Girl on the Net

As I turn my bike to head south out of the town, Jagged Little Pill plays in my headphones. I ride past the sign that tells me I’m gone from this particular place for good, and I start to smile. And then laugh. I almost punch the air in victory.

Note this story contains coercion and creepy behaviour. I’m fine, but I don’t want to randomly surprise you with this sort of thing. After my recent epic bike trip, one of the questions people ask me is ‘did you feel safe traveling as a woman on your own?’ and the answer to that question is ‘yes.’ I generally felt very safe, and I don’t want to put any woman off solo travel if she wants to do it – it’s a complete joy and one I hope everyone – no matter their gender – gets the chance to experience at some point in their lives. But it would be a lie to tell you I was always safe: I was mostly safe, I only got almost-sexually-assaulted once. This is the story of that one time. 

The night before, I’m excited that I might have made a friend. A woman in a restaurant hears I’m English and starts chatting to me. Telling me her own travel stories, which are badass and fun and great to hear. We buy each other drinks and a guy from her friendship group peels off from the rest of them to join us. English isn’t his first language, but it comes more naturally than German, and as always I am deeply impressed by anyone who is multilingual.

Eventually the group makes a move to leave, and she says her goodbyes. He leans in and asks me if I like smoking weed, and do I fancy a spliff down by the riverbank?

And fuck it, why not? I do.

I’m not naïve, I know this guy wants to fuck. And I briefly entertain the possibility, because I’m human. But pretty though he is, and charming, for a variety of reasons I’m not in that headspace right now. He’s ten years younger and too clean-cut for my tastes. Besides, there’s someone I left back home who’s annoyingly got a grapple hook into my heart. But I do like smoking weed, and it’s a lovely night to sit by the river getting high with a man who seems friendly, so I say yes.

And we go.

First we walk over to his place to get the stuff, and annoyingly by the time we get there the wind has picked up and it’s started to hail – the weather here turns on a dime. We decide to smoke inside instead, which is fine by me: it’s not my soft furnishings, after all.

I roll us a joint and he pours drinks – weak ones, because we’re already pretty pissed. That’s another tick in the ‘definitely not going to shag’ column. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I am not a fan of first time sex when I’m too drunk or stoned. It just isn’t very good, is it? Even if I’m only gonna fuck someone once, I’d like to go into it with my best foot forward.

We have a lovely time though. He’s fun and chatty and he asks me questions. I tell him about my trip, and my life, and we compare definitions of what ‘happiness’ looks like to each of us. I’m cosy and calm and delighted to have this shining gem of interaction to hold up when my inner self-critic tells me that I’ve been too introverted to make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime trip.

And then. There’s a moment when my head starts spinning a little too hard, and I wonder if I might need to lie down and close my eyes. He’s laughing at one of my jokes, tipping his head back and roaring with it. Disproportionate uproar, to my drunk/stoned brain, it feels odd. Now I can see all of his teeth. And now he’s moving towards me, scooting the office chair he’s sitting on across the floor so we’re very close – too close. Now his knees are outside my knees and if I wanted to stand up now I couldn’t do it without pushing him out of the way. In seconds we’ve moved from ‘friendly chat at a safe distance’ to ‘I can taste his breath in my mouth’ and he puts his hands out to rest them on my thighs and I want out. I want to go. Immediately and instinctively, I realise I definitely need to go.

“Where’s your bathroom again?” I ask brightly, just as he leans in to put his hands on my thighs.

“Down the corridor,” he tells me, pointing. Then leaning back a little, making room for me to move.

They’ll usually let you go to the bathroom, that’s a thing I’ve learned. If you’re unsure in any situation, alone with a man, and you need a little moment to think and to breathe, they’ll usually let you go to the bathroom. If you’re a people-pleaser who is anxious about causing conflict – causing offense – they’ll usually let you go to the bathroom. Back when I got raped a few years ago, the thing that helped me cling to my certainty and my sense of self in that weird discordant moment when I couldn’t quite believe someone I liked might do that to me, was a few minutes alone in the bathroom.

