TKOG Who answers to your beck and (cat)call

On Secret Society of List Addicts, jobs I wouldn’t do for any amount of money — even if it would mean being able to pay my rent on time every month.

NTKOG #246: The kind of infinitely obliging nighttime pedestrian who, when strange men aggressively leer, seriously considers their propositions.

I am: a lady-dude and, as such, occasionally subjected to the vile hooting of apparently myopic dudes who spend their evenings leaning against chain-link fences, grunting mating calls.

I am not: ever going to get used to this. I’m the happy product of suburban geek culture, where pointedly asking a lady for brunch recommendations is about as straight-up promiscuous as a dude can get.

The Scene: Dragging my weary, frizzy and infinitely cranky self home after a(nother) twelve-hour day at the office. For the past two weeks, Co-Worker and I have been enjoying a series of work-evening “sleepovers” auditing files, and after a seriously productive evening, I was looking forward to decanting my jellified brain into a gin and ginger, then catching nine hours of the dreamless.

What I was not planning to do was talk to any dudes. Unfortunately, the early-20s punk leaning against a local convenience store wall, chain-smoking Pall Malls hadn’t gotten that memo. “Hey mami,” he grunted, “where you going?”

Forgive me for questioning your approach, Street Dudes, but I’ve got to say, that question has always perplexed me. Because of the vibrant street ensemble in the area where I work, I get it most often while walking back to the office on my lunch break, carrying grocery bags. Where you going, girl? “God, funny you should ask. I’m bringing back hors d’oeuvres for an orgy in my office. Wanna come? (ps: that is sexy wordplay about ejaculation.)” Seriously, guys, what’s your friggin’ strategy?

Anyway, after twelve hours of work stress, I was in no mood to educate a late-night convenience store buzzard on feminism, so I cranked up my music and prepared to ignore him, when he reached out to touch my shoulder and asked again: “Aw, c’mon, where you going?”

And so the unthinkable, the inevitable. I yanked my headphones out and swiveled to face him, my nose mere inches from his straggly mustache. “I’m going home. To bed.”

“Can I come with you?” he asked, before the words had even stopped vibrating through my larynx. Upon closer inspection, he was younger than I thought, his skin pulled with bouncy-ball tautness over newly prominent jaw and cheekbones. He must have been a full half-decade younger than me, a lamb in wolf’s clothing.

“Yeah, sure,” I grinned back, calm and radiant, “let’s have sex. Let’s totally have sex.” To his credit, as soon as I said it, Debauched Babyface immediately dashed his cigarette to the ground in a pretty slick Manly Man Of Action move. “So do you, like, have an apartment or a car or something? Or like, what, a moped? I guess we could try it on a moped. Let’s do this.”

Maybe it all seemed too easy, or maybe the moped accusation affronted his masculinity, but DB took a large step back. “O–okay.” Finally, unfolding before my eyes, the answer to the question: What do cat-callers do when they finally get the girl? Back away nervously, apparently. He patted down his baggy jeans pockets to dig out his softpack of cigarettes.

“Dude, come on, I thought you, like, wanted to hook up.”

“With you?”

Ouch, dude. Ouch. Was I getting rejected by him? Truly, has my life come to this?

“Absolutely,” I smiled, taking a step toward him, half a hip swivel away from AC Slatering him against the wall. “I mean, I was just minding my own business, walking home, and you harassed me. What can I say? You changed my mind.” Silence. Silence. “I assume you want to have sex. Why else would you be bothering me?”

And through his rubber babyface, a lightning-fast ripple of contrition. “It was just a compliment.” And then he hardened again — “crazy bitch” — and spat on the ground at my feet. Yeah, you might be right, kid, but you just reminded this crazy bitch why she’s so very happy to be going home alone.

The Verdict: So, my sister’s roommate has two kittens who spend the vast majority of their days tearing through the house, pouncing after flies. I’ve only ever seen the kittens catch one once and, when they did, they had absolutely no idea what to do with it. They batted it around the bathroom for a while, drooled on it some, then leaned back on their paws and let it fly free.

I always sort of imagined that turning catcallers’ aggression back on them would yield similar results. But dude he didn’t even want to bat me around or slobber a little on me. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or sort of offended. So instead, I’m choosing to feel profoundly bewildered not only that guys find this behavior appropriate but that they’re apparently engaging in a catcalling as an end unto itself.

Dudes and lady-dudes, someone explain this to me: has catcalling ever actually led to intercourse? Does anyone — catcallers included — enjoy it in any way? And, short of uncomfortably propositioning them like I did, how do you deal with this ridiculous obnoxiousness?

Tagged as: boston, brighton, catcall, chauvinism, harassment, i think at one point i said "c'mon we're fuckin' committed now bro" because as co-worker can attest i start talking like a brah when i'm tired, in which i miraculously avoid getting beat up, no seriously i totally could not have sex with someone on a moped. i think it's probably physically possible though?, obviously my anti-catcalling stance only applies to obnoxious thug teens. y'all brain jocks are free to shout out clever joyce allusions as i walk by. i'll stop. i promise., please don't let me mislead you -- sexy wordplay is in fact my PRIMARY seduction strategy, something tells me my mama isn't going to approve of my unladylike comportment, the magic of urban life, there were a half dozen people around at the time so i felt decently safe