I GOT FLASHED

Do you think dick pics don't count? Trust me, they do.

The cesspit Photo by BoliviaInteligente on Unsplash

Last night, around midnight, I was in bed. I’d had a long ferry and train journey from the Isle of Bute to Manchester, and frankly, I was knackered. My habit, before I go to sleep, is to do a quick scroll of X, because I like to know what kind of world I’m going to sleep on (awful, dreadful, in flames). Sometimes, I have a quick exchange with one of my followers - usually people I’ve chatted with online for years. I don’t know the name of their cat or where they went to school, but I like their vibe and generally, they seem to like mine. I tend to assume that if we met in real life, we’d get on.

So when I saw a DM pop up, I opened it. It was from a guy who’s followed me for a while, occasionally commented on my posts, someone I didn’t know at all, but who has generally seemed all right. He was possibly drunk, I thought, because he’d messaged me off the back of something I’d just reposted about the riots. To paraphrase, he was upset, he agreed it was awful, the riots were happening in his hometown. The worst thing was, his cousin was involved, it was so depressing…

Riots. Awful, his cousin, his hometown… Photo by Florian Olivo on Unsplash

I was half asleep, but I sent a couple of lines back - so sorry, it’s awful, I wish I had advice… the sort of thing you say to someone who’s expressed understandable sadness, who you figure is a decent person, just reaching out to a stranger on socials for a moment.

‘I’ve sent you a picture,’ his next message read. I thought it would be of the riots, his hometown, his cousin - I don’t know what I thought. I mindlessly clicked on it, and was confronted with a picture of his erect, purple penis.

In a state of blank shock, I wrote, ‘Oh, fuck off’ and blocked him. Then I deleted the short message thread. I was furious, wide awake, my heart pounding with shock.

I know this happens to younger women all the time. I’m 53, happily married, a raging feminist, as anyone who has ever read my posts will know. It had never happened to me before. I didn’t feel upset, or frightened. I felt so, so, angry. Because flashing on social media is absolutely no different, in my eyes, to flashing on a bus, or in a park, or on the street - all places I’ve been flashed at before. There’s the moment of disbelief - what the hell is that weird pink thing? Then the moment of realisation- what the fuck! And then the contempt and rage. And sometimes, the fear, too.

I’m not scared, even though statistically, rapists often begin their grim careers by flashing. I probably should be afraid when it happens, but I’m not. I am simply angry.

I’m angry because some man I don’t know, some man none of us know, some random guy milling around in the foul, piss-stained pub of X, decided it was acceptable to engage me in conversation and then pull his pants down and thrust his erect penis in my face. It happened purely because I’m a woman. He’s never met me, he didn’t know if I’m attractive, or young, or vulnerable - he didn’t care. He only wanted a female object to wave his penis at, because that’s apparently how he defines his manliness.

How they see us. Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplashhow he defines his manliness.

I told friends earlier, and one asked, why - why do men do this? Why is it so common? I said, I don’t know, but I think it’s because flashing, whether online or not, sets up an unreciprocated connection with a woman - any woman. Her woman-ness is enough; she doesn’t need to be pretty, or willing, or available - she just needs to be a cipher for the concept of ‘woman’ and that will do. It dehumanises us, it shows contempt for us, and it gives them, for a moment, the power they think we stole. The power to invade our lives and our bodies - even if it’s only via our eyes.

I have that disgusting image burned on my retinas now. I can’t un-see it, the way you can’t un-see a dead sheep rotting in a field, or a body lying just beneath the water. It’s in my mind, and he put it there without my consent.

It’s nothing. It happens every day, every minute. It happens to girls and women all over the world, of every age, creed, race, size. It doesn’t matter. We just need to be women, and in that moment, we are powerless.

‘Look, my erect penis! I’ll make you see it!’

I’ve seen it, several times. I’m sure you have, too. And on it goes, forever. Because deep down, many men blame women - and they want to humiliate and embarrass and frighten us.

Well, I don’t feel any of those things. I feel angry, as I so often do, that someone so pathetic, so inadequate, could steal a second of my attention, and send something toxic into my mind. Purely because, like half the world, I’m a woman.

‘Sent you a photo’. Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

I’ve had a full, rich, interesting life. I have people who love me, work I enjoy, a tapestried history of up and downs and colourful emotions. I have family and friends and beloved pets, bereavements and births, things I love, things I hate, opinions, achievements, sorrows and joys. But in that moment- click, send- to this man, I’m nothing but a black hole filled with his lurid, limited fantasies. And I have no choice in the matter, purely because of my XX chromosomes.

Illegal, but still possible. Photo by Jordan Andrews on Unsplash

As of 2022, cyber-flashing is illegal. Air-dropping an image of your weird genitals to a stranger carries up to a two year jail sentence. But on X? I knew if I’d reported it, police would want to see regular communications, a pattern of behaviour, more than one sordid little picture. I knew he’d maybe get a warning at best, and he’d say sorry to the big policeman, and feel a bit angry that I’d overreacted enough to actually report his drunken moment of stupidity. I’d risk his job, his family, his reputation. How dare I do that?

I didn’t do that. But I am still angry - not for me, but for every woman who’s been the unwilling recipient of a ‘dick pic’, a neutralising, silly phrase that somehow reduces what it really is. Sexual abuse. Enforced porn. Flashing.

I’m angry enough that if you ask, I’ll tell you who he is.

And I hope that right now, he’s worried. I hope he’s thinking maybe it wasn’t worth it, maybe it’s not such a great idea to have sent a 53 year old feminist journalist an image of his shrivelled member. And I hope he feels embarrassed, and humiliated, and ashamed. Because he should. And we - women, all of us, every female who’s ever thought ‘what’s that- oh!’ - we really, really shouldn’t.