Catcall Culture: Navigating the Unwelcome Male Gaze
Thank you, no thank you.
Trigger warning: this post includes brief mention of sexual assault near the end. Please read with care.
There’s this thing that happens to women as they age: They begin to be a little more invisible than they were before.
This is the premise of the novel Calling Invisible Women by Jeanne Ray. A mother of two children wakes up one day and realizes that she is invisible. And no one seems to notice — not her husband, not her children, not her community. So she stops going to work. She stops wearing clothes. And she stumbles upon other invisible women in the process. (It’s a great read.)
After decades of unwelcome advances from men, Part of me can’t help but think that a degree of invisibility might be welcome.
The modesty training I received growing up in the Mormon church told me that men wouldn’t be able to restrain themselves if they saw my shoulders, or thighs, or the small of my back. What power we women seem to wield over the opposite sex. The church inadvertently taught me that my body is a weapon I can wield: for good or otherwise.
Like scripture of Spiderman reads, with great power comes great responsibility. It became a young woman’s responsibility to clothe herself thoroughly to protect herself — and him — from the carnal urges he would be powerless to keep at bay. Thus making her responsible for whatever came next.
When I opted out of Mormonism, modesty was the first thing to go. Hello shoulders! Hello world! The jigsaw puzzle of being both stylish and modest (no small feat) was no longer my concern. But it wasn’t without its price.
Enter the hungry male gaze, stage left. Like a bloodhound, it can sniff out exposed skin a mile away.
As Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes says:
“Anywhere there is beauty, the predator shows up.”
Scroll down for social proof.
One
I’m wearing a cropped dress shirt from Banana Republic with high-waisted paper-bag pants and feeling good. As I walk into my local coffee shop where they know me by name, a man comes up behind me.
“Here, let me fix this,” he says, inviting himself into my personal space to adjust my outfit to his liking, pulling down the shirt to tuck it into my waistband.
I’ve never seen this man in my life.
I am so caught off guard that I freeze. And then I fawn: the nice girl comes out and mumbles some sort of thank you. In my shock, I don’t know how to respond.
Wtf?!
“What was that about?” another man asks as we stand in line for lattes. He is as incredulous as me. It feels validating to have someone else recognize this unwelcome behavior. It’s not all in my head.
Sure, I’ve done my fair share of tucking an visible clothing tag in for another woman. It’s different, woman to woman, or gay man to woman. There’s a kindness in this type of grooming. We’re helping a sister out.
This is different.
May the record show. Strange men do not have consent or permission to touch my body. I am a Stylist. And even if I wasn’t, I don’t need you “fixing” my outfit. Hands off.
Touch is a privilege that has to be earned.
Two
Another day I’m watering the garden outside my downtown townhouse. It’s blisteringly hot and I’m wearing short shorts when I hear a woof. There are plenty of dogs in my neighborhood, so it barely registers. The woof sounds again. I look up to see a strange man on a bike ogling me from the end of my block… and woofing. At me.
Has that ever worked on a human woman before?
I flee, escaping to the safety of my flat — but not before mumbling an apology: “I’m sorry, I need to go.”
An apology for what? For wearing short shorts (on my own property) that causes this man to descend into animal mating calls? I’m not responsible for someone else’s feelings or actions.
That nice girl training dies hard though. And inconveniently shows up at the most inopportune times.
I would much rather tell these men to go fuck themselves instead of being demure.
Three
On Meta, a classical pianist I used to know slides into my DMs. He sees that I’m a Sex Coach and without preamble, starts speaking to me in sexually explicit ways. We barely knew each other in another life.
I have my wits about me. “This is inappropriate and unwelcome. You need to stop.” He doesn’t listen and even seems to delight in my discomfort. He turns up the heat with his revolting remarks.
I block him and report it to Meta. Nothing is done about it.
This is not an uncommon story. During the writing of this, Harvey Weinstein’s rape conviction is overturned.
Four
I’m hosting a party at my place and it’s been a night to remember. (Besides the possessed mirror in my bedroom to another dimension that needs to be removed halfway through the party — a story for another day.)
The charcuterie boards boast a cornucopia. Oracle cards are pulled. New friends are made. Wine flows. Candles burn low.
At the end of the night, one of my guy friends lingers. Earlier in the evening, I’d confided in him that I am getting divorced. Ever the protective male friend, after this new revelation though, something shifts in his energy.
We’re alone when he starts to probe about my married sex life. “I’m not comfortable having this conversation with you,” I say. He redirects his line of questioning, but the energy persists. He comments on my low-cut jumpsuit. Suddenly this outfit that reveals my cleavage and a glimpse of my bra feels like entirely the wrong idea. It wasn't worn with this in mind. The tension in my body is palpable.
The nice girl emerges once more. “Oh, look at the time…” He takes the hint. I’m relieved and feel dirty from the encounter.
Our relationship hasn’t been the same.
A fundamental reason we wear clothes is for survival. Survival from the elements. And as a barrier from unwelcome attention.
So how do we walk the fine line of dressing as we wish while deflecting predatory intentions?
April is Sexual Assault Awareness month. One in four women and men will suffer sexual assaults during their lifetimes. That’s one in four too many.
The recovery time to heal from this type of traumatic experience can take years to recover fully. And there will be pieces inside that will never be the same again.
There’s a frightening rhetoric that says women are asking for it by what they wear.
Do not mistake style for consent.
My “wasband” said something I’ll never forget:
“It’s very easy not to assault someone.
If you do, it means you’re trying really hard.”
It’s easy to not be a sexual predator. Don’t put drugs into someone’s drink. Don’t grope strangers. Don’t force yourself on someone who isn’t conscious or consenting. Get over the idea that people owe you anything. Take care of your own sexual needs.
Let me be clear. This is not a post to hate on men.
This is a post to expose the unwelcome attention of predatory men in response to women’s clothing.
And while women are often on the receiving end, men aren’t the only perpetrators. Women can and do objectify men in unwelcome ways.
To the aforementioned men:
I consciously put myself together each day. I don’t need my outfit to be fixed. If you want to be helpful, ask first.
I cultivate safety in all my spaces. I’m not interested in being dog-called by a rando on my street. Or sexually harassed in my DMs.
I won’t entertain probing, unwelcome questions about my sex life — especially in my own home.
Every human deserves to feel safe and respected in public and private spaces, regardless of what they wear.
If this post resonated with you in any way, please press the ♥️ button. Every single one feels like a hug. Plus, it helps others know that there is something here worth reading.
Does this constellate something in you? Do you have a story that you would like to be witnessed in? I invite you to:
It’s such a pleasure to have you here at Sex and Style! I’m a Certified Sex Coach and Wardrobe Stylist that makes a safe space to explore and reclaim your desire.
These posts are crafted with love and care, it would be an honor to be passed along to someone you love.
I echo all of your sentiments, Janine. Thank you for adding your voice to the mix. It's infuriating that these things happen, and continue to happen and that little to none is done to move the needle. I'm sorry that you've suffered at the hands of men. Would that I could wave a magic wand and make it safe for women to walk the streets alone. This is encouraging to see how the predatorial vibe is fading with this next generation.
When I was 16 I went to the funeral of my close friend's mother who died unexpectedly. After the service, all of us girls stood together outside chatting and trying to bring a little comfort to our friend. The church was on a busy street and we got honked at so many times we eventually had to move back inside with the body of her mother. A group of girls, all in black, in front of a church couldn't even get a second of peace. It still makes my blood boiling all these years later.