I’m not the type to be biting my tongue when it comes to dirty old men. As long as they’ll be crossing my path in their most disgusting of ways, I will write about them. Because I want to forget and to be able to let go of anger, shaky hands, goosebumps with fury, I need to write things off my chest.
Brussels is Brussels is Brussels. A city of beauty and history, of many people in one small place, trying to get along. A city filled with tourists and pickpockets, wonderful humans and of course the dirty old men: drooling at every woman walking past in a short skirt, spitting in her face because she’s not following his rules, his desires. That’s what happened seven years ago. I’m letting go of the thought of his spit in my face, broad day light in the center of my beloved city I hate as much as I love.
This fresh new story is a different one. The location: one of my favourite little bars. The people who witnessed the scene: my parents and the entire bar. Dirty old man: drunk and annoying, the most classic of his kind. The situation: the dirtbag found it absolutely necessary to tell me we are going home together tonight. After telling the man politely to stop talking his bullshit, I ignored him until all of a sudden I noticed something was off… As I turned around I saw him taking pictures of me, so close to my face I could have just given him a smack. Instead, I started screaming: “what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Give me your camera!!!”
He put away his camera with the biggest smile on his face: “Too late, I have taken your pictures already.” I wasn’t going to stop yelling. He pushed me and I started boiling with rage. At that point I didn’t care anymore and screamed until the entire bar and the people outside were a part of the scene. Fuck, I felt helpless! Apart from the owners of the bar and my parents, no one did anything. I couldn’t go to the cops, because the Brussels police have better things to do than telling yet another dirty old man to mind his own nasty business and not take pictures of women sitting next to him in a bar.
I’m sad this is turning into a yearly tale. In 2016 in Bali, a dirty French man wanted things in return for his kindness. In 2017, there was the boy with a hidden agenda who inspired me to write a poem. The #metoo movement stirred me to write about the taboos us women hide. And hell, I am not done yet! Why not? BECAUSE IT DOES NOT STOP!
I will repeat what I wrote nearly three years ago:
To all men who recognise themselves in this story: go to youtube, type in Dirty Old Man by Three Degrees and enjoy the lyrics, they are about you! And until you learn to respect women, stay inside or we will have to cut off your testicles.
To all the other men who are amazing, respectful, keep going, you rock!