A List of Dislikes

I have a new tattoo.
It hurt like a b**ch to have it done.
It dislikes a lot of things.

For example, it dislikes bending over in certain ways.
It dislikes walking too fast (I haven't even attempted to run). It dislikes stairs, and taking steps down off the kerb. It dislikes most movements, actually.
It dislikes the pressure of the wind. It dislikes a hand in a coat pocket on top of it.
It dislikes clothes against it. It dislikes me putting on these clothes, and taking off these clothes. 
It dislikes being touched, even when it's getting covered in soothing, moisturising cream. 

But I absolutely love it to goddamn pieces. The less it sticks to my clothes, the more the pain decreases, the more I fall in love with it.
Is this the way to love your body? By drawing on it with needles? 

The night before I got it done I dreamt I overslept and missed the appointment. When I then woke up before my alarm, I decided to get up, just in case.

But also that night before I started to panic about whether it would look good. Not that the design would look good, but whether it would look good on me. Whether I should have lost weight before having it done, so that my body would look better. 
As it turns out, I like the way it sits just before the curve of my hip. 
And when I showed my sister when I uncovered it for the first time, she said "You're so skiiinnyyy." Which I wasn't expecting. 

If the remedy of body dislike is to tattoo it with the things you love, then I will continue to cover it. 
Except maybe not on my ribs next time.

Perhaps I am simply trying to exert some control over my physical entity, which continually denies me control if you look to my headache as an example. And also because I just can't seem to stop eating these bourbons.

The Fabulous, The Amazing, The Incredible, The Great... Persona.

Currently reading the Cary Grant biography In Name Only. And as the authors continue to remind the reader, "Cary Grant" was a creation. Archie Leach was the man, and Cary Grant was a persona he invented, and then wore for the rest of his life like a mask.

Who are we, really? Who of us live behind masks, whether they be small or large? Do we ever know who exactly we are?

Some of us are able to identify who we are through having a calling to do something, or be something.
For some people that calling is to act, to sing, to direct. Others will be to work with children, with the elderly, or with the homeless.
Many of us will feel the need, and heed the calling (is it nature's call, or society's bellow?) to get married and procreate (sorry to put it so crudely. The idea of the "family unit" is one of society's creations, albeit one of it's better ones. I am not trying to ridicule those who say they want a "family". I'm just suggesting that the idea of a family is one we can create, and what people are actually, physically doing, is reproducing.)

But do our actions actually define who we are?
Surely to answer that, we need to know who we are first.

The reminiscence bump is something I learned about on the science doc I worked on last year before I went away. Essentially, the research suggests that between the ages of (very broadly) 10 to 30, we define who we are as people. This is the period from which most of our memories will come from when asked later on in life. This doesn't always follow through - it actually depends on how we think of ourselves.
If we think of ourselves in terms of facts, such as "I am a teacher" or "I am a mother/grandmother", those kinds of descriptions are pretty time-locked, and memories from there will always be from a certain age onwards, and those won't necessarily be from the late teens to early twenties period that really defines the reminiscence bump. The age of 16-25(ish) is seen as the strongest period of self-making - where we are testing our boundaries and limits, learning what we like and what we don't like, what we love and hate. We are listening to the music that will define our taste throughout our life, the films that will inform our genre preferences or casting favourites. We are participating (or not) in activities that will demonstrate to people who we are.
You can read the Jezebel article on the reminiscence bump research here. It was this article that reminded me of all I had learned during that production.

How many of us purposefully work out who we are and who we want to be? Have you ever sat down and tried to make a map of the way your life will go? Are you one of those people that decided they'd be married by 25, first kid by 27? Or wanted to be junior manager at 25, senior manager at 30?
We focus so much on the what, but not the person underneath.

Who is the person underneath my exterior? What are the traits that define me?
Am I tenacious? Determined? Or lazy? Pessimistic?

Oh how I am going to have to resist the temptation to be self-deprecating here and take a huge gamble instead and try to be really, very honest.

I am argumentative, opinionated. I am shy. I am (that too-commonly-used phrase) introverted. I am a dreamer. I am generally optimistic. I am tightfisted. I am empathetic...to a point. I am forgetful of anything not to do with work. I am easily excited. I am organised. I am industrious. I am fearful. I am self-conscious. I am resilient.

None of these traits are ones I am ashamed of. Some of them might be seen as undesirable. How often have I been described as an undesirable eh?

