It’s risky, speaking out.
You may be
Maybe misunderstood, maybe shamed, maybe judged..
Maybe you are just a private person, maybe its just your business alone.
Maybe it was a steamy night, a midsummer eve with the crickets chirping outside the open windows of your (then) favorite bar.
Maybe you’d had three acidic bitter beers in an hour. Trying to burn out the pangs of the week.
Maybe you had invited a friend along, because he was smart, funny, and easy to be around. Maybe you’d known him for a year or so.
And then maybe you were perched at the bar in your kick-ass leather skirt, and uncrossed your legs to lean forward for your next beer.
You’d felt it maybe.
his hand, sliding up your thigh, between your legs reaching towards the peak.
Startled, of course, you swiveled on the stool away from the hand and drew your knees together.
The conversation had continued and he never missed a beat.
So you’d re-engaged.
but maybe 15 minutes later you were looking for chap-stick in your purse, and you’d felt it again.
This time forceful, pushing apart your knees and roughly jamming the hand up to your vagina, barely guarded by a thin black lace.
In a crowded bar, maybe you stood up, or rather fell back off the stool away from the hand.
maybe the cold sticky bar floor was better then the seat next to your friend.
Maybe you don’t remember much of the rest of the night except the mad dash home. Ignoring his pleas, and faux concern.
Maybe it’s not the first or last time it happens.
because maybe a friend, if you’ve known him 3 years…or 30….
will feel entitled to your body.
and maybe you’ll still talk to him, be friends with him, have dinner with him.
Because what are girls taught as they become women, if not that their bodies are public domain.
To have a body as a woman, is to own a piece of property that depreciates with every touch, and is subjected to perpetual, unchecked appraisal.
Maybe, there is another way.