It’s 2015, and men still act like women owe them attention, a response, or even ownership of their body.
The way I view my body and persona fluctuates depending on my mood. Sometimes I see it as a collection of mechanical functions, making sure I breathe, my heart beats, that I digest my food and produce antibodies. Sometimes I view it as a collection of body parts only: my sizeable breasts, skinny hips, and long limbs. Sometimes I love to watch myself, and so I don’t mind if others enjoy it, too. Depending on the circumstances, being shouted at in the street can put me in a foul mood, but so does getting no male attention at parties. If I am in the mood to be looked at and no one complies, I get annoyed. But I also want to be seen as an autonomous being, someone with a mind, a sizeable intellect, with passions and pleasures. If I am just being passed on the street, it’s pretty much impossible to dwell on my internal life.