What traits would I prefer to have though? What persona do I wish I could create and slip on the mask when necessary, or indeed all the time?
Do I want to be The Fabulous Emma, who spends all her money on designer clothes and looks like she has stepped out of Vogue?
Would I like to be The Amazing Emma, whose attitude is always of a sunny disposition, and never quarrels with anyone?
Should I be The Incredible Emma, known for her confidence, easy ability to mingle, and general extroversion?

Can I not just be The Great Emma, who likes an argument, and has her own opinions, but finds it hard to make new friends and talk to people at parties? The Great Emma who dreams of things she'll accomplish, and then works hard to achieve them? (This isn't completely true - I always work hard when I am employed, but am finding it difficult to remain disciplined and work hard for myself, on the things I want to do...)
I am the The Great Emma who writes lists for everything, who giggles and jumps up at down when she sees that Waterstones stock Moomins. The Great Emma who is fearful of what the future may bring and where it may take her, but knows that if she can survive a headache for 7 years, that she can survive it for 7 more, and be resilient in the face of anything life throws at her.

The truth is, we are all The Fabulous, The Amazing, The Incredible at times. When necessary. We put masks on at work, we put masks on in front of friends. We even put masks on in front of our family.

I don't dare take mine off. I can only dream of a time when I will be comfortable without it.
When that time comes, I'll let you know.

Growing Old Gracefully

When I turned 23, I bemoaned the fact that I was getting old. 

I don't really want to get old. It's not that I am afraid of getting wrinkles, or my boobs sagging.

I'm afraid of being helpless.

Much as I often have self-doubt, I would still consider myself a strong woman. I want to live my life my way,  have dream and hopes and I won't let anybody try and crush them.

But what happens to after I achieve those dreams? Or if I don't, and times passes me by? How will I feel the day I wake up and realise that I'm "old"?

I clean for an elderly gentleman in my neighbourhood who has dementia. I don't know the full extent of the disease, but it is evident when he doesn't remember where his wallet is, or whether he has even posted his Christmas cards. Perhaps these are simple things that any elderly person might forget. But I suspect not.
When I went round yesterday he told me that he had gone towards the front door several times already that day thinking he needed to go out and get something, but that he couldn't remember what he needed to get.

I have never had a fantastic memory. I can do, when I'm working, but often I forget conversations and shared experiences. It's frustrating, and I look foolish. It looks as though I don't care about the memory. And when I am reminded of it or it is recounted for me, I wonder why I didn't remember it, because there is no real reason for me to have relegated it to the back and beyond of my mind.

I am worried about losing my memory. Not the shared experiences, not that time when we walked along and we all burst into song at the same time. Not those memories. The vital ones, like how to spell words, count numbers, people's names. How to function, essentially.

I am also worried about losing my health. Now, let's be honest, if you read my other blog, you'll know all about my head, neck and back problems. Whenever a new practitioner says how my back and shoulders are more like a 40-year-old's than a 20-something's, I worry about what the hell kind of shape I'll be in by the time I do hit 40. In Croydon on Thursday I spotted an elderly woman walking along, bent over double, pulling along a trolley. Walking towards Sutton earlier that day, I saw an older man walking on the other side of the road, head bowed against the cold, shoulders slightly hunched. I want to be able to stand up straight. I certainly don't want to be bent over double, barely being able to see where I'm going.

And the new Government reforms on retirement and pensions worries me too. Increasing retirement ages and rolling out flat state-pensions may mean that older people will work longer in order to be comfortable for that inevitable 20-year-long retirement. In times gone by, people would retire, and then keel over within 5 years because of a shorter life expectancy. But now, with better healthcare and medical services, we can keep going, despite any illnesses or diseases. I have seen so many older people out delivering leaflets in the cold over the last month or so, and in a way it breaks my heart. They shouldn't have to still work, surely? They've paid their dues, clocked up the hours. They should be at home, watching Morse and Bargain Hunt. I accept that perhaps they want to continue doing something because otherwise they'd go out of their mind. But maybe they don't have a choice.

My sister and I watched The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel the other night, and in it the characters are all accepting the challenges that old age and retirement bring. And it tackled all the problems that I fear about getting old - not being comfortable and having to continue to work, loss of loved ones and lack of communication or intimacy with family members or partners, and quite simply, being alone.