So I go to the bathroom. I piss. I ask myself “is this man safe?” and the answer comes back immediately:

“It doesn’t matter.

“It doesn’t matter who or what this man is. You want to go home. So go home.”

If this had happened ten years ago, I would have been tying myself into so many knots trying to answer that question, desperate to do the right thing – avoid being unfair to this guy. Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have asked the question at all – I’d have considered it rude to even countenance.

Today, though, I stand on the shoulders of both of those women, plus other women with all the experience of the intervening decade. And every single one of them is telling me that it’s time to fucking go.

Doesn’t matter whether the guy was nice, doesn’t matter if he meant me no harm. There was a tiny alarm going off in my brain that said ‘go home’, so I listened to it. I trusted myself.

When I returned, I told him brightly “I’m feeling really wonky, I think I need to head back.”

Started gathering my stuff as he looked at me in surprise.

“Oh really? No, stay! You’ve only just got here!”

I laughed like all was completely and utterly fine, because in that moment it was, and said “Yeah, sorry, I’ve had a lovely time but I need to be up early for the journey tomorrow and I think I drank way too much at the restaurant!”

“Awww,” he said. “But there’s so much more I wanted to ask you.”

The alarm bell rang louder. He hadn’t been about to ask me anything, he’d been about to trap me in the position I was sat in so, his hands on my thighs and my brain swimming and politeness kicking in to make me value his feelings over my instinctive need to leave.

I thought to myself: ‘nuh uh motherfucker. You’re not gonna get me like that.’

You’re not gonna get me with charm, tapping into the part of myself that might feel FOMO about the kind of fun we could have had if I’d stayed. The part that might think me a silly girl for being dramatic and leaving. I have walked that road before and the journey smells like bullshit. Nope. He’s not gonna get me like that.

As I gathered my stuff, remaining as casual as I could – vape, water, phone, charger, scanning the room to see what else I had missed – I reiterated that I was very drunk, and also now quite high, and it was a long walk back in the wind to where I was staying.

“Where are you staying?”

Nuh uh. You’re not gonna get me like that either, mate.

“Old town,” I told him. “Some cheap place.”

Start hunting for my shoes.

“Have I offended you somehow?” he chipped in. And no, sorry, fuck you, but no: you’re not gonna get me like that either! Triggering the people-pleasing politeness in me that wonders if I’ve accidentally upset a decent man. I want to yell at him: I AM FORTY TWO. You CANNOT make me feel bad for leaving when I want to go home!

I am not HURTING YOU by going home!

But if you offer critique to these men – and often ‘critique’ will be layered onto your intentions the second you let the smile drop from your face – they often get angry. Anger could be used to justify violence. Open the door to demands for explanations or apologies and nope nope nope fucking NOPE.

You’re not! Gonna get me! Like that!

“Of course you haven’t offended me!” I tell him brightly, grabbing my shoes from the corner and sitting down to start putting them on. “I’m just tired and very drunk, is all.”

“But I want you to stay,” he tells me again. As if his ‘want’ is what matters. Is a problem for me to personally solve.

“I can’t stay,” I laugh. “I’ve got my own room elsewhere. I came for a smoke and we did that and had a lovely time, so let’s say goodbye now, OK?”

He scoots the chair closer to where I am sitting. Puts one of his feet in front of mine and his hand on my own, where I’m doing up my laces.

Oh fuck no. Absolutely the fuck not. You are NOT GONNA GET ME LIKE THAT!

I summon every ounce of people-pleasing energy I have, and laugh gently. Smiling at him like he’s an old friend who just made a terrible joke.

