#like a straight bloke in a dodgy pub

[dannymcdanface]

This is hilarious - sit down Howell you can't fight!

[wzrd-wheezes]

The Wolf's Arms: Part One. Marauders x Reader

This is a purely self indulgent fic about two things that I love. The marauders and the pub. This will probably turn into a series of fics that don’t really link because I have so many ideas for it. It’s not set in a particular time period, mainly like 70’s ish but there might be some modern things sprinkled in along the way just for shits and giggles. Sorry if that’s annoying but I love creating my own time period so I can have things exactly the way I want them haha. Please let me know if this fic is hard to understand as I know there will be a lot of references to UK culture things along the way (not in this part I dont think) – feel free to drop me an ask if there’s anything you don’t understand/want me to explain.  This is a platonic!marauders x reader fic

Friday night pub nights had become a monthly occurrence for them now. It was any excuse really. Sad? Pub. Celebrating? Pub. Hungry? Pub. Traumatic life event? Pub. The four of them had become regulars now. Every time sitting at the same table in the back. The landlord often joked with them that the pub would go under if they ever stopped coming.  

It had taken them a while to choose a pub. Their pub. It was a meticulous process that they all took very seriously. They had spent countless nights doing pub crawls throughout the city, trying to find which pub suited them best. Best beer on tap, best prices, within walking distance so they could stumble back home.  

“That one’s my favourite so far.” Remus decided one night as they left the third pub on their pub crawl.  

Sirius barked out a laugh, slinging an arm around Remus’s shoulders. Partly in mock affection, partly to steady himself after the few drinks he’d had. “You’re only saying that because it’s got the cheapest pints so far.” 

“You’re easily swayed, Moony.” James shook his head at him, leading the group to the next pub along the street. Just as they rounded the corner onto the next dimly lit street, Y/N interjected. 

“Speaking of sway, did anyone else notice the shady bloke in the corner?”  a grimace contoured her features, “I swear he was selling meat from his jacket.” 

“Hah! The infamous Hog’s Head Meat Man!” James exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face. “Sure, he’s a dodgy one, but he’ll give you a good deal on some bacon if you’re brave enough to ask.” 

“Yeah. I don’t really fancy eating some blokes pocket meat, thanks though.” Sirius scrunched up his face in disgust, “Where to next?” 

Undeterred from the last shady establishment, they pressed on, venturing into a number of different pubs, until finally, they stumbled upon one that felt like home. It was tucked down a narrow alleyway, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.  

The inside was dimly lit from the mounted wall lights, casting soft shadows against the exposed brick. The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and spilt beer – a scent which sounds disgusting but made the four of them nudge each other and grin as they stepped inside. The actual bar spanned about half the length of the room, polished mahogany adorned with rows of brass taps, their labels worn and faded with age.  

Mismatched tables and chairs filled the space, ranging from rickety wooden stools to worn, plush armchairs. Each table, although being scratched from rigorous cleaning, still had the infamous sticky sheen to it that all pub goers will be familiar with. Much to their delight an old jukebox stood proudly in the corner of the room, Remus immediately fumbled in his pocket for some change. 

“Typical Moony. Straight to the jukebox instead of straight to the bar.” James teased as he leaned over the bar to survey the selection of beers on tap. Remus, who had already begun to select songs, looked up momentarily only to flip the bird at James.  

While James got the round in, it was left up to Y/N and Sirius to decide what table the group would settle on. After a quick once-over of the pub, they decided on a table in the corner, nestled beneath a dimly lit lampshade, and much to Remus’s delight, only a few steps away from the jukebox. With a nod of agreement, they made their way over to claim their spot.  

Precariously trying to carry four pints in only two hands, James returned a moment later, putting the glasses down on the table with a soft thud, some of the liquid sloshing over the edge.  

“Cheers, you lot.” Remus exclaimed, raising his glass. The group, a few pints deep and sporting glassy eyes and wide smiles, joined in, clinking their glasses together. 

“What’s the verdict on this place?” Sirius asked, taking a sip of his beer. 

