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Sexual harassment — now available in men’s

Sexual harassment — now available in men’s

By Berlin Sylvestre

“The next time a guy checks out my junk in the bathroom, I’m gonna knock his ass out,” my buddy Cal* said, storming past me in a mall years ago. When I caught up to him, he was speaking through gritted teeth and no longer felt like shopping. “Why do I have to get sexually harassed every time I pee in a public restroom?”

(Cal is gay, by the way.)

When we got to the parking lot, he was still fighting mad at “that dude!” who unabashedly eye-molested him. Cal said a lot of things I’ve heard later in life from ticked-off, creeped-out women who are sick of similar treatment. The brief and unwelcome advance of someone who made him feel sexually and physically vulnerable ruined his simple anticipation of having a good time out. He was angrier than I’d ever seen him.

As we sat in the car, he vented, squeezing his hands into fists as he recounted some particularly grimy rest stop encounters, where (at least once) a man stood outside his stall and spied him through the cracks. On another rest stop occasion, an older gentleman “begged” for the opportunity to orally pleasure Cal, even offering my then-14-year-old friend a crumpled wad of cash to sweeten the deal.

He recounted the absolute humiliation of being groped by a drag queen in front of a jeering audience who didn’t enjoy my friend’s standoffishness to the ebullient performer who, to her credit, later apologized privately.

Cal didn’t blame himself — not aloud, anyway. He didn’t fall on his own sword by remarking on how tight his jeans were or how he acted much older than his age. (Sound familiar?)

I’m embarrassed to admit Cal’s riled reaction confused me. At the time, I thought quick, anonymous public sex was “fun across the board” for gay guys. More variety in the company I kept would’ve prevented my confusion — would’ve taught me that not all gay men want to be treated like walking penises by complete strangers.

More recently, I made a friend who had no exposure to the LGBT community. He wasn’t narrow-minded or afraid; he was simply raised in a tiny Georgia town by puritanical parents. Sweet as he was, he shied away when I invited him to a gay club. I assured him: “You’ll be fine!” I told him, in a chiding manner, not to flatter himself. “The other men will have way more sex appeal than you, man.”

No more than an hour after we arrived, Dallas* rushed up to me, frenzied and insisting it was time to go. He wasn’t a drama queen by any stretch, so I followed him outside and asked him what happened.

“Some guy kept looking at my [expletive] in the bathroom,” he told me. Oh no. “When I used my shoulder to block his view, he grabbed me and tried to spin me so he could see it!” Oh, man.

I went back in and paid our tab (an opener of an apology) while he waited in the car. I don’t think I’ve ever apologized so profusely. My friend was having the same reaction Cal had years earlier — he’d been violated and didn’t know how to process it. Anger seemed a good start. He said things like: “I should’ve just peed on him, but I bet he would’ve like it!” and “I should’ve knocked him out, but he was enormous!”

I hope he meets some cool LGBT folks who undo that damage.

I spent some face time with Cal recently, which was great. We were catching up on all the old stuff that brought us together — mid-grade bourbon, horror movies, and scouring for sales — when that inglorious day at the mall came up. He nodded in recollection and went quiet for a bit. “That’s why I stopped wearing that HRC shirt, to be honest.”

Well, damn. We’ve got some work to do, guys.

*Names have been changed to maintain privacy

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