Lately, I posted something on Facebook about an episode of the Dr. Phil Show in which a male massage therapist had to answer questions about accusations from 18 women (some clients and some dates) that he had sexually abused them.

As a woman of a certain age, I remember a time when all the focus would have been on the “accusers.” They would have been questioned about why they were reckless enough to have any contact with a male massage therapist, and why they didn’t foresee that a “massage” would include something else. Their private lives would have been scrutinized, and they would have been prompted to admit that they were exaggerating, if not lying outright.

In this case, the focus was on the man who had been accused, and on his evasive responses to Dr. Phil’s questions. Although there is probably no way to determine the absolute truth about what happened between two people in a place where there were no cameras or recording devices, Dr. Phil’s approach seemed to be as objective as possible.

I said I hoped that this is a sign of progress in the way the cultural mainstream deals with sexual harassment and abuse.

A man I know sent me a private message, since he was squeamish about saying it in public. He said that ever since the “Me too” movement of women posting on social media about their experiences of sexual abuse, the men he knows have been nervous about how to interact with women. How on earth can guys avoid doing the wrong thing?

I’ve heard this before, but this time, I was honestly taken aback. The man who sent me this message belongs to two sexually-defined communities, and one that appeals to creative types. He is gay, and belongs to the Society for Creative Anachronism (people who choose medieval identities, from AD 600-1600, and stage banquets, jousts, and other cool cosplay events), as well as the BDSM community in a larger city than the one where he lives. I had always assumed this person was sexually “woke,” not a farm-bred teenager who thinks all sex outside of marriage is kinky and probably illegal. And I wouldn’t expect my friend to hang out with the clueless.

Just as in Freud’s time, men are apparently still saying, “Dear God! What do women want?”

If men are confused, so am I. What parts of consent and context do they not understand?

When I was in my twenties, spending my summers typing, filing, and answering phones in government offices, many a male co-worker would casually squeeze, stroke, or pat various parts of my body in passing. When I tried to squirm out of the way or asked them to stop, they would usually explain that they were just being “friendly,” and that they treated everyone else the same way. They seemed to think I was unreasonably touchy or completely humourless, or both.

Yet as far as I could see, none of the handsy guys tried to grope each other, or their male supervisors. I could imagine the consequences if they did. (“What the hell, man?”) When the highest-ranking person in the office (Deputy Minister of a government department) was a woman, every man Jack managed to avoid touching her, or commenting openly about whether she had sex appeal. (I assume her husband thought so.) Strange how that worked.

If the Deputy Minister had a sex life, and even if it was more colourful than vanilla monogamy, everyone around her seemed to understand that her private life was not relevant to the business of government. All the guys in suits who had contact with her seemed able to do their jobs without being unbearably distracted.

Aha, I thought. If I can’t become a Deputy Minister, I need some other title that says “Hands Off.” In due course, I became an English instructor, and that role has protected me from unwanted groping for many years now. Strange how that works.

Among the many women who have described harrowing experiences in the “Me too” conversation, none have suggested that all women are fragile flowers, or that consensual sex destroys us. If there is a real-world version of the “Anti-Sex League” in the dystopian novel 1984, it doesn’t seem to be led by women—as it isn’t in the novel.

Most employed men show an understanding that work is different from play. If your girlfriend greets you at her door wearing saran wrap, stilettos and a wicked grin, you can assume you can safely treat her differently than you would treat an employee in your favourite coffee shop, or the receptionist in your place of work. Context is important.

What if you would like a more intimate relationship with the barista in the coffee shop, or the receptionist in the office? Invite her to a different location. If she turns down your invitation, or explains that she is already in a relationship, back off gracefully. If she says yes, you can proceed from there.

Can a man strike up a conversation with a strange woman in a public place? That depends. Asking “wanna fuck?” is less likely to get a positive response than “Excuse me, does the Number 10 bus stop here?”

Saying anything to a lone woman you don’t know who is outdoors after dark—and who didn’t approach you first—might make her wonder about your intentions. You can save your compliments for daylight hours.

If you really want to fuck something immediately, there are more appropriate places to seek that experience than outdoor space. Masturbating in your own bedroom, with the door and the curtains closed, isn’t likely to offend anyone who can’t see you.

Seriously, I don’t know why herds of men are supposedly wandering in circles, wracking their brains to figure out how to communicate with women now that “the rules have changed.” As far as I know, the basic rules that my parents used to call “common courtesy” have always worked for those who apply them. I never “accepted” being groped at work and catcalled on the street. I just didn’t know how to stop guys in general from treating me this way. If I can believe what I’ve been told, many other women of my generation also knew we would be labelled and ridiculed no matter how we responded.

By now, there are at least two generations of adult women who are younger than I am. Based on the “Me too” posts, their experiences in the 1980s, 90s, early 2000s and post-2010 haven’t been much different from mine in the 1970s.

If any of my friend’s male friends are really worried about offending women they don’t know well, their training in courtly manners should help. Throwing a cloak into a mud-puddle for a lady to step on probably wouldn’t be taken amiss, as long as the gentleman doesn’t follow that up by complaining loudly about being trapped in the “friend zone.”
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