“Well-” Remus started. 

“Ah, ah, hold it right there.” Y/N interjected, “After your last ‘gem’ turned out to be the Hog’s Head, I think we should put your pub-picking privileges on probation.” she punctuated her remark with a playful jab to Remus’s ribs. 

“Hey! It had character!” Remus feigned offense, “and besides, it’s not my fault that they had a creative idea of what hygiene is.”  

“Creative? I’m pretty sure that I saw two rats shagging in the corner.” Sirius retorted, earning a round of laughter from the group.  

“Alright, alright.” Remus conceded, holding his hands up, “the Hog’s Head was a bit of a shitter, but this pub’s a winner, yeah?” 

“Agreed,” James chimed in, raising his glass once again, “To new beginnings and hopefully less questionable pubs!” 

“To less questionable pubs!” the others chorused, once again knocking their glasses together before taking a large swig of their drinks. 

“I feel like we should have toasted this pub. Just because I’ve decided that this is the best one.” Y/N said, looking around thoughtfully, “Although, I didn’t actually get a look at the sign before we came in, so I couldn’t actually tell you what it’s called.” 

“The Wolf’s Arms!” a voice called out from the other side of the room. They all snapped their heads round, curiosity piqued, and their eyes fell on a lone man seated at the bar. His cheeks were flushed from the booze, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. 

“To The Wolf’s Arms!” they echoed, toasting for the third time that night. 

[lifeofkaze]

Best Bad Friend

A/N: This story was written as my second entry for the April prompt of the @hp-12monthsofmagic challenge. Rory McTavish and Zadie Taylor-Allen belong to @the-al-chemist Warning: mentions of drinking, (mild) violence, language

A bang echoed through the small flat in the heart of Montrose as the bathroom door slammed shut behind Reva. She crossed the hallway and entered her bedroom, like she had several times already. She wore nothing but pants, socks, and a faded shirt of a Muggle rock band her brother liked, and a toothbrush was sticking from her mouth. 

Pulling her tangled hair into an untidy bun at the top of her head, Reva opened the door to her closet. Her eyes wandered over the assortment of clothes that had been pulled from the shelves, stuffed back into them, or left lying on the floor. 

“McTav,” she called out, trying not to spill toothpaste foam onto her brother’s shirt, “have you seen my red dress?”

There was silence for a moment before a voice with a slight Edinburghian accent sounded back to her from the kitchen. 

“Which one?”

“The one from last week.”

“The hot one?”

A grin spread on Reva’s face. “Yeah, that one.”

“Not since you and your fling left it on the kitchen counter.” Rory McTavish, Reva’s teammate and old friend, grinned as he appeared in the doorway. “Making an effort tonight? I thought it was only the pub with the team.” 

Reva shrugged. “I’ll be there, just meeting someone else for drinks first.”

“And he gets the red dress? What a lucky bloke.” 

“Jealous?” Reva made a rude gesture toward Rory when he snorted. “I’ll have you know that my date is much better than any guy could ever hope to be.”

Rory stood up straight. “Now I’m intrigued.”

“Don’t get excited,” Reva rolled her eyes. “Zadie’s in the U.K. at the moment. I’m meeting her for a catch-up.”

“Lovely,” said Rory, decidedly less enthusiastic than he had been a moment ago. “Tell her I said hi.”

“Will do.” Reva turned back to her closet. When Rory didn’t make a move to leave, she looked over her shoulder, frowning. “What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking.”

“That’s new.”

“Shut up. If you’re with Zadie, it’s gonna be a quiet night, won’t it?”

Reva narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

Rory chuckled. “You know why.” 

Reva did, in fact. Since Rory had joined the Montrose Magpies and shared a flat with her, their weekends had been busy with more than Quidditch. Their night outs typically involved plenty of booze, dancing, and fun and didn’t rarely end with either of them stirring up trouble - entirely accidentally, of course. On their fridge, they’d hung a piece of parchment sporting their names and an obscure number of lines beneath them. Each line stood for one time they’d had to bail each other out of trouble, and Rory was currently in the lead by one - something he made sure Reva didn’t forget.

