What did I do wrong?
"What did I do wrong?"
Nothing. I did nothing wrong.
I sat on the bus, in a modest brown dress that went to my ankles, was not particularly low cut at the bust, and anyways, I had a scarf on over. My legs were crossed, my hands at the knee. I was not provocatively pulling up my skirt. I was not flouncing, flirting. I was sitting, daydreaming, and listening to my ipod.
When he sat down at the seat next to mine (I was in a forward facing seat, he sat in the sideways one that almost blocked mine), I gave him a fleeting smile, the kind I give to strangers on the bus. It was not an invitation, it was just the briefest of things.
He responded by rubbing at his crotch. My smile faded, and he sat. Okay. Maybe his balls itched. I hear it happens. True, most guys I know know not to rub themselves so blatantly on the bus, but it's still relatively early morning, and maybe he's not ready for proper social protocol yet.
Except then he looked at me. Stared at me. Maybe once at my face, then more often, towards my crossed hands, my legs, my crotch. Every once in a while, he would take a few moments to rub himself. He pulled out a newspaper, which he read. In between looking at me, leching at me. In between rubbing himself.
I did not look back at him. I looked straight ahead, my muscles tensing. I did my best to ignore him entirely. I did not encourage him. I did not respond to him. I didn't want him to know he had unnerved me, but the way I launched from my seat when my stop was called might have been enough.
And as I walked to the school, shaking with fear and sleaze and sketch, I found myself asking of the sky "What did I do wrong?!"
Nothing. I did nothing wrong. I dressed like a good girl --professional, for school. I was not wearing make-up. I was not sitting like a slut. I smiled at him, brief and polite, but that was all.
Almost immediately after I asked the rhetorical question, I realized with a start just what I was inadvertently supporting in the back of my brain. I did nothing wrong. Even if I had dressed down, even if I was posing provocative, I would have done nothing wrong. Because oh hey. It's not my fault he was being a creep.
It was his.
There wasn't anything I could've done better, except maybe have a big burly man on my arm to protect me. And it doesn't fucking matter what I did or didn't do, because I am not at fault for his bad actions.
So dear creepy guy on the bus. Fuck you, a lot. I hope someday you get a chance to know how unpleasant it is to feel like that.
~Sor
MOOP!
Nothing. I did nothing wrong.
I sat on the bus, in a modest brown dress that went to my ankles, was not particularly low cut at the bust, and anyways, I had a scarf on over. My legs were crossed, my hands at the knee. I was not provocatively pulling up my skirt. I was not flouncing, flirting. I was sitting, daydreaming, and listening to my ipod.
When he sat down at the seat next to mine (I was in a forward facing seat, he sat in the sideways one that almost blocked mine), I gave him a fleeting smile, the kind I give to strangers on the bus. It was not an invitation, it was just the briefest of things.
He responded by rubbing at his crotch. My smile faded, and he sat. Okay. Maybe his balls itched. I hear it happens. True, most guys I know know not to rub themselves so blatantly on the bus, but it's still relatively early morning, and maybe he's not ready for proper social protocol yet.
Except then he looked at me. Stared at me. Maybe once at my face, then more often, towards my crossed hands, my legs, my crotch. Every once in a while, he would take a few moments to rub himself. He pulled out a newspaper, which he read. In between looking at me, leching at me. In between rubbing himself.
I did not look back at him. I looked straight ahead, my muscles tensing. I did my best to ignore him entirely. I did not encourage him. I did not respond to him. I didn't want him to know he had unnerved me, but the way I launched from my seat when my stop was called might have been enough.
And as I walked to the school, shaking with fear and sleaze and sketch, I found myself asking of the sky "What did I do wrong?!"
Nothing. I did nothing wrong. I dressed like a good girl --professional, for school. I was not wearing make-up. I was not sitting like a slut. I smiled at him, brief and polite, but that was all.
Almost immediately after I asked the rhetorical question, I realized with a start just what I was inadvertently supporting in the back of my brain. I did nothing wrong. Even if I had dressed down, even if I was posing provocative, I would have done nothing wrong. Because oh hey. It's not my fault he was being a creep.
It was his.
There wasn't anything I could've done better, except maybe have a big burly man on my arm to protect me. And it doesn't fucking matter what I did or didn't do, because I am not at fault for his bad actions.
So dear creepy guy on the bus. Fuck you, a lot. I hope someday you get a chance to know how unpleasant it is to feel like that.
~Sor
MOOP!