Catcalling is one of those experiences you are naturally familiar with if you’re a woman. Like accidentally tucking your skirt into your undies, or being elbowed right in the boob.
My twin sister and I experienced it just last week. There we were, strolling along, pondering the great questions of the universe: Why are there no plus-sized male models? Can I train my dog to answer the phone if I call him from work? Or are his paws too much of an impairment?
And just as we were onto something, it happened.
The written word cannot describe the sound that was hurled at us out of that car window. It was a deep groan, underscored by a sense of urgency, as the man in question struggled to complete his catcall before his car sped off down the road. In his defense, he really didn’t have a lot of time, which is probably one of the shortcomings of shouting things at strangers on the street.
It was some combination of the following:
SllluuuuUUUUUUUUUUuuuuuuutt.
YyyyyyyEEEEEEHHhhhhh!
******[expletive]******
The whole catcalling phenomenon begs a lot of questions.
To start with, Mr. Catcaller, are these prepared lines, or do they come to you, organically, in the moment? Is it exhausting to remind every woman who walks down the street that she is, in fact, a woman? Has yelling at a woman ever resulted in a positive outcome of any description? How does it feel when they turn around and look at you like this?
It just can’t feel good. Surely.
But as our collective years of being humans of the female variety have taught us, not every catcaller is the same.