Published via Ecency

Yesterday my ex dropped our dog, Mariano, to me for the rest of the year. Usually I have a rhythm and a system for our routine, and it always includes the final walk of the night around midnight. But yesterday everything was off. My schedule was messy, I was exhausted, and somehow our walk happened at one in the morning instead.

On top of that, I forgot my phone at home. And as I stepped out of the building, a thought flashed through my mind: go get your phone. But then I waved it off, told myself not to be dramatic, and kept walking. Nothing ever happens, I thought.

The streets were full of drunk young men. Maybe it was because it was Friday night. Maybe Christmas season played its part. All I knew was that there were a lot of them. Mariano and I circled the block like we always do, and when we began the path back home, the street narrowed. A man appeared ahead, walking toward me. For a second, everything was normal. Then he looked at me and he grabbed my arm.

I was not scared at first. I was surprised. Everything in my body went still for a moment.
He said, hi.
I said, hi back, automatically.
Then he leaned in, closer, and repeated it, hi.

Call me crazy if you want, but sometimes you just know when a person is not a good person. My body knew. My bones knew. Something inside me said, walk away now. So I freed my arm and started moving fast toward my gate.

Behind me, he began shouting:

"Please, please, let me fuck you tonight. I will fuck you tonight. I will fuck you so good."

The words hit me like a slap. I was shocked, disgusted, and suddenly scared. Because that had never happened to me before. No man has ever sexually threatened or harassed me like that, in public, to my face.

And now I am no longer outside of the statistics, the ones where almost every woman says:
Yes. Something has happened to me.

It makes me sad. Because now I know: I will not walk at night the same way again. I will not feel carefree at one in the morning. I will plan differently. I will choose 11:00 or 11:30 p.m. I will bring my phone. I will avoid the hour when the streets change.

This is not about race or nationality or culture. It is about something very specific. When we look at who is harassing women, grabbing them, threatening them, following them, it is nearly always men. Not women.
So the real question is.

What are men going to do about it?

Women have been adjusting for centuries: keys between fingers, fake phone calls, avoiding certain hours, changing routes, texting "I am home." We already do the work. We already adapt.

What I want, honestly, is for men to talk among themselves. To hold each other accountable. To tell each other, this is not okay. Because this is a problem tied to a sex, tied to a behavior, tied to entitlement.

Spain, as a culture, is one of the safest places I have ever lived. In public, I have never once felt unsafe here. Of course, behind closed doors, every country has its shadows. But outside, Spain has always felt safe. So the fact that this happened here shows how universal the issue is.

Women should be able to walk whenever we want, without calculating time, number of drunk men, or the level of risk. Safety should not be a luxury. It should be normal.

The only thing that helped me soften the moment afterward was being able to come home, sit down, and offload everything into ChatGPT, and receive responses that were silly, calming, and strangely healing. Sometimes a ridiculous joke in the middle of the night is exactly what keeps you from shaking.

So I will leave here two of the funniest lines ChatGPT gave me in response:

"It was giving medieval village idiot doing a mating ritual. The only thing he was missing was a lute and bad tavern breath."

"If Mariano had been slightly bigger, he could’ve growled and chased him away like a tiny knight. But alas — he is the Baby Biscuit Sniffing Companion, sworn protector of snacks, not damsels."