath when I walk down dark staircases or through lonely parking structures just to say hi as I look over my shoulder in hopes I am alone.
Lilly - I hope you know you don’t bring any of these things on yourself. I’m sorry to hear you’ve had such a string of incidents!
As to Tim W and Dave’s comments: It is always surprising to me how few men seem to realize that women have to deal with this stuff all the time. I am not the kind of woman who walks around meekly or gives off a particularly vulnerable vibe. But even in the last five years or so, I’ve had numerous episodes where men expose themselves or worse, specifically at me. Many have happened in the coffee shops where I go with my laptop to work. And what I find particularly galling about all these incidents is that, even if the guy is some scrawny loser-looking person, it still feels threatening. Anyway, wack-off man hasn’t returned so far. One friend advised that, if he does, we should just point at him and start laughing to humiliate him. Who knows? I’m for whatever works, as I’m sick of cringing every time the doorbell rings unexpectedly.
In grad school I used to catch a lot of afternoon matinees (to save $$, ya know). Anyway, one time in a relatively empty theater, I looked away from the screen only to realize that the guy sitting in front of me had his sweatpants pulled down and was stroking a huge erection. More angry than anything, and stubbornly refusing to leave the movie, I got up and moved to a seat way in front of him, closer to the screen. He left me alone after that, but when I finally went and complained to the management all they said was, “Again?! That’s the fourth time this week!” You’d think that after a while they’d stop letting him in.
Thinking of it now, I wonder if I did the right thing. Could I have been in any real danger? Should I have left? Should I have acknowledged him at all?
Stella, I’m sorry you have been dealing with this. And hooray for your turning the hose on the bastard!
Same thing happened to me at the movie theatre but I just screamed really loud to the guy “what the fuck are you doing?” when the crowd turned to look at me I pointed to the guy and yelled “he’s jacking off” he ran out of the theatre.
Lilly’s right. The best thing to do is scream really loud at them, especially the word “no.”
We should make ourselves an “A” team. A public service video. A school guest-speaker program. Anything to get someone (the government? our educated male counterparts?) to see that this shit isn’t only offensive, it’s scary– and, I suggest, opens even worse doorways to other abusive and illegal behaviors, some that are only taken seriously once it’s too late, some that are still never taken seriously.
Re. the “humiliation” strategy LP suggests above: I used to get lots of “what are you wearing?”-type phone calls from gross strangers (at least I hope they were strangers), and adopted that strategy myself in hopes of shaming them into feeling like total losers who would only succeed in making women mock and degrade them–and I thought it was a great approach until I realized later that some men fetishize that kind of thing too (the dominatrix market is alive and flourishing, no?) so maybe I was playing right into their hands by not just slamming down the phone. I mean, they must expect either anger or public shaming when they know they’re going to be caught, so how DO we respond in a way that doesn’t play into their dirty, vile, sticky hands?
get a gun and shoot them? just kidding. but actually mace is very effective.
http://www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/04/02/raw_food_wanker.php
make post card…
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