The party went fantastically well, thank fuck. The walk home, less so. I'm not long in the door but am too wired to sleep, in spite of all the alcohol consumed. I left the New Daddy on Dame St about an hour ago after a feed of garlic cheese chips and a good oul natter en route home, debating as we parted ways on whether or not I'd get a taxi. It wasn't raining, I fancied a stroll to clear my head so I figured I'd walk home, as I usually do. I'd had my fill of taxis and taxi drivers for one day. What harm?
What harm indeed.
I was walking at a fair pace along Nassau St when a man caught up with me and asked directions to the Burlington Hotel. I gave him directions and he offered to walk with me for a bit, given that we were going the same way anyway. He seemed pleasant, charming even. Olivier, a Frenchman, new to Dublin and working with American Airlines. From the get go he made with the flattery, telling me how beautiful I was, how charming, how I was the first Irish girl he'd spoken to who wasn't completely up her own hole and who didn't belong in London. Embarrassed, I fended him off as best I could. No, I'm not the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. Don't be silly. No, I am not fascinating. No, my job does not make me a cultural patriot. No, there are plenty of women in Dublin who are just like I am, only more so. No, there is no need to carry my bag for me. No, I'm okay thanks, I'd rather not hold your hand. I kept conversation as neutral as I could in the face of his come-ons and over-the-top flattery but by the time we reached my apartment block it was clear that he was gunning for an invitation. And equally clear to him that one would not be forthcoming, despite promises of dinner, flowers and eternal love.
So he gripped me by the wrists and pinned me against the gate before I could get my key into the lock.
I feel sick thinking about it.
I extricated myself, told him politely that I had appreciated his company for the stroll home but that he was making me uncomfortable now and that I really wanted to go home. He kept trying. I repeated myself, pushed against him, wriggled from his grip. He tried to catch me again, but I'd gotten my key in the lock. I slipped through the outer gate and closed it behind me, and asked him to leave. He asked if he could come in to use the bathroom, and tried to grab the strap of my handbag through the railings as I backed away from them. When I said no, again repeating that I was going to bed and that I'd like him to leave, he shouted that I was not the woman he'd thought I was, that my face was that of someone completely different and that he was disappointed in me.
I've never before felt unsafe walking home in my city, up my street.
Fuck him. With a capital F.
What harm indeed.
I was walking at a fair pace along Nassau St when a man caught up with me and asked directions to the Burlington Hotel. I gave him directions and he offered to walk with me for a bit, given that we were going the same way anyway. He seemed pleasant, charming even. Olivier, a Frenchman, new to Dublin and working with American Airlines. From the get go he made with the flattery, telling me how beautiful I was, how charming, how I was the first Irish girl he'd spoken to who wasn't completely up her own hole and who didn't belong in London. Embarrassed, I fended him off as best I could. No, I'm not the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. Don't be silly. No, I am not fascinating. No, my job does not make me a cultural patriot. No, there are plenty of women in Dublin who are just like I am, only more so. No, there is no need to carry my bag for me. No, I'm okay thanks, I'd rather not hold your hand. I kept conversation as neutral as I could in the face of his come-ons and over-the-top flattery but by the time we reached my apartment block it was clear that he was gunning for an invitation. And equally clear to him that one would not be forthcoming, despite promises of dinner, flowers and eternal love.
So he gripped me by the wrists and pinned me against the gate before I could get my key into the lock.
I feel sick thinking about it.
I extricated myself, told him politely that I had appreciated his company for the stroll home but that he was making me uncomfortable now and that I really wanted to go home. He kept trying. I repeated myself, pushed against him, wriggled from his grip. He tried to catch me again, but I'd gotten my key in the lock. I slipped through the outer gate and closed it behind me, and asked him to leave. He asked if he could come in to use the bathroom, and tried to grab the strap of my handbag through the railings as I backed away from them. When I said no, again repeating that I was going to bed and that I'd like him to leave, he shouted that I was not the woman he'd thought I was, that my face was that of someone completely different and that he was disappointed in me.
I've never before felt unsafe walking home in my city, up my street.
Fuck him. With a capital F.
