Welcome Home, Son was playing on my phone. I’d just crested the killer hill that is part of my walk home from class. I was feeling pretty damn content when this dude walked out of a house and down the sidewalk 20 feet in front of me.
I’m not usually a leg gal. And my ass of choice is no ass. This gentleman had me rethinking my stance on the lower extremities. He was over 6 feet, slender but muscular in tight jeans, work boots, and a SUNY ESF sweatshirt. It didn’t hurt that he was rather pasty with black hair which is my type. A couple houses down the street I noticed an old Ford F150 parked on the other side of the road and I prayed he would cross over to it. Watching him get into that truck would only enhance the fantasy that was playing in my head.
He crossed over and climbed into the truck.
Holy fucking shit, it has been a while since I have been that violently attracted to a stranger.
I like looking at people. As much as I tell T that looks don’t matter I really enjoy looking at beautiful people. Hell, it doesn’t have to be people. Beauty in general makes my life better. Everyday that I walk around I’m checking out those around me, drinking in those who I’m attracted to. I’m guessing that everyone else is doing the exact same thing.
Tonight our friend C was over for dinner and I told him and Z about Mr. F150. I asked what they thought about my blatant objectification of a man when compared to the outrage feminists (including me) express at the objectification of women.
C said he never heard a woman admit to having a fantasy about a stranger. I told him I’d put money on the fact that every women he knows does it.
My hypothesis was that hetero women don’t view the objects of their desire as less than them. And maybe that is the difference. I thought hetero males often consider the objects of their desire to be inferior. C and Z told me that wasn’t fair.
Now both C and Z are excellent humans. Z is one of the most strident feminists I know. C said that there isn’t consideration of the object of desire as less than or more than. Rather she is more of a vessel onto which a fantasy is superimposed. I guess that I agree I was doing the same thing. I didn’t want to know this dude’s name. I didn’t want to talk to him in real life. I am incredibly happily married. I just wanted to think dirty thoughts about him and his legs for a couple of minutes.
Does the problem with objectification begin when that 4th wall is broken? Is it when the catcalling begins? Neither C nor Z has catcalled a woman in their adult lives, which makes me pretty proud. I have been catcalled in my time. Not because I’m any great shakes, but because I’d wager every adult women in America has been. When I lived in Bed-Stuy it was a daily occurrence for every woman who walked those streets. And it did make me feel diminished. Less than. It also made me feel like I belonged in a neighborhood where I was a minority. I was targeted because of my femaleness, not the color of my skin.
So what do you think? Is it cool that I was hard core objectifying a stranger on my walk home? Is it just as bad as catcalling? Should women fess up to their constant thoughts about sex as they walk around in this world? Should we start catcalling men so they know how it makes us feel? I don’t really mean that, but I sort of do.
I think it is harmless to fantasize about each other, to objectify each other in our minds. I think it is human. The problem begins when we act on our thoughts. When we call out to the object of our desire, or lear, or stare it is an act of aggression. It isn’t a compliment. It isn’t harmless. It isn’t ok.
As soon as I touched this sweet boy after his nap I knew he was rocking a fever. 102.4 isn’t that bad, but he’s going to the doc’s tomorrow to be sure he doesn’t have an ear infection.
T watched me snap a picture of C and asked me to take his as well. Then he carefully arranged himself and the blanket and closed his eyes all ready for his close up.