Just getting home from work, I swing open the door and step into my own corner of the 5-bedroom house I'm co-renting. Click. A flood of artificial light. In front of me is my bed. The fitted sheet is coming off the corners. It never seems to stay on. Underneath, a pink stain marks an old misadventure with drinking Gatorade in bed. Miscellaneous textiles -- a jacket, a button-down shirt, and a towel -- are heaped towards one end. The rest of my clothes are piled on the floor. I sigh, put on my headphones, pull out my laptop, lie down, and take a look at my work. Welcome to my life for the past two years. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, for the first time, I think I understood the frustration of objectification. In the past, I've accepted that, as sexual beings, humans will express sexual interest in others -- and it's normal. But today was a little bit different. It wasn't someone on Grindr asking for a nude. It was a stranger on the street who seemed nice at first but who used a variety of tactics to try to "warm me up" before propositioning. It meant that I couldn't trust appearances; or at least not from strangers. First, he tried to develop a personal relationship with me. The first nickname was "Harry Potter." Then the slight flattery of "Has anyone told you that you look like David Radcliffe?" (Actually, I'm not sure that's a complement). Then he asked where I was from and some details about my life. It seemed like a trust exercise more than anything else. At least, I couldn't see him tucking away those details about my life away somewhere and th