There are many things I want to do as freely as men do them. This time I don’t ask for much. Just the freedom of an not-judged crotch-grab.
With the “crotch-grab,” I want to include any action of hand near owned crotch. The man in the fancy suit rearranging his penis and balls while reading his morning paper. The teen that half-ashamed, half-challenging, puts his hands down his pants to pull his oversized boxer shorts into their right shape. The butt wriggle followed up by a sharp pull to prevent a wedgie.
All this is done freely, without shame (at least without visual shame), in public. Meanwhile, I worry about covering my crotch because I want to scratch an itch while walking around in the dog park at night. By myself, but who knows how shocked the ducks and swans are going to be about such a blatant crotch-grab.
I don’t know what to blame more: the patriarchy or the brainwashing that comes with (dormant) Christian values that equates private parts to shame parts, but I am eager to blame someone and something. Never ever will I feel the need to push up skirts and pull down underwear for an all-round grab, but surely I can save myself from a curled up pair of undies? Why should I be confronted with a man’s fumble while getting a comment like, “Do you need help in there?” as soon as my hand moves below navel?
So from now on, I will fight the urge to be uncomfortable about my discomfort. In subways, down the street, on the couch – if I want to re-adjust, I will so. And heck, I’m feeling dangerous: I’m going to add bra-check as well. My body, my decision on when and how to touch it. Take back the grab.