Monday, November 24, 2008 at 2:45am

Had another very pertinent dream last night. I was walking up an alleyway and it was snowing. I was so confused and a little annoyed because I was thinking, “I’m in Australia. It’s not supposed to be snowing. What the hell is going on here?” Then this man in a huge, black coat came up behind me, walking along, acting all normal when he started attacking me. I smashed my purse into his face, pulled out my cellphone and tried to call for help but I had to hide the phone in my jacket for some reason and no one could hear me.

FUCK. How symbollic and appropriate after my day yesterday. I am so fucking fed up to here with perverted men. I am honestly so tired of it. 

I saw a sign posted at the hostel, “Casual cleaner needed.” Sweet. I’ve been officially unemployed for well over 2 months now. It’s been a hoot, but it’s time to work and at this stage of the game, anything will do. So I called the guy. 4-10 hours a week helping out with cleaning his bed & breakfast right around the corner from where I was staying. How convenient. So I meet him at 9:30 the next morning, exchange pleasantries, have a cup of tea, and after asking me a bit about myself and my qualifications (a philosophy degree AND experience cleaning hotel rooms! What a catch! Jesus Christ.) he asks me to come around the next morning to get started.

The first day was fine. It didn’t seem odd to me that he was actually doing the work with me – after all, I did need SOME training. Hospital corners aren’t rocket science, but they do require some explanation – so fair enough. We had some nice conversation and everything seemed fine. He was ridiculously particular, but that’s his perogative, I’m just there for my cash in hand so I can afford to eat something, so what do I care?

The second day was an entirely different tale. About a quarter of the way through my 3 hour stint, I just got the no feeling in a real bad way, to the point where I texted my friend, Caroline and said, “I think this dude is a pervert – if you don’t hear from me, call me…”

“I had to rebuild this bed. These two huge people about 115 kilos each were just bonking away on it and broke it.”
“Um, OK,” is what I said out loud, but “Bonking on it? What in the fuck are you telling me this for?” is what I damn well should have said.
“Oh, and I should have told you not to wear any coloured clothes here. I see you’ve got a bleach spot on you already.” Yeah, you would notice that spot on my breast, wouldn’t you?
“Oh, this is just shit anyway, no worries.” 
“Really? I thought you had dressed up.”
Yeah, sure. I dressed up to come cleaning. You wish! Tank top and shorts. Looks like I should’ve sported my fucking snowsuit despite the 30 degree heat just to curb your enthusiasm.

The unnecessary touching, sexual references, and him tagging along beside me while I did what appeared to be useless busy work was enough to make you sick. But the sickest part of the whole affair was why in the name of god I felt obliged to continue being nice to the shit. Why didn’t I just leave? When he came in the room with a drill and said, “Stick em up or I’ll drill you,” I should’ve shouted, “How about I punch your stupid perverted face in?? Touch me and I’ll scream so loud your ears will bleed.”
Nope. All I could muster was a blank stare.

That’s what’s so insidious about men who behave that way. It puts women in such an unfortunate postion. Unfortunate and utterly unfair. You know in your gut something isn’t right, but it’s like you don’t want to jump the gun, be presumptious and put someone in their place and have them be like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, relax, I was just trying to be nice…” Like fuck you’re trying to be nice. You’re trying to get in my pants, or at least you’re having a jolly old time leering at them.

I’ve had my pathetic, fat, balding boss purposely spread rumours we were sleeping together (I’d rather slit my wrists than touch him with a ten foot pole), my former professor corner me in a bar and stick his tongue down my throat and subsequently stalk me, countless men, just being selfish, outright perverts. The list goes on. And where does that leave me? Where does that leave us women? I feel I have a right to be myself, to be sexy, or to just be left alone and I don’t think it’s one bit fair at all that I should have to be at all concerned about whether or not someone wants to sleep with me, undress me with their sicko eyes, or even just indulge in their lame-o fantasies when I’m just trying to work, study or whatever. 

I remember a time a few years ago when I naively thought things were equal. HA! Hilarious. LONG ASS WAY TO GO. And I don’t know how we can ever really get there. I love men. I love connecting with men, they’re generally a fantastic species, but there’s those bad apples that can really just spoil the whole damn bunch. And I’m in the headspace at the moment where I just have no time for it. 

I was standing in the shop after “work” (perv zone) telling my friend the reasons I sent her such an odd text, recounting all of the weirdo moves this dude was making and who walks around the corner? Him. Mr. Bend-over-you-missed-a-spot himself. “Hi,” and I turned totally red and bolted for the door. I don’t know if he heard me, and I don’t particularly care. All I know is that I’ll be damed if I dare put myself in the situation where I let a man make me feel that way again. I quit.