Hardly pornographic.
I was in a part of the city I am unaccustomed to. I had been searching for a shop that had been recommended to me, but had decided it was time to find my car.
As I perused the streetscape, looking for my car, a couple of young male voices stopped to guffaw at the unclad store mannequins that stood in the shop window behind me. "Oh, what now? They're naked!" exclaimed one. His mate mused "I wonder if they (gesturing toward me) get embarrassed by these?"
The attitude, the accents of the young men - your imagination can likely fill those in. The mannequins were abstractly formed. Headless, limbless beige - a narrowing to suggest a waist. Projections on the chest to imply breasts. Hardly pornographic.
Being in a particularly fatalistic mood, I interjected; "It doesn't bother me." The young men - in their early twenties, and neither of them half my size - gawped at me. I don't think they were accustomed to strange women addressing them. I took advantage of the momentary silence to clarify; "They (I gestured at the mannequins) are chunks of plastic that are shaped like body parts. I got over giggling at things like that when I was about twelve."
The young men attempted to express their disagreement, but the closest they came to coherence was to mutter something - I could distinguish only the words "you" and "fuck". Three more young blokes showed up and asked "What's going on?"
I asked the original pair; "Do you drive a manual or an automatic?" They exchanged glances. "Manual. What's that got to do with anything?" "Well," I gathered myself "The gear stick. Does it embarrass you? It's shaped like a body part." I gestured suggestively, and all five of the men started swearing at me expressing their outrage and disgust. "Fucking whore" "Slut!" "Dirty cunt" and so on. None moved toward me, however, which was just as well, because I was suppressing powerful fear.
"Well," I said again, heart pounding, feeling as though my veins were filled with peppermint essence "If these plastic clothes displays are rude and embarrassing, then a gear stick is rude and embarrassing, too. But you don't think of the gear stick that way. I don't think of these pieces of plastic (gesture) that way. It doesn't bother me."
Their swearing was faltering, they seemed aware that the dialogue was over, but looked uncertain about what to do next. I scrambled for a diversionary tactic. "Say - can you tell me where the Post Office is?" They gaped. They swore. One turned his back on me with a dismissive gesture and the obligatory "Fuck off." Relief. I had been dismissed, all of the young men had seen that. I had unmistakably been given permission to go.
I can't explain why I went on to say "I will be driving home later. It's a long drive, and my car is a manual. Bye!" before departing with a cheery wave. I could hear them making loud disparaging comments about my morals, my sanity, my appearance and my intelligence as I walked away.
Hours later and I'm still feeling wobbly.
As I perused the streetscape, looking for my car, a couple of young male voices stopped to guffaw at the unclad store mannequins that stood in the shop window behind me. "Oh, what now? They're naked!" exclaimed one. His mate mused "I wonder if they (gesturing toward me) get embarrassed by these?"
The attitude, the accents of the young men - your imagination can likely fill those in. The mannequins were abstractly formed. Headless, limbless beige - a narrowing to suggest a waist. Projections on the chest to imply breasts. Hardly pornographic.
Being in a particularly fatalistic mood, I interjected; "It doesn't bother me." The young men - in their early twenties, and neither of them half my size - gawped at me. I don't think they were accustomed to strange women addressing them. I took advantage of the momentary silence to clarify; "They (I gestured at the mannequins) are chunks of plastic that are shaped like body parts. I got over giggling at things like that when I was about twelve."
The young men attempted to express their disagreement, but the closest they came to coherence was to mutter something - I could distinguish only the words "you" and "fuck". Three more young blokes showed up and asked "What's going on?"
I asked the original pair; "Do you drive a manual or an automatic?" They exchanged glances. "Manual. What's that got to do with anything?" "Well," I gathered myself "The gear stick. Does it embarrass you? It's shaped like a body part." I gestured suggestively, and all five of the men started swearing at me expressing their outrage and disgust. "Fucking whore" "Slut!" "Dirty cunt" and so on. None moved toward me, however, which was just as well, because I was suppressing powerful fear.
"Well," I said again, heart pounding, feeling as though my veins were filled with peppermint essence "If these plastic clothes displays are rude and embarrassing, then a gear stick is rude and embarrassing, too. But you don't think of the gear stick that way. I don't think of these pieces of plastic (gesture) that way. It doesn't bother me."
Their swearing was faltering, they seemed aware that the dialogue was over, but looked uncertain about what to do next. I scrambled for a diversionary tactic. "Say - can you tell me where the Post Office is?" They gaped. They swore. One turned his back on me with a dismissive gesture and the obligatory "Fuck off." Relief. I had been dismissed, all of the young men had seen that. I had unmistakably been given permission to go.
I can't explain why I went on to say "I will be driving home later. It's a long drive, and my car is a manual. Bye!" before departing with a cheery wave. I could hear them making loud disparaging comments about my morals, my sanity, my appearance and my intelligence as I walked away.
Hours later and I'm still feeling wobbly.
posted by Jac | 9:40 pm
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