As we enter the downward swing of the month, I decided to respond to a common issue that comes up around women and sexual misconduct, a response many men (and too many women) make to such things as #MeToo and other allegations of sexual misbehavior on the part of men. Is a woman really asking for it if she dresses sexy, and flirts with a man? Is she more responsible for his misbehavior than he is, just because she "leads him on"? Do we really need to continue having this conversation, questioning whether women really have a right to decide who does what with their own body? Apparently the answer is yes, since many people feel that a woman should be held to an impossibly high standard. So I decided to turn it around, to ask "What if..." Today, we see role reversal, to question whether the same argument should be applied to men who flirt, who lead women on.

GROPING

Every head turned when he walked into the room. He was tall, handsome, and dressed to kill. The tight jeans, the muscle shirt, the swagger, all spoke of someone who knew what he wanted, and had no problem getting it. Right now, what he wanted was a girl. He moved through the crowd of women gathered in small groups, looking each of them over, nodding approvingly when he saw one he found delectable, until finally his eyes lit on Jeanette.

Jeanette was leaning against the bar, her short black dress clinging to her curves. Her hair was loose, and hung halfway down her back. Earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders, and her heels were more than an inch high. A champagne glass dangled from her fingers, empty, but with red lipstick around the lip that affirmed she had recently had a drink. She was lively and vibrant, commanding the room with her energy, though her voice was soft and her laugh was gentle.

“Excuse me, is this place taken?” Scott indicated the bar next to her. She laughed and invited him to join her. He offered to buy her a drink, and she handed him her glass.

“Champagne.” Her voice was low and deep in the throat, the voice of a singer or a vamp. She sounded like she belonged in a Bond movie, and she looked the part of the femme fatale.

Scott collected two glasses from the bartender, and led her to the closest table. She draped herself over the chair like a model draped over a car in a magazine ad; her long legs seemed to go on forever. She was a woman every man in this place wanted. She knew the attention she drew, and she enjoyed every minute.

The conversation between them was animated. It seemed they had a lot in common. They liked – and hated – the same sorts of movies. They read the same books. They listened to the same music. Was it imagination, or were they meant for each other? Jeanette watched him through half closed eyes, trying to decide if this was the man she’d been looking for, or if he was just an illusion. She liked what she saw.

“Shall we dance?”

Scott held out his hand, and led her onto the small floor. The crowd parted to let them dance, watching their graceful moves as they floated together like they were one flesh. There was no misstep as they twirled and dipped. It was like a choreographed motion in an old black-and-white movie so perfect was their chemistry. When the song ended, and they maneuvered off the dance floor, the room broke out in applause.

Scott led her back to the table, his hand resting lightly on her derrière. She slid her arm about his waist and leaned closer, leaning her head against his shoulder. He brushed his lips lightly against her hair, a gentle motion full of promise. When they were seated again, she felt his foot brush against her leg, and the twinkle in his eye showed her it was deliberate.

“I’m sorry, but I need to…powder my nose”, she whispered in her sexiest voice. He nodded, and they touched hands, their fingers trailing together as she moved away with reluctance. He watched her until she disappeared.

When Jeanette returned from the restroom, another woman was seated at the table with Scott. His head was bent close to hers, and he was whispering in her ear, murmuring things that made the other woman blush. His lips brushed against the red hair, and Jeanette could see that his foot was brushing against the other woman’s leg.

Scott barely looked up when Jeanette seated herself back at the table, attempting to insinuate herself between the two of them. She leaned close, and murmured that she was back. He barely nodded, not even noticing her or breaking his attention from the other woman. The other woman looked up long enough to say “Fuck off, bitch”. Before Jeanette could answer, the other two were on the dance floor, the center of attention as they moved together in a graceful dance.

Fury compelled Jeanette forward, toward the dance floor, toward Scott and his new companion. She attempted to cut in, but the other woman brushed her off, and Scott ignored her as he twirled his new partner, his hand wrapped lightly around her derrière. On impulse, Jeanette pushed the other woman aside, and grabbed Scott, clutching at his crotch, slipping her hand into his jeans and wrapping it around his penis as she forced his mouth to hers.

A dozen hands pulled at her, yanking her away from Scott, pulling her toward the door. Scott dialed 911 while two women held Jeanette, refusing to allow her to leave the hall. She went limp in their grip, resigned to the reality of her situation.

When the police arrived, they took Scott’s statement, as well as getting a statement from Yolanda, the other woman who was now clinging to Scott as though he belonged to her. Jeanette submitted to being cuffed and taken away, read her rights as though she were a common criminal. She was booked on a charge of “sexual assault”, and spent the night in jail.

The hearing came rapidly; only a few days after the incident, Jeanette was standing in the court next to her attorney, hoping to retain her freedom. The attorney was eloquent, even brilliant, in her summation. She explained how Scott had come to the party dressed for sex, had singled out Jeanette for attention, and made it plain that he was interested. He had run his foot up her leg, and let his fingers trail along hers as she left to use the restroom. His words, his look, had been full of promise. One of the witnesses had referred to him as a “cunt teaser”. Jeanette was hopeful. Her attorney told her the defense nearly always worked, though she had never seen it used for a woman defendant. But surely, Jeanette thought, if a woman flirting with a man was expected to follow through with sex, wouldn’t a man flirting with a woman be making the same promise?

Jury deliberation was short. It was mere minutes from the time they left the room until they returned the only verdict they all agreed was appropriate: Guilty as charged. It seemed that a man did not owe a woman anything, just because he flirted with her. Jeanette’s impulsive act meant she would be spending a few months in jail, and would spend the rest of her life as a registered sex offender. She traded her black mini skirt for an orange jumpsuit, and did her time.