“Come on now,” I tell him with a chuckle. “You’re not gonna stop me from putting on my shoes.” Like the very concept of it is so silly, he must see it. It’s me and him together as friends against this ridiculous idea. There’s just me and him and him and me and we’re pals so I understand why he’d banter like this because we were having such a nice time. Isn’t it such a hilarious joke that he might stop me from putting on my shoes? Well done to him for making such a funny joke, right?

“Haha,” he says uncertainly. Takes his hand away. “I just want you to stay.”

“I know, and I’m sorry I have to go. Thank you for a lovely evening!”

And with that, I am gone.

I glance back at him, looking hangdog sad in his chair, and then – heart hammering – I open the door and step out into the corridor. I remember we’re three floors up, and the lift took fucking ages so I’m off down the stairs. I close the door of his flat softly, because I don’t want him thinking I’ve left in a huff, then I take those stairs as fast as I’m comfortable with, on legs that are trembling with booze and weed and adrenaline.

Two storeys down, I hear a door open above me. Hear the telltale slap-slap-slap of his footsteps.

Running.

He can’t be… chasing me down the stairs? Oh fuck no, motherfucker. You are definitely not gonna get me like THAT!

I pick up the pace. His pace picks up too. And when he catches me my heart thumps like it’s going to give away the terror I feel in this moment. He had to put on a lot of speed to catch me… so he now knows with certainty… that I was running away.

He catches me at the door just as I reach for the latch. I could open it right now, just barrel out into the street. But past experience tells me that letting him know how scared I am will only escalate the situation. And he’s NOT GONNA GET ME LIKE THAT so I give him another big, bright smile.

“Did I forget something?”

Cue awkwardness, because that’s not what he expected. He was ready for me to apologise for rudeness maybe, or say something that he could interpret as unfair. Ready for a conversation about how I’m a silly girl for leaving. A chat about how much he wanted me to stay. Fuck knows. Honestly, fuck knows what this man expected when he chased me three floors down the stairs of his apartment building. He sure as shit wasn’t expecting a woman determined to say ‘goodbye’ with cheery finality, but that’s what he got. A smile. A fistbump. More ‘goodbye’s and ‘thank you’s like I was heading home after a very pleasant dinner party.

Why the fistbump? I’m not sure. On reflection I think I was channeling an ex of mine who once offered to buy a man’s shoes to get him to stop harassing me outside a restaurant. If in doubt, maintain a bold smile and just baffle them into backing away. He retreated back upstairs.

I stepped out into the street. Breathed in the fresh, cold air, took a second to get my bearings then began to walk. I’d already looked up my route home while I was in the bathroom (he’s not gonna get me like that!) so I knew exactly which way to head. A long, straight shot with a couple of turns at the end, and I’d be back at the place I was staying.

I paced that walk as fast as I could without letting on that I was fleeing – to an outside observer I’d have just seemed like a woman on a mission, who didn’t want to get caught out in the cold.

Congratulating myself for handling this situation so well, after three minutes of walking I started to grin. After four, I started writing this blog post in my head: replaying the line over and over that had been ringing in my mind while all of this happened: you’re not gonna get me like that, motherfucker. You’re not gonna get me like that!

After five minutes of walking, I

heard his footsteps

again.

Almost unbelieving, I turned to my left and there he was beside me. Walking in lockstep, at speed. Telling me again that I should stay.

He’d chased me

down the street.

As a friend of mine said when I told her about this afterwards, this man was either utterly lacking in self-awareness or he was a genuine danger. I don’t know which, I don’t care. I don’t need to care. I am forty two and shorn of the obligations to consider men’s feelings and motivations – the ones that got me raped in decades past.

I don’t care why he chased me, I just know that he needs to stop. He has to stop. I will make him stop.

Because he’s not gonna fucking get me like that!

