The First Time a Man Talked to Me About My Pussy

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The first time a man talked to me about my “pussy” I was 8 years old. For those who can only assign value to a woman based on how she relates to various men, I was someone’s daughter, sister, and aunt.

It was break time and one of the two girls I was playing with had to pee. We were on the school playground — one of those badass sprawling wood ones with towers, swinging bridges and a tire swing. Separating the playground from the school was the large field where we played capture the flag and kickball.

The teacher stuck with break duty gave us permission to walk back and use the school’s bathroom, as long as we stayed together. Rather than let us run across the field from the school to the playground, our teachers always made us walk in an orderly line on the sidewalk that ran along the street at the edge of the field.

My friend had finished peeing and we were walking back to the playground on the sidewalk. All three of us were carrying pencils. So we were walking, talking excitedly and flipping our pencils, when a car came to a crawl on the street next to us. There were several men inside.

“Nice pencils,” called the passenger, leaning menacingly out the window, motioning to the pencil clutched in our hands. We walked faster, and tightened closer to one another. The car continued riding beside us.

“I said ‘NICE TOYS’,” he repeated, demanding our attention, demanding a response. We mumbled “thanks” and gave weak smiles, quickening our pace more still.

“I bet you have nice pussies, too,” he sneered. He howled with laughter, accompanied by the driver and back-seat passenger, and the car peeled off. We ran the rest of the way back to the playground.
We huddled and debated what to do. I didn’t even know what the word pussy meant beyond its feline definition, but I could tell it was bad.
“It means vagina,” my friend with older siblings said. I gasped.

Do we tell the teacher what had happened? Should we tell our parents? None of us felt comfortable reporting what had happened. We were afraid and despite having done nothing wrong, we were ashamed.
We decided to tell no one; to do nothing.

Except one of my friends couldn’t live with the silence and several days later told her mom what had happened. Her mom called the school and our parents were contacted. That night my mom summoned me to her bedroom, where I sat on the edge of my parents’ bed, avoiding her eyes.

She asked if it was true. I said it was. She asked again, and told me the vice principal said the girl who reported it, my friend, had “a tendency to lie” because victim blaming is nothing new.

She told me if she found out I was lying, I would be in serious trouble.

We three girls were called into the vice principal’s office one at a time to recount the story. They sat us on the chairs in the hallway as we waited our turns; the chairs usually reserved for the trouble-makers, for the bad kids. I had never sat in those chairs before and my eyes, which I kept focused on my feet, welled with tears as I imagined what everyone who passed by must think.

I knew I had done nothing wrong, but it sure felt like my fault. I wished my friend hadn’t told her mom and gotten us into this mess, because at 8 years old I learned that keeping quiet would have been easier; that telling meant risking getting in trouble.

So years later when I was waiting to cross a street and a stranger reached his hand up my skirt and squeezed my ass, I did nothing beyond whirl around in fear. He winked at me and trotted across the street in the other direction, leaving me feeling violated and ashamed. And when a man in a crowded elevator groped with purpose as he pressed by me out the doors, I jumped, watched the doors close and tried to control my terrified breathing the rest of the way to my floor, in silverbird galleria.

Every time a man demanded a hug, I politely obliged. When he held on too long, too pressed-into-me, I learned how to giggle and duck away.
When I decided enough was enough and reported a male neighbor, who hugged too long, hovered too close and asked if I had ever considered getting “my pussy sucked”

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