Monthly: October 2011

Two nuns are sitting on a park bench. Suddenly, a flasher comes up, opens his coat and exposes himself. One nun has a stroke. The other can’t reach that far.

The image of the flasher – a man who flashes his genitals at unsuspecting women – is fairly entrenched in our culture. He’s the guy with a long overcoat, bare legs and a furtive look in his eye. Flashers are common in jokes and sketch comedy, perhaps because the whole thing is more than a little ludicrous. The image of a bloke opening his jacket and running off just appeals to comedic sensibilities.

So when I encountered my first flasher a couple of weeks ago, I was almost disappointed he wasn’t accompanied by Benny Hill music.

The incident occurred while I was on holiday in France. Now France isn’t known for it’s enlightened approach to women and so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by it. But to be honest, I was a little flabbergasted by the experience.

We had rented a canal boat for a week and were moored at a shady caravan park along the river, one attached to a rather small and inconsequential village. It was a warm day, too hot to sit on the little boat, so I decided to sit at a park bench under a tree near the park office, which was unattended. I had my netbook with me and thought I’d do a bit of writing.

As I walked over to the park bench, I noticed a guy walking along near me but didn’t pay him much attention. As I set up my computer, I did notice that he’d walked around the other side of the office, which is mostly glass. I wondered if maybe he worked at the park and was about to open the office.

And that’s when I noticed that he’d pushed the front of his pants down and was waving his tackle at me, through the glass.

Being the evil pornographer that I am, I can say the said tackle wasn’t terribly impressive. Average length, uncircumcised and – strangely – very floppy. Aren’t flashers supposed to be turned on by waving it at strangers?

When I realised what he was doing, I rolled my eyes and turned away, muttering “Jeez”. I realised I was being flashed at and felt kind of offended by it. The next impulse I had was to grab my camera but unfortunately I didn’t have it on me. For a millisecond I wondered how to make the webcam on my netbook work.

Then the fear kicked in. What if he was coming towards me? Should I be ready to run? What were his intentions? Another millisecond later I realised that it was broad daylight, there were people very close by and I was actually quite safe.

So the next thing to do was to make him go away by drawing attention to him. Turning back I waved my hand at him dismissively. “Go away, mate! Nobody wants to see that!” I said loudly. Given that he was French, he probably didn’t understand the words but he certainly got the message and began walking off rather quickly. When he turned back to look over his shoulder I held up my pinkie finger and wiggled it. Might as well make him feel bad while I was at it.

And bam, that was that. I’d been flashed at. No overcoats, no slapstick, just a creepy guy with his wang out.

It disturbed me, no doubt about it, but the lingering thought was one of disbelief that it had actually happened. I also found myself regretting that I hadn’t called out louder and yelled to the people in a nearby caravan. The guy was a sex offender; I shouldn’t have let him get away, really.

When I told my husband about it, he was stunned. It was so unexpected. And then he said “Did you have a stroke?” and we both laughed at the weirdness of it. After that I gave a general description of the guy and we actually got on our bikes and went looking for the flasher in the village in order to confront him. I wouldn’t have done this by myself, obviously, but my large, karate-instructor husband often inspires me to feel far more confident when in the company of creepy weirdos. By then the guy had disappeared.

So then I found myself pondering the reasons behind this man’s little escapade. What was he hoping to achieve? Because as a come-on or pick up line, flashing is wildly unsuccessful. Despite what porn may have people believe, women are highly unlikely to want sex after being given an eyeful of a stranger’s wang. Call us picky, but unasked-for exhibitions of unknown penises don’t really get the juices flowing.

A more satisfactory answer is that flashers want to exert power over someone else. They do this through shock, through inciting fear and also by pulling a social swifty; they violate unspoken but commonly understood social rules which means that the victim is left unsure how to interact.

Thus, my flasher saw me as someone who he could easily gain power over – I was an unaccompanied woman in a public place and, I’ll admit, I don’t cut a particularly imposing figure. When I yelled and waved my little finger at him, I took away his power and humiliated him.

Thus, I won.

In researching the reasons behind flashing I found a great site. It’s called Hollaback and it’s a global campaign to end street harrassment (and this includes flashing). The people behind the site are encouraging women to speak out against catcalls, harrassment and abuse on the street and – more importantly – to take photos of them. It’s about taking back power.

So now I really wish I’d had my camera with me. I could have outed him in front of thousands more people via the internet, all of whom, no doubt, would have waggled their little finger.

So that’s my flasher story. More amusing than traumatic, even if it is severely lacking in Benny Hill music.

Let this be a cautionary tale, my friends. Next time someone flashes you, or makes some ultra witty comment on the street, don’t duck your head and keep walking. Look them in the eye, waggle your little finger, tell them to fuck off and then take a photo. Take back your power and take back the streets. Because it’s time we stopped letting the creeps hassle us into silence. They’re creeps. Let’s let them know it.