“Don’t you worry, I’m a responsible adult. I am!” Reva protested as Rory snorted with laughter. Pulling the dress she had been looking for from beneath a pile of black leggings, she flung it over her shoulder and marched past him toward the bathroom again. “You wait and see. I’m not letting you win this time.” 

***

A few hours later, Reva was cursing her big mouth.

Her evening with Zadie had started off alright. They had met at a Muggle bar, having a few rounds of cocktails and some much-needed catching up. But when Zadie had gone to get them fresh drinks, she hadn’t returned. 

Worried, Reva decided to go check on her. She found Zadie by the bar, talking to a dodgy-looking man, who stood too close to her for both Reva’s and Zadie’s liking. He was offering her a drink, which Zadie declined perhaps a little too politely because the man stood nearer to her still, crowding her against the countertop. 

With no one making any move to interfere, Reva took measures into her own hands. A few heatedly exchanged words, some placating pleas from Zadie, and a knee to the man’s crotch later, the two witches and the man were politely asked to leave. 

Reva was outraged at this. Zadie had been the one to have been molested, and Reva had done nothing but defend her. Why should they be the ones who had to go? She told the owner of the bar so, too - with maybe some not as well-mannered words as she could have - and a second discussion later, Reva and Zadie found themselves sitting on uncomfortable chairs in the smelly hallway of the local Muggle police department. 

Zadie had been quiet ever since the grumpy, tired-looking police officer had told them to wait, and Reva was still too angry at the situation to say anything, either. Still fuming silently, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and sunk deeper into her plastic chair. She glanced at the clock on the wall, like she had done every few minutes since their arrival. Where had the Muggle gone? Why were they still waiting? 

She had begun kicking her foot against the low table in front of her when the door to the office opened, and the policeman stepped out of it. Giving Reva a warning look, he shrugged into his uniform jacket and walked past them towards the exit, speaking into a little black device clipped to his collar as he did so. 

As soon as he had left the building, Reva sat up straight. 

“Come on, Zadie. Time to go.”

Zadie, who had been busy studying a leaflet on Muggle traffic security, looked at her wide-eyed.

“We were arrested, Reva. We can’t just leave.”

“I don’t see why not.”

Zadie shook her head vigorously. “It’s against the law.”

“Muggle law.”

“Still, it’s not right.”

Huffing, Reva drew her wand. “Fine. Watch the door, then.”

Thinking of her first-ever broomstick flight, Reva waved her wand. A silver light sprung from its tip, forming the shape of a lithe seal. The silvery animal spun around its axis once, hovering in front of her expectantly.

“Not much time to explain. We’re at a Muggle police station, Zadie refuses to leave, and I’m bored. Come and get us out of here.”

She waved her Patronus off, but instead of disappearing to deliver her message, the seal stayed put, floating in playful circles around her. Reva huffed.

“What’s the matter? Why are you still here?”

The silvery seal blinked at her as if trying to say something. Before Reva had worked out what it was, though, the front door opened and closed again, and she hastily let her Patronus dissolve. A moment later, the Muggle policeman reappeared. When Reva saw who trudged behind him, her mouth dropped open. Despite herself, she began to grin. 

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

Rory startled at the sound of her voice. He was looking worse for wear; his ginger hair was ruffled, his clothes rumpled, and an angry bruise spread around his swollen nose.

“You,” he blurted out. “What are you doing here?”

“Why do they always know each other?” the policeman mumbled, shaking his head on the way to his office. “You sit there,” he barked at Rory. “And no funny moves. I’ve had it with you kids today.”

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Reva and Rory began to speak simultaneously. 

“How did you -”

“What in Godric’s name -”

“- end up here?”

“- did you do to get your nose punched?” 

Rory wrinkled said nose, immediately looking like he regretted it. “I was defending a lady’s honour, if you have to know.”

Reva snorted. “Funny how I doubt that.”

“I was! I met this girl at the pub, and we made out, and -”

“That sounds a lot more like you.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “So we made out in the pub and then a little more outside.”

