There’s a bit of response to the recent scary mysoginy (look, I can’t spell it, alright? I’ve tried twice and now I’m giving up) here and here and elsewhere.
I can’t help but think of Helen Garner’s First Stone. Didn’t we have this argument ages ago?
I really can’t be bothered thinking about this – women do not provoke their own rapes by wearing a particular combination of clothing. As someone (somewhere in one of those links) said, rapists are responsible for the rapes they commit. There is no other convincing argument.
I’d like to add that rape is not just about sex, it’s also (and far more importantly) about violence. And violence is complicated. Especially when it’s rape.
I think about the things that I wear when I’m riding my bike. Sometimes I wear a low-necked dress (because I’m off to dancing or something else hot and sweaty – where I’ll attempt to flaunt my oiled breasts* [tee hee] but most probably end up flaunting my pink and sweaty face and (undoubtedly hawt) puffing and panting in pathetic unfitness).
When you lean over the handlebars on a proper road bike, if you’re wearing a low-necked blouse, your boobs jump out. Now, I know that the thing at the fore of my mind as I navigate Sydney Road in peak hour is ‘where can I score some hawt sex?’ or perhaps ‘surely that attractive gentleman in the van there would relieve me of this unbearable desire a-burning in my loins?’**
I’m not sure what I’m provoking when I’m riding my bike like this, but I’d like to think I’m provoking people to random acts of exercise – hey that looks like fun! Maybe I can score a hawt chick if I ride a bike!
Yeah right, babe – like you could catch my hawt arse!
* courtesy of balcony
** it’s more likely to be saddle-jab a-burning my loins, provoked by an incorrectly adjusted bike seat or perhaps by a lazy core leading to slump-forwardness
