Not Your Typical Blonde
I'm walking through the streets of Savannah on my Spring Break, wearing jeans and a tee shirt, nothing special, nothing revealing. It's the annual huge St. Patrick's Day weekend-long party, and the cobblestone streets are so crowded you can barely get into the bars along the river, let alone get a drink.
Being a woman, especially with blonde. It gets you looked at, whistled at and whatever else. For the most part I'm used to it, but this time I felt so violated walking along the Georgian streets. I wasn't asking to be touched, I wasn't showing my breasts for the beads everyone wanted. I got my beads by asking, politely, and if the guys wanted to see some "titties" I walked away. Even though I only came away with four beads strands that night I found it an accomplishment to receive such rewards by simply just asking for them, without showing any skin.
So I'm walking around River Street waiting for the frozen drinks within Wet Willy's, a pretty famous bar and instead I got my ass and crotch grabbed repeatedly. I turned around to yell at the perpetrator but ended up screaming at the wrong guy. Then, when the groping persisted and I was stuck in a sea of people, I turned around to the right molester and screamed, "Stop it!" To which he replied mockingly, "Stop it" right back at me. I was so outraged! He had the nerve to make fun of me as he freely touched my body, which had no where to go.
I can't understand where this mindset comes from. Didn't his mama teach him manners? Or at least not to fondle girls stuck in crowds unable to get away from probing hands? It made me so pissed off. My trust in men down south after that greatly diminished. I didn't want to socialize or dance with any males in fear I might be violated again. To me it seemed like the majority of guys down there thought of us women as their toys. They had beads and we wanted them; so they thought they had the right to see some cleavage or at least cop a feel. It was degrading and humiliating. The constant comments and touching was enough to make me puke on the men, wait no, boys. I could only imagine what would have happened to me if I had worn a revealing outfit to this event. And the outrage doesn't stop there.
Which brings me to the night I discovered I had cleavage in a northern bar. I borrowed my roommate's low cut shirt one night to wear to P&G's, the local New Paltz bar. I wore a push-up bra but this time it actually gave me boobs; it was amazing, and the guys at the bar let me know repeatedly as well. You would think maybe college boys I knew would have more respect than the crazy Spring Breakers down south, but nothing much changed in their behavior. Every guy I talked to, even my guy friends, thought they should talk to my breasts instead of my face. And as the night progressed, I even got my bra snapped by some stranger. After giving him an evil look as I always do when squeezed or touched, the typical reaction is a smile and a "what?" What? You know damn well what.
I just can't believe the nerve of these men. No one gave them the permission to squeeze asses as you walk by them. Every woman has the right to go out, and dress however she wants, and to not be touched. Yes, my hair is blond; yes it's real, and no you do not have the right to touch me, even if I want your beads.
And in defense of the good men out there, I'm not forgetting about you. It just seems like there has been an outbreak of gropers, and they need to know it's not okay to be grabbing on girls. One day they're gonna learn a lesson; one day I'm going to learn how to punch.