“Boys Will Be boys”
Today I woke to the news that teenaged boys from a private co-ed school had created a list to rank the desirability of female classmates. This announcement didn’t make me budge. Initially it seemed no different to the conception of Facebook. “Hot or Not” lists are as old as misogyny itself. The difference with this list is the ranking strategy the boys chose, separating classmates into six distinct categories. I’m sure even this was an activity that the Greeks partook in, although with the hedonistic nature of their gatherings I’m not sure appearance mattered all that much. The last title as grouped by its authors, was also probably one that was never a concern of the vikings. This is in relation to their raids of neighbouring territories.
The categories were listed with juvenile words that reflect perfectly the attitudes of many men I have encounted. Explicitly put, men who hate women. The first group that female peers were pigeonholed into seems innocent enough; “Wifeys,” it’s adorable in the way a pug is pitiful. Defective cartilage deliberately selected as a desirable trait by breeders who genetically engineer the aesthetics of the offspring, condemning the pups to a life of suffering.
“Cuties” is the second division, a title which aggravates a part of my brain that wishes to remain in eternal slumber. If anyone needs an example of the repercussions of the sexualisation of young girls in the media, the movie by the same name is a great case. The rank below bears the name of a word I have seen plastered in the comment sections of many women’s social media posts, mainly the cesspool that is TikTok; “Mid.” Undoubtedly left by boys who have had inadequate socialisation with members of the opposite sex, and lack appropriate parental guidance. I’d like to see how mediocre the lives of these authors become after their wives divorce them for someone more attractive, successful, emotionally and intellectually endowed. Giving them the benefit that any women will even give them so much attention for the opportunity of marriage to arise.
For the context of the next list I have to interject with some context. This information was being relayed to me by a man. We have been seeing each other for two months and he stayed over last night. The night in which I dribbled statements of how every woman I know has been in a relationship with a man who has threatened to either hurt themselves or off themselves entirely amidst the event of a breakup. What I refrained from saying was that my first boyfriend tried to kill himself by downing two packets of Panadol the day after he pressured me into having sex.
I was sexually active many years prior but at this stage, I was still fighting to keep that fact of my life hidden, even from myself. By the heterosexual definition, this is when I lost my virginity – broke my hymen. There were no candles, chocolates or roses. I exclusively consumed horror movies, so I didn’t have any preconceptions of what my first time was supposed to look like, and with no expectations I was still disappointed. It took place on the roof of a building that has since been demolished. The memories I have there aren’t all bad. The ground level used to house multiple stalls and shops, and when I was little it was buzzing. The thought of it becoming unoccupied seemed impossible then. After abandonment, it became a hangout spot for teenagers, to the likes of the group of friends I had been adopted by. That day it was just the two of us.
The thrusts of my boyfriend pushed my body into the cold steel paneling that lay underneath me. I remember being worried of onlookers from apartments across from us, looking down and witnessing the act. This scene was also just a few meters above the bustle of peak traffic, both on-foot and vehicle. I later told my boyfriend the feelings of violation, for the way he used my body to satisfy himself.
The night of his unsuccessful suicide attempt, he posted a picture of his feet dangling off the abandoned building with a bottle of alcohol in frame. We were both sixteen but the owner of the butcher shop he worked at supplied him with bottles of Wild Turkey. It would have been a dramatic image had the building been taller, but it was one that could be scaled in just a few steps. The black-and-white image was posted to Facebook, with the chorus of a Hollywood Undead song in the caption. If you’re unfamiliar with the band’s catalogue of mind-numbing music, read the lyrics to “Bullet” below.
“My legs are dangling off the edge
The bottom of the bottle is my only friend
I think I'll slit my wrist again, and I'm gone, gone, gone, gone
My legs are dangling off the edge
A stomach full of pills didn't work again
I'll put a bullet in my head, and I'm gone, gone, gone, gone”
I won’t refer to this as poetry or do any other musicians the injustice of saying it’s well written, but it’s certainly something. I can’t remember how many lines my ex included in his public cry but either way, he failed and became something even worse than he was before. He had found a sense of immortality and told me he was invisible. Convincing himself that it was God’s plan to keep him alive.
The largest pool of individuals were grouped into the “Object” bracket. I don’t think I need to inject a personal story of mine to communicate how fucked up of a mindset this is to have, but I will.