Cleaning for Peter, who turned 80 last year and lives alone with a rather moth-eaten cat, makes me think that I ought to get married and have kids simply for the fact that I'd have someone to keep me company, and then a younger generation who could look after me. The bloke I'm seeing readily admitted to me that this was one of his main reasons for wanting to settle down. I don't think there's anything wrong with that necessarily, but it just doesn't sit right with me. I don't think getting married and producing offspring should be a means to an end. It should be what you live for, what you want out of life.

But who will care for me, if I break a hip? If I'm alone, and I have a fall, who will get me back up, or do their own back in trying to do so?

I think these are bridges I will cross when I get to them. As it is, I am intent on focusing on the present and the near-future, not the far-flung, hip-replacement, foot-shuffling, beige-coat wearing future.
I'm content with being young. I'm 24 this year, and I whilst I accept I am approaching my mid-twenties, I am still young. I am in no way getting old. My body might feel old, but my mind, burning bright with enthusiasm and wonder, certainly isn't. And I won't be ashamed when I do get old. I will be like Jodie Foster, and declare my age loudly and proudly.

And I'm sorry if I can't remember the time that we... well, er, that time we... nope, forgotten it again.

Big Fat End of the Year blog

Despite not liking being told what to do by peer pressure or society, I do make resolutions every year. In fact, making my resolutions makes the new year so exciting, and this year I started making them in November.

For comparison, my 2012 resolutions were: 
(the ones highlighted are the one I completed)

1. Watch 450 out of 1001 (films to see before you die)
2. Read list of books (10 books in total, of varying lengths and genres)
3. Watch Dr Who DVDs and videos
4. Get first aid certificate
5. Save £2000 into ISA
6. Try 8 new recipes
7. Learn to use chopsticks
8. Get rid of 1 memory box
9. Learn short hand
10. Write a feature film script
11. Ride the Bluebell railway.

2013's are...
1. Watch 500 out of 1001 films
2. Read list of books (9, one of which I finished this morning, and a trilogy included as 1)
3. Complete my Before 24 list (see below)
4. Learn to knit
5. Ride the Bluebell Railway
6. Make a roast dinner
7. Save £1000 for Australia 

Since I achieved 7 last year, and may only be around in this country for 10 months, I thought I'd pare down the resolutions a bit. Although two of them refer to completing other lists (2 & 3). And ride the Bluebell is back on there, because I really want to do it, and I want to do it. Riding the Bluebell and making a roast dinner are ones that can be achieved in one day and with relative ease.
And after a shaky start, I think I'm making progress on number 4.

Years ago, my resolutions would have included vague desires such as "Gain self-esteem" and "Lose weight" (2 years ago, it was "Lose 8lbs, which is less vague). 
These are the unattainable type of resolution, because much as I am all keen to do it, I never have the discipline or make the plan to achieve them. (And how the hell does one go about gaining self-esteem anyway? Read lots of contradictory books of how to feel the fear and be happy in 7 days?)
N.B This year's 'Learn to knit' poses a similar problem. When can one say one has learned to knit? I have learned the knitting stitch, I know the basics. Will it be when I make my first item? Inevitably, this first item is going to be either a scarf, or a large rectangle that I will claim is a blanket for my cat. 
N.B.B or N.B2 or whatever it is - my resolution of 'Write a feature film script' was a similarly unattainable through lack of discipline kind of resolution. But one day. One day...
 

I like goals, and I like lists. I like making resolutions, but I don't feel too bad if I don't achieve them. I throw in easy ones (like this year's 'Get rid of on memory box' which consisted of going through all my memory boxes and looking at everything and if I couldn't remember what memory I was meant to be remembering, I got rid of the thing) so that I can tick something off the list.
I like ticking things off lists more than I like making the lists themselves. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

This year's resolutions include 'Complete Before 24 list' which consists 6 activities or tasks I want to do before I turn 24 in April:
1. Play a full game of Monopoly
2. Visit Ireland
3. Learn to light a BBQ
4. Learn to mow grass
5. Get 4th tattoo
6. Get a credit card

I've already completed number 4, and number 5 is being designed. I fear that by April the weather will not have been warm enough to light a BBQ, and also we don't actually own a BBQ anymore...

