This is a guest post by Donna Jay. Her opinions do not necessarily reflect mine, although they’re obviously sympatico enough for me to post this piece. Content note: sexism, sexualization of women. -GC

A strange thing happened today. I asked to share a table with a man at a coffee shop. He agreed. I sat down. We arranged our items on the table. Our interaction stopped there.

Okay, maybe this requires a little explanation. You see, recently I started pushing myself to go out more rather than staying home alone, feeling sorry for myself. I had an injury that consumed my life. So I would go to the coffee shop to write or sometimes take up a stool at the local bar and grab a beer or head to the park to lie on the grass and read. While interacting with another human was a possibility, it wasn’t necessarily my goal. I was becoming homebound. The longer I stayed in the harder it would be to go out, so I pushed myself to go out.

In the course of my simple outings, something strange kept happening – men assumed I was trying to pick them up. The interaction above was remarkable for what it did not include. After I sat down I did not hear any of the following:

• I have a girlfriend
• I am married
• I am not looking to meet anyone
• You’re really not my type
• I prefer (insert size, age or ethnicity here) women

Yes, the simple act of asking to share a table in a crowded coffee shop was seen as an invitation. I was looking for the sex. Except, of course, I was not. I only asked to share if no tables were available. I was looking for room for my ass in a chair and my laptop or book and a pot of tea on a table. My desires were very simple.

Similar things happened at bars and restaurants. When I would take the only open seat that happened to be near a man I would again get informed of their relationship status. If unattached, I might get to hear how I, a fiftyish, large, white-appearing woman did not meet their fuckability standards. After all, I was neither petite nor exotic nor young nor . . . . I was once informed that I might want to try the back of the bar; there were guys there who might be more interested. Clearly back bar guys like to watch women drink a beer and read from their kindle or watch TV. The back bar guys are all kinds of kinky that way.

This happened so often I started to question how I was presenting myself to the world. Was I sending off some signal that said, “’Do you mind if I sit here?’ is code for “I’d like to blow you in the bathroom?” I may have smiled to appear non-threatening. Then again, I was in a lot of pain; smiling may have been impossible. I may have softened my voice. Or maybe it was husky from allergies or a lack of sleep. It could have easily been flat and harsh. I may have been wearing makeup. Or I could have been clean-faced or even had the remnants of yesterday’s eyeliner smudged under my eyes. I know I was clothed. I don’t go out naked. Hmm. No batting of my eyes, no touching my hair, no exposing my neck or leaning down to show off my cleavage, no talk of anything sexual. None. Nothing. Could it be that I was not sending any signals at all? Could it be that I wasn’t the problem?

When I queried my male friends regarding this they were almost universally shocked at the reactions I was getting. This made me respect them even more. Why? They are men who see people as people regardless of gender. They also typically see more than male/female, allowing for a variety of genders and gender expressions. They do not automatically assume that someone speaking to them means they want to fuck them. They listen.

And so I asked women. So many reported similar experiences – men assessing their fuckability and immediately letting them know where they stood. Men informing them of their relationship status, sometimes with the assurance of “If I weren’t married, I would fuck you.” In that case, they expected a thank you for their affirmation. So glad you find me fuckable. And ever so happy to see you don’t think I might have a say in the matter.

Here it was, the assumption that any one that you see as your preferred gender must want you. It is a sense of entitlement I cannot comprehend. It awards an odd power. Sure, you can try to explain that you are just looking for a spot for your ass, your tea and your laptop, but it doesn’t matter. He knows what you really want. Except he doesn’t.

I have read explanations attempting to justify this behavior based on evolutionary biology; men must continuously assess women in terms of the ability to carry on their genetic code. Every interaction has some component, even if hidden, of determining whether you are a good candidate to bear a child. Are you deserving of their seed? This narrow view aligns every presumed male/female interaction with rape culture. Women’s primary value is fuckability. Men determine women’s value based on fuckability. And it is accepted as a norm.

Under this reasoning, it is also accepted that women should do whatever they can to attract the male gaze. Or, in an even more toxic view, everything a woman does is to attract the male gaze. Sure, you put on some clothes and headed out the door, but subconsciously you made your choices in an attempt to attract men. You didn’t just put on what felt comfortable and/or was clean. You are a temptress enticing the male gaze, hoping they will find you fuckable. This is happening whether you are aware of it or not, regardless of your sexual orientation or your gender identity. If you are viewed as female, you are trying to entice men. At least in the eyes of the men of the coffee shops, parks, restaurants and bars that I frequent.

So I am going to help these guys out. While I say this from “I”, I am speaking for many, many people.
When I ask to share a table with you at a crowded coffee shop, I am not trying to fuck you.
When I ask if you are in line at the grocery store, movie theater or anywhere else people line up, I am not trying to fuck you.
If I ask if you are in line at a sex club, I am not trying to fuck you.
When I sit near you at a bar, I am not trying to fuck you.
When I ask you to pass the pepper at a restaurant bar, I am not trying to fuck you.
When I sit on the same park bench as you, I am not trying to fuck you.
If I am standing at a parking meter and I ask if you have change for a dollar, I am not trying to fuck you.
When I stand behind you in line at the grocery store, I am not trying to fuck you.
When I talk to you like a human talking to a human in any of the mundane, day-to-day interactions that you have with other presumed straight men, I am not trying to fuck you.
When I say I want to fuck you, I want to fuck you.

Seems pretty damn clear to me. Ask me if you need help. I am here to listen and to teach. However, 99.99999999999999999999% of the time I am not here to fuck you.

Donna Jay is a bi-racial, queer, feminist living in San Francisco, CA, who can easily masquerade as a middle-class, middle-aged, straight, white woman when necessary, a skill honed by working in technical consulting for too many years. According to the church, she is a confirmed Roman Catholic (They are so slow to excommunicate these days. They lost the taste for it with the end of public stoning). However, she cannot remember a time when she actually believed in a deity. She recently became a Humanist Celebrant to be help foster community through celebrations and ceremonies.

She is currently accompanied in life by two formally furred felines, Badger and Skinny Pete. Donna enjoys writing about atheism, fundamentalism, feminism, social issues and reality TV. The cats enjoy sitting on her when she writes but get mighty annoyed when the horrible off key singing starts on the fundamentalist church programs she follows.