In college, dudes spent a lot of time talking about how many women they’d slept with.
It was common. Standard, even.
It’d be a bunch of guys sitting around in someone’s apartment, pre or post-club, talking about how bad some girl was, and how she was up on them, and how she wanted it bad. Exact terminology varied by friend circle and proximity from campus, but the general idea was the same: stories about encounters resulting in numbers, and numbers were key, and the higher the better.
I still remember this one dude in senior year talmbout his number was 88.
88 women. We were 21.
To be honest, I don’t even know how the math works on that, what with classes and after-school activities and such.
One of my friends in New York, Jonathan, had a number in the triple digits; at least that’s what he told us one night, sitting in James’ 3rd floor apartment on 1st. He told us he was the man. We laughed, and took shots to his health. More dodgy math.
Even more confusing than the math on all this was cross-referencing these accounts with stories my female friends shared. Drunk brunch reliably included the topic of “guys are out here livin, I’m livin too” and a not-unlike-with-guys discussion of “passes” given. 3. 5. 2. Jen claimed a high of 11. She said it was about “empowerment” and owning her body. We took shots to that.
I had a hard time making the numbers tie. Either there was a roving band of women somewhere on the East Coast giving out the goodies in Costco-sized packs to skew the averages, or the guys I was talking to were full of shit, or the women were counting off. But men were claiming Ws in the high dozens, and women were acknowledging permission slips in the low single digits. If the women were right, who was doing all the sex?
—
When the Harvey Weinstein story broke last month, every guy I know shook his head slowly while discussing it. No looking away, no acting awkward. Just quiet disapproval and some flavor of “what the hell is wrong with this guy? No decent man would behave this way!” And Harvey’s numbers went up, just as they did on those couches with my friends in New York and DC and Atlanta and Miami. 10 women, 20. 40 women, 50. 60 women, 70. 79 women. Probably more, assuming there are a few who didn’t come forward with their stories.
I was quite pleased. Unlike the mismatching sexcapade accounts of my mid-twenties, these numbers tied: a high number of women claiming a thing, and this guy was doing a lot of it. No need to wonder who wasn’t fessing up. These brave women had caught the bad guy, and we could all point at him and shake heads together.
Then came “Me Too,” and women sharing stories of when and where and how they’d been harassed our assaulted or both.
It was dozens of women I personally knew, with many posting 2, 3 instances each while hinting there were more too painful to broach.
Stories came from sitting around in the office, or in a friends apartment, or at a bar. They were wearing skirts short and long, stilettos and uggs, tops tight and loose. One was in overalls. Men stared, whistled, cat-called, yelled, followed, plied, reached, brushed, touched, grabbed, groped, kissed.
My friends have been drugged and stalked. They’ve been accosted in printer rooms and cornered at holiday parties. Men have pressed their dicks against my friends, and rubbed against their waists.
The outing of dozens of celebrities and politicians and executives has brought variety to the repetitive methods of Weinstein (meeting -> wine -> hotel room -> massage), and elevated the narrative of the powerful man using his position to violate the bodies of the unfortunately proximate.
And against those men and in defense of women all over, other men have rallied with “how dare they!” comments and posts. A few have offered apologies for an incident or two, but it’s mostly been support or silence, allowing some assumption of innocence.
But then I scroll down my #MeToo feed, and, again, the numbers don’t tie. The women posting weren’t actresses doing time on a casting couch. They’re teachers, accountants, and consultants. They’re dozens of women I know, and “almost all of the women” in Viola Davis’ life, according to her.
So either there is a small band of roving gropers – based mostly out of Hollywood – assaulting ALL of the women, or the guys I’ve been talking to about this are full of shit. And the answer is obvious. We know it, too. It’s us: a large, unfortunate number of us. And on behalf of the willing, I’m sorry.
—
Since this broke, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting, revisiting damn near every single interaction I’ve had with the opposite sex, wondering where I crossed the line.
I’ve tried to remember conversations, texts, pro-longed eye-contact; I’ve tried to replay times when I thought i was being “charming,” wondering when the lack of response was due to my approach being weak and when – as I now suspect is the majority – it was due to the women being uncomfortable.
I’ve been wondering when making someone uncomfortable is a crime. What if I’m just shooting my shot? I’m separating times where I might have genuinely misjudged the line from times where I saw the line, and knowingly jumped right over it.
I’ve been thinking back to office discussions; times where I touched a knee or a shoulder during a conversation. Times where I sat too close. I’ve tried to remember what I was thinking at the time, and whether I would have touched a dude’s knee under the same circumstances.
What is that impulse, that makes every interaction with the opposite sex an opportunity for a come on? I’ve been thinking about that too. Am I a bad person? It doesn’t feel like it, but there are women out there, all over facebook and twitter and real life, and they’re hurt because of things “not bad people” have done.
They’ve been intimidated by people like me, traumatized in their own office spaces. They’ve avoided office parties and late team drinks, never knowing when someone might do something stupid. And there are too many for me to assume I’m not the cause of some of those MeToos.
My best friend and I were discussing this last weekend, and we got to the topic of infractions that might feel innocent in the giving but not in the receiving. She asked why guys touch her in the small of her back when trying to get past her. “Why do guys do that?! It’s an intimate area! Guys don’t touch other guys in the small of their backs to move around! It’s because you all know there’s something in doing that!”
I laughed. “Yeah…it’s weird. I don’t know why they do that…”
I do that all the time in the club. Some girl somewhere right now is telling the same story to her best friend, and she’s talking about me.
I find myself trying to unlearn things I believed were normal. Guy friends have asked me to just “man up” and grab a girl on the dance floor; a female friend complained about a guy being too timid. “I don’t want him to ASK to kiss me…I just want him to DO IT!”
It’s confusing, and I have so many questions about what the rules are now, and who gets to write them (more on that next time). But while one could argue my right to ask questions, I can’t ignore the fact that someone is out here doing all this harassing, and I’m probably responsible for more MeToos than I know. And for that, I am really, truly, sorry.
From neighbors in New York, to my apartment in Boston, to pools in Cancun…I remember the times I might have known better and proceeded anyways. I remember you. I am sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that, and are worth so much more than what I presented and represented. I’m sorry.
To coworkers and friends who I’ve ever made uncomfortable…times when I didn’t know I was crossing a line..I’m sorry. There’s a lot I’m learning now, and plenty I have to teach my sons.
I don’t know what appropriate payback is. There’s no race for me to drop out of. I have no board to step down from. I regret that I have no recompense to offer, while you have to deal with memories that cheapen and ache. You likely don’t care about my self-reflection. But I’m sorry.
And I probably shouldn’t have needed a national firestorm to break out for me to do the self-reflection.
And I know nothing I say now can erase the past.
And I know writing semi-anonymously isn’t the greatest act of courage.
But I am sorry, and in the most genuine and thoughtful way possible, I beg your forgiveness.