I suppose my unwritten resolution, which I will face a daily battle of achieving, is stay true to myself, and live my life for me. Lest I sound like a weirdo with trust issues, you can only really rely on yourself (although I cannot rely on my body all the time, damn headache.) People have their own lives, and their own problems, and their own resolutions. 
New Year's is all about change, but I'm not changing for anyone but myself. 
Here's to the New Year!
And here's to making resolutions (and lists) :D

U.G.L.Y

U.G.L.Y

I look at myself and wish I wasn't so ugly.

And I wish my thighs weren't so fat, and my skin and teeth were better, and that my blonde hair would grow beyond the length it is now, and would be blonder too. Or glossier. 

And it is not very often I stop myself and wonder why I think that I'm ugly.

Has anyone ever told me I'm ugly?

Once, a boy I fancied told another boy I had gotten hot. The other boy, still a dear friend, said "she was never ugly". To which the boy I fancied was like "hmmm she was average". Or something like that. The exact words escape me 8 years down the line, but he was basically saying I definitely wasn't always hot. 

So let's get this straight shall we? I wasn't hot, and I wasn't ugly, I was just "average". So, that means there are three types of women does it? 

No.

There is one kind: Beautiful.

And there are billions of kinds: unique individuals.

No woman is the same. Yes we all have the same kind of chromosomes that means our bits are inside down below and outside up above. 

We have some peculiar contraption called a womb sitting inside us waiting for a short-lease resident. Or two. Or many.

I don't think I'm ugly because this one boy I fancied told me I was ugly. This week a guy told me I was pretty, gorgeous and sexy. Another guy told me I was beautiful and looked lush. Dressed in tshirt and jeans. Even today I caught the attention of a chef at a cafe, and I was wearing baggy jeans and oversized coat. Eh? This must all mean I'm good looking right?

But my brain- the same brain I use to succeed at work with, the same brain I use to read classic novels, do arithmetic and process daily information about people and places - that brain tells me that I am ugly. That I am disgusting and pathetic. It tells me I'm fat, unattractive, and unloveable. 

And it tells me that because it has been programmed to tell me that.

By tv. By films. By magazines. By the media. 

I am told that in order to be successful as a woman, I must also be beautiful. I must have a fantastic figure, I must dress according to societal norms (bit of cleavage maybe, and using a pencil skirt to accentuate my curves and make the most of my short frame. I can't dress too sexily because that would undermine my professionalism, and if I dress too straight-laced then I'll probably be called a hard-nosed bitch.) I must be funny and smart (but not funnier or smarter than my prospective mate because that could put them off).

I must be so many things. Women must be so many things. And they especially should not be ugly. Nuh uh. 

I need to re-educate myself. Re-educate my brain. I try and I try and I feel like I'm getting somewhere and then I'll feel worse again and I'll hate my face and my body and everything. 

This evening is a perfect example. This morning I got eyeballed by a bloke, and when someone else told me I looked hot when I sent a picture of myself in tshirt and jeans. A tshirt, fully covering my breasticles, and massive baggy jeans, covering any seductive curves.

But getting ready for a Halloween party, I feel bad or like I will fail at fitting in because I haven't got one of those stereotypically sexy outfits for women.

If you think I'm just going on the Halloween party from Mean Girls, the check out this Tumblr - http://fucknosexisthalloweencostumes.tumblr.com/ 

I must have it kind of going on, but I am fed all these bullshit mages about what I should be, that I can't seem to stop and appreciate what I am.

I hate it. It needs to stop. Not just for me, but for all other women my age, older than I am and definitely younger than I am.

Sometimes I consider having a child just to bring them up to understand the bullshit of the media and help them evolve beyond it.

Then I remember that would mean having a child, and I decide to help my cat through her insecurity problems brought on by those Felix adverts.

And I am not completely immune to the sexy Halloween stereotype btw- I'm wearing shorts and fishnet tights. I am, however, a roller derby girl off the track :p 

Boots the family cat (or: Loving myself, and loving others)

"I'm going to make banana bread!"

If I wasn't single, someone might have been in the car with me when I excitedly said that aloud.
But I was on my own, which is something that having been single for 7 or 8 months now, I am getting used to.

And will perhaps continue to get used to as I contemplate how likely it is that I will ever find someone I can put up with (note I do not say someone who can put up with me).


**

There comes a time in every girl's (or guy's) day, where she (or he) doubts her (or him) self.

(For the sake of argument, and because I am female, I'm going to go with she.)

It may even be more than once a day. It could be once an hour. It could even be more frequently than that.