“Look at you go, Casanova.”

“Some blokes walked past us,” Rory continued, ignoring Reva’s commentary. “I don’t know what their business was, but they started bothering us. Or her, rather. Called her some pretty shitty things. Not like I could let that stand, right?”

Reva snorted again, but this time unkindly. “I’d have told them to fuck off there and then.”

“Which I did,” Rory said and rubbed his nose. “They didn’t take it too kindly.”

“How did you get arrested if they were the ones starting it, though?”

Rory sighed. “One of them happened to be a policeman, too.”

“Ouch. Tough luck, mate.”

“Sure was.” Rory nodded at her. “And what’s your crime, Revs?”

Reva shrugged. “Not so different from yours, actually. Only that I landed my punch alright.” 

“Who said I didn’t?”

“Well, did you?” 

Rory said nothing. After a moment, his brows drew together in a frown.

“What?” Reva asked.

“So, you’re here.”

“Ain’t you sharp tonight.”

“And I’m here.”

“Where did you say you’re going with this?”

Rory ran his hand over his hair. “Who’s gonna get us out now?” 

Whatever she had wanted to say driven from her mind, Reva knitted her brows together.

“That’s not the worst question you’ve ever asked.”

“Thanks, I guess.” 

“I’ve taken care of it,” Zadie suddenly spoke up. Reva jumped a little at the sound of her voice; over the unexpected reunion with Rory, she had almost forgotten about her being there, too. 

“You have?” she asked now. “When? How?”

“I told someone to pick us up.” Her teeth grazing her lower lip, Zadie looked at the ground as steps could be heard approaching from the entrance. “I really didn’t know who else to ask.”

“Do I even want to know?” 

Reva winced as the familiar figure of her older brother Dylan appeared in the doorway. He looked like he’d come in a rush, his hair even messier than usual, and the laces of his hiking boots merely tucked into the sides of his shoes. Not waiting for an answer to his question, he gave Reva a dark look.

“What did we say about me having to get you out of arrest again?”

Rory gave Reva a sideways glance. “Again?”

As if only noticing him now, Dylan dipped his head into his neck and groaned. “Not you.”

“Nice to see you, too, Dyldo.”

Dylan turned to Zadie. “You didn’t say that he was here, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Zadie answered in a small voice.

“Leave her alone,” Reva cut in. “Us meeting here was a series of very unfortunate events.”

“Yeah, unfortunate for me.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” 

Dylan scowled at her. “I’m however the hell I like. Zadie’s message got me out of bed.”

“And you know that I’m very, very grateful for it.”

“You’d better be.”

“Of course I am, and…” A sudden thought made Reva pale. “You didn’t tell Dana about this, did you?”

Dylan looked like she had lost her mind. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“So, uhm… could we maybe just…?” Zadie said somewhat helplessly, eyes trailing to the door to the policeman’s office. Sighing deeply, Dylan walked towards it, knocked, and entered. 

A few minutes later, he returned, brusquely jerking his head toward the exit. 

“Let’s get out of here.” 

Relieved, Reva followed Dylan, Zadie, and Rory out of the Muggle building. When she passed Rory by the door, she lowered her voice, whispering,

“Just so you know - this counts as me getting you out.”

“In your dreams,” Rory responded smugly. “If any, that point goes to Zadie. Face it, Reva. You’re still behind.”

Mischief flashing in her eyes, Reva cracked him a smile.

“For now, McTavish. For now. Just you wait.”

[shiftylinguini]

WIP Meme

Do Dis: List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on. This can be writing, art, vids, gifsets, whatever. Tagged by the divine @carpemermaid and the endlessly lovely @gracerene09! Fair warning though, I have roughly… I’m not even counting. A lot of wips, lol. These are the ones that I am actively working on. 

Works In Progress:

HP Drarry - I have no idea how to describe the plot here lol. Ginny is dating Pansy, Harry is having a crisis about why the revelation that people don’t have to be straight is making him feel so odd, Draco is only at this party because Pansy asked him to be, and this wine is exactly as unpleasant as Harry thought it would be. Having Draco for company is surprisingly not unpleasant. Featuring drinking on the kitchen floor, Ginny in overalls, and a brief foray into the Muggle world of clubbing. And me, hopefully, finishing it one day. 

