I can’t believe we even have to have this discussion

There’s an organization in the U.K. called Safe Gigs for Women founded with the primary goal of, kind of obviously, making gigs safe for women. Our neighbors across the pond have a real epidemic of women being harassed in one way or another at concerts and festivals, from physical assault to groping to outright rape. The fact that there’s a need for this kind of initiative, to educate and remind concertgoers that they should a) keep their hands to themselves and be respectful of others, and b) to help out anyone who might be in distress during a show, is appalling to me. But though the problem seems worse over there, it happens here in the U.S. too. I have friends who have encountered situations like these. And when I heard about these instances, I was shocked and disgusted and outraged on their behalf. But at the back of my mind a smug little voice said that that could never happen to me.

But it did.

The Dave Hause show in Asbury Park last week should have been an absolutely joyous occasion, and for most of the evening it was. My dad, who is also a huge fan of Dave’s, and I spent a wonderful few hours prior to the show wandering the boardwalk and barhopping across town on a beautiful late summer night. I was thrilled to be on assignment for my first magazine feature. It was Dave’s triumphant return to his old stomping grounds, his first show there with the Mermaid backing him. He’d be playing to a capacity crowd. I was among friends, not just my dad but other people I’d met at various gigs up and down the east coast. It promised to be a fun, raucous night, the sort of night I live for. I didn’t count on one asshole ruining the entire thing for me.

I’m used to rowdy crowds at this point. I’m used to people shoving their way to the front and pushing into me as I stand in my usual spot at the front of the stage. And the crowd for that particular show was an exuberant one. It was predominantly male, lots of punks. There was stage-diving and crowd-surfing. So I was irked but not surprised when, about halfway through Dave’s set, a couple who had obviously had a lot to drink pushed their way in between me and my dad and my friend Jason. But it happens. Dad and Jason are both tall so they’d have no trouble seeing. I was actually more irritated with the drunk girl on my other side who was using her height advantage to lean over me and shout at Dave how much she loved him than I was with the couple. But a short time later, when I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could spot Dad, I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was the guy who had pushed his way next to me. He touched my shoulder again, just a light touch, like he wanted me to direct my attention to a specific place on my shirt. And, just like the teasing game you play with a child, where you point out a spot on their belly and tell them that they spilled something then tweak their nose when they, in their gullibility, look down, when I glanced down to see what he was pointing at, instead of tweaking my nose, he stroked my cheek. It was a tender, sensual touch, and my reaction was visceral. I physically recoiled from it. My sister would have recognized the expression on my face, the one of rage and disgust reserved for people who do or say the stupidest, most infuriating things. The band was mid-song and the music was loud so I didn’t bother vocalizing but rather mouthed “What the fuck?” while gesturing with my hands spread, like I was demanding an explanation. He didn’t say anything in return and I turned my back on him, thinking that my very obvious anger and displeasure would have put him in his place. But drunk assholes don’t typically take no for an answer, do they?

Closer to the end of the set, after I’d managed to start enjoying myself again, just as the place lost its collective mind as Dave launched into “Jane” while Loved One Chris Gonzalez sat in on guitar and I was filming on my phone, I felt someone touch me. Not a graze like the previous time. Rather, hands touched the place on my neck where it and my shoulders meet in an intimate, overly familiar way, almost a caress, the sort of way my husband would touch me. I jerked away again and whirled around, glaring and this time vocalizing what I’d said before, “What the fuck?” The crowd was chaotic at this point, a surging mass, so since I still had my phone held in one hand over my head, I had to turn away from him or else run the risk of getting body-checked and dropping it. But I thought I heard him say something (whether he was talking to me or to her, I don’t know) about thinking he’d been touching his girlfriend. An innocent mistake to make, I’m sure, considering that she had short cropped hair and outweighed me by about forty pounds, so you know, the physical resemblance was strong. (angry sarcasm there)

At this point, I was furious. I mean, in a towering, blind rage. My hands were shaking, I was so angry. I had an internal dialogue with myself, wondering if I should address it. Do I turn around and confront him? Do I get Dave’s attention? Do I cause a scene? I decided, and this was probably the wrong decision, that though what he’d done was creepy and very unwelcome, it wasn’t bad enough to call out YET. He hadn’t groped me or tried anything truly egregious YET. But I told myself that if it happened again, I would do something about it. Lucky for him, he didn’t do anything during the last few songs of the show (although there was a time or two when I thought he might have been trying to get my attention but I couldn’t tell for sure). I’d made up my mind that I was going to say something to him after the show, but by the time the band left the stage and I turned around, geared up for a confrontation, his girlfriend was pulling him away. We made eye contact for a second though, and I hope he saw the rage reflected there. But I somehow doubt it.

Because of the way we were all standing, Dad and Jason didn’t realize what was going on – they saw this guy try to get my attention but didn’t realize the extent of his efforts. But still, I shouldn’t have to worry about making sure I have a male friend on hand to protect me. I shouldn’t have to depend on the kindness of other men in the crowd to keep me safe. When I tweeted about the incident, Dave responded that that sort of behavior was unacceptable at his shows and to call it out if it should happen again. Knowing that artists care about maintaining a safe environment for everyone is a wonderful reassurance. But still. Goddamn it, I shouldn’t have to flag down the singer of the band on stage to stop some asshole in the front row who can’t keep his goddamned hands to himself like some goddamned toddler. I don’t care if you’re drunk. That’s the lamest excuse ever. When I’m drunk, my first inclination isn’t to go grope some random stranger, so why do men think that’s an acceptable rationale for it? When is it ever okay to touch someone without their say-so? And for all the people who are going to respond by saying that it’s not a big deal, it’s not like he stuck a hand up my skirt or grabbed a breast, THAT. DOESN’T. MATTER. This wasn’t the usual jostling of bodies at a punk rock show – this was someone touching me in an intimate way without my permission. And that is never okay. My only regret is that I didn’t confront him then and there. I didn’t think what he did was egregious enough. I didn’t want to ruin the night. But you know what? It was egregious enough. And by doing it, he ruined the night for me anyway. So in the future, if anyone tries anything like that on me or any of my friends or, hell, any woman within my vicinity, you can be damned sure that I’m going to unload every ounce of my redheaded, Jersey girl fury on him. Drunk assholes, consider yourself warned.