Trigger Warning: SA
This article expresses in detail the feelings of objectification and unwanted male attention. While I never explicitly describe any sort of assault, there are examples of sexual harassment that may trigger some readers. I encourage you to keep your safety and comfort in mind while reading and to take care of yourself.
When I was eight years old I started worrying that my best friend’s brother had a crush on me. He would hang around for far too long and be far too invested in what two little girls were doing when he was already in middle school. I didn’t have an idea of “creepy” or “pervy” men in my mind yet, not to mention her brother was a really nice boy who my parents adored. Still, even so young, there was this murky feeling in my stomach each time I could tell he was looking at me from across the room. The feeling didn’t have a name, it was just “wrong.”
That feeling — of being watched — I was lucky that it didn’t come back for a long time. I ended up moving across the country from that family, and he couldn’t watch me anymore. I let it slip back into the darker corners of my memories, away from me and my continued attempts at innocence.
This peace lasted until middle school when an unknown number sent me a picture of a penis — one I still have no idea where it came from or whose it was. It seemed like this had happened to a few girls in my grade, and we all circled up to talk about it after gym class one day.
We were all disgusted, almost unanimously so. One girl asked us, “So, wait — have you all been sent those kinds of photos by guys?”
Those who had received the picture all nodded — I could barely confirm it without feeling sick.
The girl looked down, almost embarrassed, almost sad. “Nobody’s ever sent me one — do you think they don’t like me?”
It seems like such a stupid thing to say now. By college age, we all know that an unsolicited penis does not equate to affection and never has. But in a terrible way, I understand exactly why she said that.
When I got that picture, I knew someone was watching me enough to go out of their way to get my number and send what they sent. In eighth grade, I was considered underdeveloped for my age, and almost never seemed to receive any male attention. But even in a body I thought was safe, that “wrong” feeling returned. And even though it was absolutely the wrong kind of attention, it was still attention.
I think that our society places so much of a woman’s worth on the recognition she receives from men. Everybody wants to be the gorgeous girl that has men wrapped around her finger and never feels unwanted. There are so many different flavors of desirability: Do you want to be the sweet, approachable girl next door? Or the cold, uncaring femme fatale? It is so hard to try and break away from it when it feels like who you are is measured by how lovable and sexy you can be. Even when we try to reclaim it, that itself can be sexualized and objectified as well.
There is nothing wrong with being conventionally unattractive, or not fitting into society’s beauty standards. That being said, though, the way that many men will treat women they don’t find attractive makes it seem as if those women are less than human.
I think that’s what the girl in my middle school was feeling — like she wasn’t getting this attention, and therefore wasn’t good or wasn’t as worthy as we were. I wish I could go back and tell her to please not internalize it, that unsolicited dick pictures are literally a form of sexual harassment, and that there is no need for a bunch of thirteen-year-olds to be worried about how sexy they are.
I was not a pretty girl when I got that picture, and I still don’t think of myself as anything that special. But my body has become inescapable — I’m too tall, my cup size is too big, my legs are too long — I can’t go anywhere without it, and the men around me notice. I would end that sentence with “whether I like it or not,” but it’s not even a matter of whether I just don’t like it. I get that horrible “wrong” feeling so many times a day.
And then I remember what it was like before I was noticeable. I still wasn’t happy — I wanted that validation that beautiful sexy girls are supposed to get. I wanted to be desired because I felt like everybody else was, and when I wasn’t, I wanted to know what was wrong with me.
I do believe we’re breaking further and further away from the hold of the male gaze, but we’re not there yet. My heart breaks for thirteen-year-old girls now, who are probably getting pictures just like I did. Or maybe they’re not, and they’re wondering what’s wrong with them. I hope they cherish the time when they still don’t know about that “wrong” feeling.