HP Drarry - Harry is investigating a series of accidents resulting from illicit potions, and Draco is helping him via going undercover to find out who is behind it all. However, he’s not as surreptitious about it as he thought. Basically, a good old fashioned “potions made them do it” fic, with Aurors, dodgy blokes in pubs, and a bit of a twist (although so far the biggest twist is that I’ve had this plotted for like half a year, and haven’t written a thing).

HP Drarry - I have a sequel of sorts plotted to this fic Teeter, which is basically Draco bottoming for the first time (which would also be the first time I’ve written him doing that *gasp*). But that’s pretty much…just me being self-indulgent lol. 

HP Next Gen - I have to vague about this, as it’s for a fest, but it involves weather phenomenons, solving mysteries, fizzy ankles, and Albus’s internal debate about the colour of Scorpius’s eyes. 

HP Next Gen - Fest again! James is acting out, Teddy is just trying to his job properly, and neither of them are paying attention to what the glowing orb in the corner is doing. 

Blimey, that’s more than I thought actually! Tagging @maccadole, @bixgirl1, @mugglelissa, @dictacontrion and anyone who wants to jump in and reveal the WIPs in their closet!

[gaiatheorist]

Grant me the confidence...

There’s another round of internet whack-a-mole on the go. Early yesterday there was what the young people call a ‘self-own’, with some man bizarrely stating that he’d never known a hetero woman to be an ‘enthusiastic participant’ during sex. My initial thought was “Well you’re doing sex wrong.”, I suspect many of us came to that conclusion, before the ‘but...’ crept in. If she’s not enthusiastic, is he still continuing? That’s bleak when you think about it, full disclosure here, I have had sexual encounters so awful that I’ve completely detached, and just waited for them to be over. It’s a learned response to previous trauma, relaxed muscles are less likely to be damaged than tensed ones. ‘Brad’ is possibly an example of Germaine Greer’s very poorly articulated line between unsatisfactory sex, and rape. An analogy was used frequently when I was growing up, “It hurts when I do *insert stupid action, like banging your head on a wall.*” “Well stop doing it, then.” My parents, in their misguided way, trying to explain the futility of repeating an unproductive action, and hoping for a different outcome, their version of “If you always do what you’ve always done...”

There are many possible reasons that ‘Brad’ doesn’t feel his female participants are enthusiastic. The most probable is that he’s insensitive to their wants and needs, prioritising his own, and then wondering why he’s not producing ‘When Harry Met Sally’ performances. The second most probable is that he has unrealistic expectations, sit down, Brad, Meg Ryan was acting in that scene, it wasn’t a real orgasm. Some women, in some circumstances, might genuinely react that way, I’m going to make a sweeping generalisation, and assume that most of us don’t, most of the time. (Or, it could be me ‘doing it wrong’, I’ll accept that, if that’s the case.) 

The proliferation of pornography is a part of it, too. I remember when all this was fields, and, yes, you’d occasionally find a discarded porn magazine in one of those fields. The boys would say “Phwoar!”, the girls would say “Yuck, that’s disgusting!”, because that’s what we were supposed to do, conditioned that sex was all about the in-and-out-for-making-babies. Our Mums didn’t like it, they only put up with it because our Dads wanted it, it was a dirty thing, lights off, pull my nightie back down when you’ve finished, and don’t wipe your dick on the curtains. Now, there’s all the porn, none of us are more than a couple of clicks from a dick, and it’s moved on from soggy magazines under hedges, and mysterious unlabelled VHS tapes. I ‘came of age’ during that period, and the less-than-now availability of pornography was still impacting expectations, I have a very clear memory of an ex-boyfriend’s best mate assuming he was ‘in’ with a girl, because ‘everybody’ said she was a slag. They’d decided to have some good, old-fashioned P-in-V on someone’s driveway (classy), and his recount of the experience was “I had to spit on it to get it in.” Vile. I was 17 when it dawned on me that some boys had absolutely no understanding of the mechanics of the female anatomy, and expected us to be ‘ready’ when they were. The women in porn are ‘ready’ straight away.