And I don't mean doubting herself about a decision at work, or whether she should run to try and get the next train or whether she should just stroll and get the one after that, because she might actually miss the next one and have run for no reason.
I mean doubting that she is good enough. Good enough compared to other women, good enough to attract a partner or keep a current one. Good enough to fit in and earn respect from her peers.

Me in the morning.

I don't iron my hair so much now.

I don't put a whole lot of effort into my appearance. Not tons anyway. Lately, I've stopped straightening my hair and you're more likely to see me looking like I'm trying to blend with the pride than hanging out with the emo's.


But even when I like the way I look when I walk out of my house in the morning, I will be confronted with women that I feel are much better looking, or much better dressed than I am, and doubting whether I'll ever be able to look like that and ever be good enough.

I will probably never be thin enough. I don't have the discipline to exercise all the time, or even on a semi-regular basis, and mostly I just walk quite fast and that's all the exercise I get. And recently, I have put on weight. I have put on about 3 or 4lbs.

When I see that number on scales, I worry. I think "Oh gosh, I must stop eating so many carbs, I should only eat bread once a week or every other day instead of every day and I should stop having pasta for breakfast".
And then when my weight translates to the mirror, I don't feel I look any heavier. I don't feel any heavier. I think I've been looking quite good lately.

So then, why do I still compare myself with all the women I see every day, and why do I still doubt myself? I felt good this morning, so why do I doubt my good feelings about myself by the afternoon?

And does anyone know how I can stop please? I am so bored of hating myself.

It's like I've been taught to be unhappy with myself. Magazines tell you that you can be sexy! Because if you follow this new diet, you'll fit into this amazing new dress! And these matching heels!

Well that's already not fair. I never fit shoes. Like ever. 4's are mostly too small, but then 5's are too big. If feet could be dumb, mine are dumber.

The way I feel about myself and my body influences how comfortable I am with intimacy, as I imagine it must do with most women. What woman hasn't had a day where she felt so unsexy she wanted to keep the lights turned off?

Lately, I've developed a nasty habit of plucking hairs from my legs. I have no desire to be intimate with anyone so why should I shave or epilate (because epilation HURTS). So I pull them out every so often with tweezers, and now my legs look abominable. Scabs and new scars forming. Red, angry and pot-holed.

So the insecurity I now have about my legs (which I feel before and after I sit down and pluck at them, not during) also encourages me to doubt myself.
Not a good idea to wear shorts with those legs.

I am striving for a day where I don't hate my legs. When I don't hate any part of my body. When I have learned to eat and live healthily, and not worry about being fat or putting on 4lbs because I like bread.
Bread is really nice!

But I have to learn that my comfort with intimacy is not dependent on bread. It is dependent on me loving myself. Because "You must love yourself before you love another".

**

The intimacy I crave is familial.
My dad and sister don't really do hugs. My sister is much more comfortable with patting me on the head. My dad looks like he's being kneed in the balls whenever someone, i.e me, tries to hug him. He hates kisses. So I kiss him goodnight a lot just to annoy him. He goes "oooooooh" but not in a good way, more like "ooooh why do you put me through this torture?!"

But hugging and kissing is just how I express my love for them both.
I like to hug my cats. Not all of my cats like to be hugged though. My cat Mosh, who I frequently refer to as my baby because she is the closest I will ever come to loving something like my own child, loves cuddles too. I couldn't bear to be without Mosh.
I've noticed recently a couple of posters on my route to the station for a missing cat called Boots. Boots is described as a beloved "family pet" with a black nose and other various traits that will help us, the general public, identify him should we see him.
Mosh went missing once. My mum worried about her, but I didn't. I should have done though. Mosh was shut in a shed in the next door's garden and my mum heard her meows when she was looking for her.
Now I worry, so I like to see her every day. I like to go to the lounge and check on her when she's sitting on the back of the chair, making it black with fur.

And I am so glad when I wake up with her curled up to me.
If I wasn't single, I'd have to share my bed with someone other than Mosh. And that would be sad :(

**

Reading this blog about street harassment, one line in particular resonated with me, particularly in relation to the Neil from Addiscombe situation:

"Didn’t this man getting off the bus that night realize that I was a woman alone on the street, in  the dark? Why would he feel that situation was the time to try to approach me, a complete stranger? How many rape scenes resemble that scenario?"

Page 3 and porn stars

My next blog was going to be about intimacy, and loving myself and my family. I've already written most of it.

