In Which, there is a Tube Story, the Male Gaze, and Dinosaurs

In Earl’s Court Tube Station, a piping hot grande Chai tea latte in hand, a creepy older man spent the 10 minutes I waited for the Edgware District line train leering at me.

It’s a frustrating wait anyway, Earl’s Court. The District line was running late, the Piccadilly line was closed since a train had derailed, and the place was packed. The usual wait is annoying enough, since it often involves leaving one District line train for another, watching for the light-up arrow to appear next to the name of the place you are headed on an ancient  board above the platform. (Taking bets on which train will come next passes the time. C’mon Wimbledon!) But a creepy dude unabashedly staring does not add any type of pleasantness to the experience.

I moved away from him, walked down and away to the other side of the platform, but like creepy dudes are wont to do, he followed.

Well, fuck. Really? Fine.

I shifted my weight to one leg. In his vision, I bent my right leg. Then I kneed the air. It’s a swift movement. Practice.

He turned away. Good. The arrow lit for Edgware. Better.

I loosened the lid of my Starbucks cup, just in case. I love my Starbucks, but I would not weep to throw it in anyone’s face. Dug in my purse for my Oyster (London’s rail and bus pass). Checked the map I keep in my Oyster holder to make sure of my route. All correct. I decided to leave my holder out, since I’d need it anyway, and put it my mouth to zip my bag.

It is at that moment, when my mouth was occupied, the creepy dude came over to get in my face and declare, “You’re lovely, beautiful!”

I jumped back and dude turned and ran off. My train pulled up. I hightailed it into the carriage, scanned the seats for a woman to sit next to, and plopped down.

No big deal, right? A small incident. Normal. He didn't even say anything bad. No need to react. No need to feel creeped out all day. No need to keep glancing over my shoulder every step.

Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe not.

It’s only normal because we let it be.

So, today, my fellow flâneurs and feminists, let’s talk about the male gaze.

Click the Read More link, following this lovely dino comic.

We got Dinosaur Comics roughly explaining it, and Finally, A Feminism 101 Blog gives it a good run-down.

Basically, the male gaze is present in film and literature and every other media known to humanity. It’s the idea that the viewer is a heterosexual dude. Most likely a heterosexual white dude. And if the viewer happens to be one of the other half of the species, it’s assumed that every woman who watches every movie, commercial, television show, product placement, etc., wants to be attractive to heterosexual (most likely white) guys.

And so, men become accustomed to the idea that women = product. Products that are for their consumption.

Women are told from a very early age to conform to beauty standards so that they, in effect, can become the product men look at.

Creepy dude in the tube? He probably went home, or to the pub, or to his cubicle and told his mates that he saw a beautiful girl in Earl’s Court and flattered her with a compliment. Because who doesn’t like being told they are beautiful?

My own little heart turns into a melty puddle of love goo whenever Mr. B looks at me with his soulful puppy dog eyes and whispers, “You’re beautiful, Natalie.” Heck, just writing that gave me a happy little shiver. In turn, I will look at him, at dinner or over Skype, and say how beautiful or handsome he looks today. And I mean it with every inch of me – he is a rather beautiful man.

I also turned a delightful pink when my flatmate Maria stopped me in the kitchen yesterday to say I looked very beautiful. I almost gave a British “Pshaw!” through my blush. Of course, the last time Maria and her mates went out dancing, I cooed over how fabulous and beautiful they all looked. Not to be polite. Because I meant it – my flatmate and her friends are gorgeous! I’m blessed with a bevy of hottie roommates, all beautiful and unique and stunning in their own ways.

But there is a grand, mighty difference in me hearing my friends and boyfriend say I'm beautiful, and a creepy dude on the tube saying it to me in passing.

Creepy dude was following me. Creepy dude knew I was uncomfortable. Creepy dude waited until my mouth was occupied. Creepy dude could have said anything, from an insult to, “Your shoe’s untied,” and I would have been completely on edge. Had he moved closer, said anything else or tried to touch me, I was prepared to shower him with a scorching Chai latte in the face and give him a swift kick to the groin, Oyster in my mouth or not. Creepy dude knew this too, I believe, and after his “compliment” he ran off.
 

But this? This isn’t anything new. It’s part being a vagina-owning human on this planet, in public, alone or with a group of other vagina-owning humans. Any woman reading this has her own story. That’s why websites like HollaBackNYC exist. It happens everyday.

It’s predatory, stalking behavior that men feel entitled to because women are objects of public consumption. It is a male privilege to leer at women.
 

It’s the very reason feminism is needed.

Men need to be aware of the images they consume on a daily basis, of the fact that they rarely ever get harassed or assaulted or have to live in fear because of what is between their legs. Men need to be taught that the women they pass on the street or in the office or on-campus or on Facebook are NOT there for their amusement and consumption. Their privilege is suppressing half of the population. It’s wrong. Very simply, it’s wrong.
 

A further case in point: This week, I read a quote that made me nearly sigh my little lungs out.
 

Not that I should be surprised, considering the source. It was a quote by Playboy founder, Hugh Hefner. Now, I could write a novel on Playboy, on the male gaze, and the imbecilic things that have come from the brand over the years.

But this post is already a crazy long one.

So, let's make this nice and slow and short, so old Hugh Hefner can comprehend it.

Sometimes, men like to look at naked women.
Sometimes, women like to look at naked men.
Sometimes, men like to look at naked men.
Sometimes, women like to look at naked women.
And sometimes, men and women prefer to not look at any naked people at all.

Are you following me so far, Hef? Good.

Some men are straight.
Some women are straight.
Some men are gay.
Some women are gay.
Some men and some women are asexual.
Some men and some women are bisexual.
Some men and some women are none of these things.

Women and men are what we call people.

Some people do not even claim a gender, or are in transition, but they are still people.

Now, what part of this Hugh Hefner quote makes sense?

"What would people most like to see in 3-D? Probably a naked lady."
 

No, Hef, not so much.