We’re not the women in porn, though, and I think that’s where the ‘enthusiasm’ misconception has crept in. There’s a gulf between the Penis Beaker people, and the pornography-expectations, as was demonstrated by ‘Scott’ joining the debate, with his insistence that women ‘claim’ to enjoy sex, but are biologically programmed only to do so when they’re fertile. Sit down, ‘Scott’, there’s this not-so-little structure called the clitoris, its only purpose is sexual pleasure, and it doesn’t have that silly old ‘recharge’ period like your apparatus, we can go all day if we want to. (Don’t get me started on the type of bloke who does know where the clitoris is, and demonstrates this by jabbing away at it like he’s trying to re-ignite a dodgy boiler pilot-light.) I’m not here to provide an anatomy lesson to the ‘Scott’ and ‘Brad’ types, the reproductive ‘insert tab A into slot B’ part of their school biology lessons might well have given them the impression that’s all there is to it. 

So, we have ‘Brad’ at one end of the spectrum, repeatedly hitting his own thumb with a hammer, and complaining that his pictures keep falling off the wall, and ‘Scott’ at the other end, insisting that women don’t *really* enjoy sex. I’d like to sit them all down in a room, with Penis Beaker woman, and ‘The correct word is vagina’ Paul, and then just lock the door, and walk away. Human right to freedom of expression, though, even when the expression is quite clearly deluded. ‘To each their own’, she thinks, wrestling with the conundrum that I’m complaining on the internet about other people having differing opinions on the nature of sex and sensuality, when mine haven’t always been clear. 

My opinions and preferences are more clear now than they have ever been, cruel timing on nature’s part, but at least I managed to catch it while my tits still point out, rather than down. For a very, very long time, I had thought that I was ‘broken’, that there was something wrong with me, because not every sexual encounter was full-on bells-and-whistles, and some were worse than that. I had a very long period of being that mute receptacle, waiting for him to finish. I resent that it took me so long to find my ‘no’, and start sleeping in my clothes to deter his demands. I’d been raised to think of sex as something that wives ‘put up with’, and he was very much of the opinion that ‘wifely duty’ was an entitlement. It wasn’t. Especially the way he did it. Some of the responses to ‘Brad’ and ‘Scott’ touch on that, the way some-men whine that partners go cold, or leave, and it just KEEPS happening. Back to “It hurts when I do *this.*”  

I haven’t had ‘many’ sexual partners, but it was always very clear which ones were ‘pre-formatted’ and which were actually responsive. Some of the replies to ‘Brad’ and ‘Scott’ have covered that, just because ‘Susan’ liked it when you did ‘that’, it doesn’t mean it’s going to be a magic wand for every future partner, I hate one-trick ponies. I’m shuddering at one ‘participant’ who seemed pre-programmed to keep doing something after I’d tried to push him away, and told him it wasn’t working for me. In that scenario, I became the ‘unenthusiastic hetero woman’, because I’d backed myself into a corner. Lessons have been learned. 

We learn what we enjoy, and don’t enjoy through experimentation, and communication, not through restrictively-sticking to the same repetitive routine, or by suddenly pulling a ‘new trick’ without checking, especially if it’s one that might cause your partner to scream, and climb out of the window. I’m not advocating pre-fuck agreements in writing, nobody wants that degree of additional admin, but consent is a process, not a single tick-box. ‘Brad’ has done well to notice that his partners haven’t been particularly responsive, he’s one step more evolved than the blokes-in-the-pub I’ve heard, complaining that “It’s like shagging a sack of spuds.” Lads, you can explain the offside rule in infinite detail, but you’re still aiming for the wrong goal if you think porn-sex is how the real thing is going to be.  ‘Scott’ has pulled the “Women don’t enjoy sex.” argument out of his arse, or he might just be having sex with the same women as ‘Brad.’, OR they might both be sleeping with members of the Penis Beaker club.  Women can and do enjoy sex, when we’re active participants, rather than passive receptacles. The whole ‘sex ban’ furore has illustrated how many people still perceive sex as ‘insert tab A into slot B’. “That ain’t it, chief.” as the internet says.