One of my ex’s rarely saw women as people despite constantly repeating the sentiment “my dad raised me to treat every woman as if they are my mother or sister.” At family events his sister pretended he didn’t exist. I’ve hypothesised that the only reason his mother hasn’t disowned him, is her delusion in seeing him as an extension of her. That to cast him out would be admitting to the failure of raising a good man. I lost count of the times he would gloat about his childhood habit of helping his mum bring in groceries from the car. He wore that story as a badge of honour, undeniable proof that he was a good son. There was very little good in him and yet I remained tethered to him, even after the discovery that he was in a group chat called “Ugly Fat Whores.” It would be the least surprising news if someone were to tell me he was involved in circle jerks with his friends. He sent an explicit video of me lying face down on the bed to his friends. After I found out I told him it was a violation of my body and my trust. He became defensive, making the situation out to be an issue that I had created from my own sensitivity. It seemed to be an activity that had been normalised between his peers, one that was not only encouraged but celebrated. That’s one of the powers women have in the lives of men, we either elevate their social status or degrade it.
I’m sure there was more content that he put into the circulation of that group, but I’d rather not think about it. He had a very loose concept of right and wrong along with a deficit of consent. When I saw the tinder icon on his phone, I started crying and he comforted himself by groping me. He squeezed the lumps of fat on my chest and ass, as I expressed how hurt I was. I told him to stop, which he would momentarily, but it wasn’t long before he was back to grabbing parts of my body that he felt entitled to. I later found out why he had been so defensive in my disapproval of him sharing that compromising video of me without my knowledge or approval. Years ago he had been the subject of a police search. A squad pulled up to his family’s residence, upturned his bedroom and confiscated all electronic devices that had the capacity to store photos. He was involved in the release of his ex-girlfriend's nudes. When telling me this story he put an emphasis on how hard of a time it was for him and his family. He made no comments on the perspective of his ex-partner, denying betrayal. Last I heard he was scamming men online, using pictures of a woman to pose as an escort, and dabbling as a pimp by arranging bookings for working girls.
The fourth section is marked as “Get out.” I wonder how many times the relatives of these young boys have said that to a man. I’ve said it more times than I care to tally. Several times to an ex I was in the process of kicking out. He called me a crazy bitch and taunted me. The cause of this, I tried to express my unhappiness in being with him through the onslaught of his controlling ways. He stood in front of me, at six feet tall he pretty much towered over me. Verbally pushing and prodding to get a physical reaction. He persisted, repeatedly calling me a crazy bitch and asking me what I was going to do it if he didn’t leave. I’ve drawn my own conclusion here, but I think he was looking for an excuse to put his hands on me.
There’s a viral trend circulating the internet as I write this. It speaks to the level of safety men in the world provide. An interviewer approaches women at random and asks the question “Would you rather be stuck in a forest with a man or a bear?” Most women are quick to choose the bear. As someone who has been assaulted by a man in forest like terrain, I’d take my chances with the bear.
The last assortment of girls as classified by the teenaged incels, has a heading that physically pains me to type out; “Unrapeable.” I don’t know how to complete this journal, but I do know that there is not a single woman in my life who hasn’t experienced sexual assault. One of the former boyfriends I mentioned earlier, blamed me for “allowing” what happened to my body in the bush of a national park. He asked me why I didn’t tell him to stop, why I didn’t fight back. The blaming became more direct in fights, insinuating that what happened was something I wanted. He couldn’t understand that I completely shut down. That the way I froze is an instinctual response, a preventative measure of withstanding more harm.
I had bruises on my back. My body’s memory of the pressure that was applied to my body against the stump of a tree. I didn’t feel it at the time. The sun had set, I was separated from my belongings, there was no sign of life apart from the birds in the treetops above me. I watched the outlines of the birds and knew that I just had to wait for it to be over. After he was finished with my body, he told me he was going through the court system to fight a rape charge. A case that had been opened four years earlier. He told me that his lawyer was going to get him off, that there wasn’t enough evidence against him, all while simultaneously blaming a girl who could not consent.
I did everything I was supposed to do. I went to the police, I made a statement, and I stripped down for images of my body to be collected for evidence. I had a speculum inserted, and the inside of my vagina was thoroughly inspected. I had viles of blood taken and swabs sampled. I sat for hours recounting every distressing detail, where he touched me, where he penetrated me and how long the incident lasted. I found fourteen other women in which he had either sexually harassed, or taken advantage of to the fullest extent. One woman couldn’t call it rape and described the interaction as “he had sex with my body.” Another told me word by word the incident that happened to her in a way that made me realise he was working off a script. The realisation of the calculated nature unraveled an image that he had become comfortable with this predation. Another woman I spoke to told me has a slightly different outcome of events, that he used force to get what he wanted. This discovery was almost two years ago now. He’s still targeting women and I have recently connected with more women that have been violated.
The last time I checked there was a record of 102 court appearances and multiple convictions of rape. The statistics presented by the Australian Bureau of Statistics reflect the growing rate of sexual violence perpetrated by men. It’s mindsets like those reflected in the extra-curricular activities of schoolboys, that make the rallying of April 24 – National Rape Day.