There was the time a bloke hissed “stuck up bitch” in my
face because I told his friend I wasn’t single. The time when a man followed me
from the tube station to my road, hassling me for my address the whole way. The
time a train journey ended with a guy pinging my bra strap and kissing me on
the lips. All the times I’m told to smile, assured that someone would happily do
me (thanks!) or generally feel uncomfortable for being female and in someone’s
eyeline.
I spoke about times like these in 2011, here
– the relatively low-level, everyday harassment countless people put up with.
But up until now, I’d managed to go through life without going through one particular,
extremely common experience.
It happened to my grandma when she was a teenager walking by
a field with her friend. It happened to my mum on a hospital ward when she was
training to be a nurse. I thought I’d got away with it. Ladies and gentlefolk,
I made it to the grand old age of 31 before I got wanked at in a public place.
Last night, I looked public masturbation in its one, weepy eye and ticked off
another square on my OhForFuckSake bingo card.