I’m as sorry for ‘Brad’ and ‘Scott’ as I am for the people who think that sex, and sexual intimacy is purely a reproductive function. I can’t imagine ever being enthusiastic about only having sex when the calendar says so. I’m sure some people genuinely do have fulfilling sex lives ‘within the sanctity of marriage’, but to reduce something that can be utterly phenomenal to a purely procreative function saddens me deeply. I won’t criticise people who choose to ‘do it with the lights off’ just because that’s not my personal preference any more than I’d state that anyone who doesn’t is a pervert. (Perverts are brilliant, as long as everything’s consensual and legal.) I will criticise the Brads and Scotts, for stating their skewed opinions as facts. The ‘confidence of a man on the internet’ irritates me, I’ve had an entire lifetime of being ‘told’, mostly by men, frequently by men who don’t know what they’re talking about. The world is a scary, messy place right now, I’m not having Brad and Scott tell me I’m doing sex wrong.

[gaiatheorist]

#MeToo

There was an argument, of sorts, back when I was married, about “It’s just the lads, having a laugh.”, where the ex couldn’t see that he was normalising sexual assault. Normalising criminality. Normalising distressing and denigrating behaviour towards women as ‘a laugh.’ In that particular instance, there hadn’t been any physical contact, but the way he described the discussion of the intent to assault the woman in question shook and enraged me.

He’d been out to a local pub, with ‘the lads’, and one of the group had spotted a glamour model in her early twenties. (I can state with authority that she was a glamour model, her lingerie shots were the reason I un-friended her on Fakebook.) The group had made lewd comments about her, I don’t know if she was in earshot, and dared each other to ‘go over and grab her bum.’ His stumbling-drunk narration of the episode when he came home made me furious, he found it hilarious that the group of ‘lads’ were salivating over a girl who was, in fact, his niece. That was his power-play, that he could have gone over and hugged, or kissed the girl, and won bloke-points. There was no point discussing it with him then, he was too drunk to have a conversation with. I saved it until the following day.

“How would you have felt if it was me?”

“Ah, no, the lads know not to mess with YOU.”

“Never mind ‘the lads’, just men in general, how do you think that would have made me feel?”

“Well, you’d have punched them.”

I shouldn’t have to, but that went straight over his head, the entire concept of the emotional and psychological impact of being leered at, and groped, he still maintained it was ‘a laugh’, and was deflecting back to the fact that I could handle myself physically. I shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t have to scan rooms for potential threats. I shouldn’t have to make sure I know where the exits are. I shouldn’t have to make sure I sit near the driver on the bus, or wear a coat fastened right up to my throat if I’m out on my own. I virtually never go ‘out’, and the ‘having a laugh’ mindset of some men is part of the reason.

My situation was complicated by the power-imbalance in the relationship for years. The ex enjoyed going out, and socialising with his mates. I had no ‘mates’, because he was a jealous man-baby, and would fly into tantrums, accusing me of sleeping around if I spoke to anyone other than him. He liked me to ‘dress up’ to go out, short skirts, low tops, the usual, he thought that was fine, because I could ‘handle myself’, I don’t think he ever made the connection between the way he, and his mates leered at women, and the way he wanted me to present myself. I wasn’t ‘women’ to him, I suppose. I don’t know if he thought that the silver band on my third-left acted as a force-field, repelling ‘other’ men, it didn’t. I don’t know if he thought my feisty projected-persona meant I wasn’t afraid, it didn’t.