He’s not gonna get away with chasing me down the street. He’s not gonna follow me back to where I’m staying. I have lived a lot of fucking life by now and I will not be coerced into returning to a flat which I worked so hard to get out of. I’m not gonna resign myself to sucking some guy off because I’m too scared of his reaction if I give him the firm, harsh ‘no’ that’s in my heart. I am not gonna persuade myself that his keenness is a virtue. I am not gonna ignore the alarm bells ringing in my head. I am standing on the shoulders of all the past versions of me who made choices that prioritised the feelings of men and I have learned the lessons they threw themselves in front of rapists to teach me.

I trust myself.

I’ve got this.

And he’s not gonna get me like that!

Outside his apartment, in public, I have options that were unavailable before. Although it’s late and the streets are mostly deserted, a man has just hopped out of his car to go to a cashpoint. I walk until my ‘friend’ and I are  within earshot of this man and then stop dead. No more walking, no more movement.

I don’t know much German myself, but I’ve spent enough time in Germany to know that everyone here speaks at least a little English – enough that it regularly embarrasses me how terrible my Deutsch is in return. So I stop within earshot of the stranger at the cashpoint, summon a tone that will tell people I mean business, turn to my ‘friend’ and loudly tell him:

“Goodbye. NOW.”

He goes pale, and he looks quite sick and sad. Twenty years ago I’d have beaten myself up for turning a nice evening sour by making a new friend feel like a rapist.

Twenty years ago I had no fucking idea.

Today, though? I know. I fucking know. I have been in enough situations where men have pressured me into doing stuff because it feels impolite not to. I’ve been chased out the door by guys who have persuaded me that they’re only doing it because I’m so great, and I’ve convinced myself to feel flattered. I’ve pushed down that little voice that says ‘go home’ because I don’t want to spoil a nice evening. I’ve twisted myself into contortions to try and put off a guy who’s trying to fuck me but refusing to ask outright because he knows that by actually asking he opens the door to the ‘no’ he’s too insecure to hear. I’ve sucked dick to avoid conflict! I have fucked people to neuter the threat vibes they’re giving off!

But not today, my friends! NOT TODAY! He is not gonna get me like that!

Not with awkwardness, or pushiness, or by physically chasing me down the street. Not by making me feel bad for responding with firm, unequivocal distaste when I’m in a safe enough position to show the horror I feel at his behaviour.

You chased me down the street, motherfucker. There is no interpretation of this story that leaves any room for that to be anything other than fucked up.

And you will not. Get me. Like that.

I rushed back to where I was staying – a cheap, dark hotel with no reception, just a door code. And I looked around me to make sure he wasn’t following before I punched in the number. I locked my room door and put a chair beneath the handle. Then I sent a voice note to a friend so I could register what had happened and pour it all out in the moment.

I am drafting this the day after it happened, when I can still feel the echoes of adrenalin thrumming in my veins, and I am forcing myself not to include a moral message that anyone else can take away. Not a ‘pro tip for women when you’re confronted by a pushy man: ask for a bathroom break!’ or ‘pro tip for men: if a woman wants to go home, let her go!’, because this is one of those rare occasions when I’m not writing this shit for you, but for me.

I am writing this shit for the ‘me’ I was in my twenties, who once faked an orgasm to try and get a guy to come because he kept pulling her hair during sex even though she said ‘stop’ multiple times. For the ‘me’ I was in my thirties, when I got fucking raped. For all the past versions of me who’ve worried and dithered over whether a ‘no’ might land too harshly with a man who believed me too nice to be harsh, who was worming his way into my knickers even though all my body language told him to back the fuck off.

As I turn my bike to head south out of the town, Jagged Little Pill plays in my headphones. I ride past the sign that tells me I’m gone from this particular place for good, and I start to smile. And then laugh. I almost punch the air in victory.

Yesterday, I listened to myself. I trusted my internal alarms. And instead of using my resources to please a guy who couldn’t give a fuck about my welfare, I turned all my people-pleasing strength to pleasing myself instead.

I wanted to go, so I went.

And he did not fucking get me like that!

Note this happened a while ago, I’ve left some time before publication. Some details have been changed, for what I hope are obvious reasons.