But something was brought to my attention that I want to address, albeit in my teeny tiny, miniscule little bit of the interwebs.

And it's this, a new campaign against Page 3 of The Sun newspaper.

I never buy The Sun. If I am ever in the vicinity of one though, curiosity gets the better of me and I always, always, open the front page to read that tiny little box housing the "opinion" of today's topless model.

I am not saying, in any way, that these models do not have the ability to form their own opinions. I'm not saying they're idiots, who couldn't possibly have any insight to the economic instability of Europe, or the Lords Reform.
What I am saying is that those boxes are futile. Whether the models write them or not, the men who read the contents of that box are looking to find out this woman's name and age. They are not looking to find out whether they could have a lively debate with her (not because they are not capable of lively debate, but because that is not the purpose of Page 3).

My sister recently posted a link to this Guardian article to a friend of Facebook. The comments she got for it were quite varied. Instantly, the guy she posted it to referred to feminists as "femo-nazis" (not to be pedantic, but the popularized term is "feminazi", so if you're going to insult us and try to belittle us by comparing us to mass-murdering fascists, please spell it correctly. We would all really appreciate it.)

He also said that women got the vote because they didn't "bitch about it", but instead got on with the "important job of running the country while the men were sent off to war". Apparently, being the men for a bit proved that women were worthy of equality. Well done women!

So at the risk of simplifying what he's saying, and women's war effort, had the opportunity not presented itself for women to physically prove they were equal to men by looking after Britain while they were gone, would women not have proved they were equal? How would they have proved this? Do we need another war to prove it again? 100 years on from the Suffrage movement, if we had real, tangible equality, we wouldn't have to keep bitching* about it, would we?


Another thing we keep bitching about, is street harassment. 
Browsing Jezebel.com today, I read this article written by a porn star about street harassment.
And the first comment said "To turn around and say "don't touch me" is both hypocritical and immature considering your whole career is centered around being "touched". Having said that, it doesn't excuse what those scumbags do, but it does explain it."

This person had essentially missed the entire point of the article. This woman, whilst she did highlight some incidents at porn conventions, she was talking about the comments, the insults, the everyday experience of being a woman on the street. How many of these men targeted her because they knew she was a porn star? It's highly unlikely any of them knew that's what she did for a living. And even if they did, why should she be harassed on the street? Why should choosing a career in adult entertainment mean an open invitation to being harassed?

At times, I've enjoyed the wolf-whistles. I gleefully reported to people that when I wore what I can only describe loosely as a top that looked like this**, builders sang to me. To ME! Little old me! I was always the nerdy girl with frizzy hair at school. But I've always been slim, and suddenly I was being appreciated for that!

But the tame wolf-whistles, and the crappy renditions of "Do-wah-diddy" or whatever they sang, are the nice anecdotes. I've had people comment on my tits, I've had men shout from the car for me to talk to them, and then when I don't, call me a whore or a bitch. These men have, it appears, a feeling of entitlement. They feel like the women of the world owe them. We should be flattered they are talking to us, so we should respond. But why the hell should we? Out of politeness? In response to your oh-so-polite conversation starter of "You have an amazing rack"?
No thank you.

And it's things like Page 3 that perpetuate the availability of women, and the objectification of women, that ensures men (not ALL men) have that sense of entitlement. That sense of entitlement is something that can be found in rapists***, and it is something that desperately needs to be tackled.

Having just looked over the comments again (of which there have been 32), the last one reads: "Feminism is believing men and women are equal. Nothing wrong with that."

Exactly.




*we will only quit our "bitching", when we don't need to bitch about misogynists and inequality anymore. So get used to it, or do something to help us.

**the "top" I owned was nowhere near as modest as this. It was string, held by bits of material at the sides. In fact, the only bit of my upper half that got any modesty was my sides. Don't worry, I'm ashamed of myself too. But it was a learning curve...

***entitlement over a victim, as rape is not about sex, but about power, and feeling entitled to having sex (vaginally, anally or orally) with the victim. I am NOT, in any way at all, saying the men that read Page 3 are rapists. I am not saying all men who objectify women (which is a very high percentage (I'm not going to guess one) of men) become rapists. I am saying that things such as Page 3, and the general objectification of women on TV, in film, and most certainly in advertising, breeds a belief that women are available for mens desire and pleasure almost all of the time, and these women are so up for it, i.e. a sense of entitlement