The ex, and the crowd of dribbling imbeciles he surrounded himself with, in order to feed his need to be King Shit of Turd Mountain weren’t Hollywood executives, but some of them sill behaved appallingly towards women. Some, not all, but the moronic ‘lads’ behaviour was endemic, everywhere. The Carry On film comedy-leering, the inappropriate comments about body-parts, they thought that was acceptable. “My face is up here.” “I think you’ll find that’s MY arse you’re touching.” on a loop, for the greater part of the 20 years I was with him, and, in all honesty, for a fair few years before that. By the end of it, I just stopped going out, because I couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of knowing I’d have to take steps myself to deflect other people’s unwanted behaviour.

That’s what is saddening me this morning, and why I’m not digging too deeply into other people’s #MeToo stories. It’s 2017, and the weight of avoiding unwanted sexual advances is still on the women. Don’t wear that, don’t go there, don’t put yourself in a vulnerable position. It’s not just the rich and famous, who can stump up the hush-money, the ‘slut-shaming’ is everywhere, she shouldn’t have gone there, she shouldn’t have worn that, she must have known what he wanted... Most of this is not ‘our’ fault, but the reason I’m not delving into other people’s #MeToo is because I know I’ll find apologies and excuses in there, and that will make me angry. (There’s nothing wrong with being angry about it, I just don’t have the emotional capacity available today.) 

We women are the ones changing our behaviour, for every sassy-lass who slings her gin at the grin of wandering-hands-man, there’ll be a woman walking home with her keys between her knuckles. For every loud and clear “No!”, there’ll be a woman hoping that isn’t what she thinks it is pressing into her on crowded public transport, and just freezing, waiting for it to stop. My generation didn’t have the ‘Tea’ video, all of the safety advice was ‘How not to be a victim’, there wasn’t any ‘How not to be a perpetrator.’ This hand-wringing reaction from some males is sickening, the “Can’t I even wink at a woman?” and such. Realistically, if it’s uninvited, no, you can’t. It Does Not Matter that females are broadly trained to be pretty-presentable, and that society as a whole appears obsessed with dating, and romantic attachment, something being visible doesn’t mean it’s automatically available.

We’re changing our behaviour, I’ve had some discussions with men who feel anxious about over-stepping, and causing offence, they’re not the men I’m worried about. I’ve had discussions about online-overstepping, too, the whole if-I-don’t-ask-to-see-it-I-don’t-want-to-see-it phenomenon. In the same way as I, personally, don’t ‘display’ flesh if I’m out-and-about, I consciously curtail and modify my online behaviour, to avoid uninvited sexual advances. I don’t see why *I* should have to double-check any pictures I post to make sure there’s no potential ambiguity, nothing that could be taken as an invitation, but it’s embedded behaviour now. Luckily, I’m only referring to social media, one of the swipe-dating-sites has just built in a selection of ‘No, thank you.’, and ‘Warning, sleaze-bag.’ emoticon-things. It’s hardly very empowering to women, more an acknowledgement that some of the dodgy blokes down the pub can mash enough buttons to leer online now. 

Hollywood saying it is going to crack down on the sexual manipulation is great, but the vast majority of us aren’t in Hollywood. The #MeToo has dropped off the trending topics in the time I’ve spent typing this. (To be fair, I do keep odd hours, it might come back as the rest of the UK wakes up.) It’s embarrassing to admit  that you’ve been groped, it’s devastating to disclose more, and be leaped-upon with “Why didn’t you say something at the time?” The whole culture on this needs to change, or we’ll have another generation of women like me, wandering around with unresolved sexual assaults, and worse. There is support out there, if there’s a significant wave of #MeToo it’s possible that the scale and scope of the number of us will highlight that there needs to be more.

Survivors, you are in no way responsible for the behaviours or actions of another person, they made the choice to cross that line, not you, it was not your choice, and it is not your ‘fault’, however certain newspapers decide to report cases involving sexual harm. Anyone reading this who thinks sexual assault is ‘a laugh’ is wrong, it’s not funny at all. That applies to some women too, in my experience, I’ve walked out of rooms before now, where women were openly objectifying men, before I found the courage to ask them to stop, because they were making me feel uncomfortable. I hope that #MeToo triggers change, if nothing else, it’s already triggering solidarity and support.