by Helen Ellis
Along with her blue eyes and compulsive need to compliment strangers (I too now can’t let a manicure or face full of freckles go unmentioned), I’ve inherited a gene that tells me how to behave when I walk in on a construction worker masturbating in my apartment.
What you do is freeze. The door to your bedroom is shut and from behind it is coming a lot of heavy breathing. You tell yourself he’s watching a Bruce Willis movie on his iPhone on his lunch break. You’re tempted to swing open the door and holler, “YIPPEE-KI-YAY, MOTHERFUCKER!” But then you hear what sounds like an otter stuck in a pickle jar.
You do not open the door.
You do not reprimand the construction worker through the closed door.
You do not clear your throat or call out, “I’m home!”
You leave the premises and make a phone call.
This is what a smartphone truly is for. Not for Instagramming pictures of the sky outside your airplane window or asking Siri what year Die Hard came out. A smartphone is for calling your interior designer from a street corner to tell him to call his employee and tell him to go. Ladies who confront masturbators in their apartments get murdered.
Manners keep you safe.
Mama says, “Helen Michelle, a lot of women have trouble saying no and then find themselves in worse situations because they were afraid of being rude. So, if you have trouble saying no, say ‘No, thank you.’ Let’s practice.”
“Okay.”
Mama says, “Miss, would you like to climb into the back of my unmarked van?”
I say, “No, thank you.”
Mama says, “Would you like to have a business meeting in my hotel room?
I say, “No, thank you.”
Mama says, “Would you like to drink something out of a gas funnel?”
I say, “No, thank you.”
“Sex on a bed of nails? Juggle live monkeys? Stick your head in an alligator’s mouth? Stab an icepick between your fingers as fast as you can?”
“Mama!”
“Let me hear it, Helen Michelle.”
“No, thank you.”
For more than two decades in New York City, Mama’s advice has served me well. And more and more I find myself wanting to impart her etiquette to others.
On the subway, I’ll ask my husband, “Why is that man rifling through his bag? He shouldn’t look the way he does and get onto a subway and rifle through a bag. I’m going to tell him.”
“Helen, that’s racial profiling.”
“It’s not racial profiling if he’s in camo and night-vision goggles on the 6 train. You don’t plant yourself in front of the exit doors and dig in a bag. He looks like a nut job. What’s he rooting for? Oh, his Purell.”
“Helen, please don’t say anything.”
“Well, he should know better. Someone should tell him he’s frightening us for no reason. Someone should also tell him not to Purell in public. He might as well be rolling deodorant onto his armpits.”
Upon hearing this story, my mother adapts like a ninja. In case of a terrorist, she instructs me to carry a makeshift weapon to benefit myself and others, like Granddaddy carried a lighter or Grandmother carried Certs.
“Helen Michelle, what you do is empty a fake lemon juice lemon and fill it with hairspray. Then, when you squeeze it, it’s a direct stream to the eyes. It’s blinding and completely legal.”
Call her crazy or crafty, it’s how my mother has taught me to survive. I’ve been mugged three times and come out unscathed. One time, I forgot the lemon. When the mugger said, “Give me your bags,” I said, “No, thank you,” and stepped around him like he was a perfume spritzer at Bloomingdale’s.
HOW I WATCH
PORNOGRAPHY
LIKE A LADY
I watch pornography like a lady because pornography finds me.
I don’t know if pornography finds everyone on Twitter or if it finds me because of my account name: American Housewife. Apparently American housewife is a popular search term in the pornography industry. Apparently folks like to see an ordinary, everyday housewife have sex with a stranger—be he repairman, yardman, or seven-foot-tall transient of another race or ethnicity with a penis the size of a T-shirt gun lured to the suburbs from a bus depot.
I like to see this for about a minute and twelve seconds, which, on average, is how long a Twitter pornography clip lasts—1:12 is enough for me because it’s the surprise that’s arousing. Pornography is like seeing someone juggle and thinking, Huh, I juggle. Is that what I look like juggling? Or Huh, I juggle bowling pins, but that lady right there juggles flaming chainsaws. I gotta see that.
So, I watch. And then, I enjoy myself. “Enjoy myself” is Southern Lady Code for clitoral stimulation and a nap.
My husband asks, “I don’t have porn in my Twitter stream, does it just show up?”
“No,” I say. “It gloms onto me as followers. Like suckerfish on a whale. I have a friend whose last name is Weed, and she gets followers with pot leaves as their avatars.”
My husband asks, “So, you actively seek out porn?”
“No,” I say, “but I have to find it to report it.”
Here’s how you spot a Twitter pornographer: The avatar is a picture of an erect penis, a man with his hand on his erect penis, bare breasts, or—if you are wondering what that is a close-up of—vaginal labia. Sometimes there’s no avatar, but the bald gray silhouette has a name like a NASA password, hasn’t tweeted, and is following the likes of Dubai Call Girls, Indian Sex Videos, Horny Slut, and Massage for Ladies.
Click such a new follower, scroll down one post, and there you have it: Twitter pornography. For example: a video of a woman spread-eagled on her stovetop, gripping her ankles like S.O.S pads.
My husband says, “So you do watch it.”
“Yes,” I say. “But I don’t pay for it or Google it. I’m a lady. I’m discreet. I put my finger over the camera lens so it won’t see me watching. Besides, I don’t want to get blackmailed.”
My husband says, “You’re not going to get blackmailed. But is that why you report it? Like, as an insurance policy? Or because you feel guilty?”
“A little of both,” I say. “I guess it’s like some women run on a treadmill after they were naughty and ate a muffin. But mainly I report it because I’m a lady. I didn’t ask to see it. It’s like a freak show. Sure, every once in a while, I want to see a guy hammer nails up his nose, but I don’t want a bunch of carnies showing up at my door uninvited and pitching tents inside my house.”
“Or force-feeding you muffins,” says my husband.
“Exactly,” I say.
Twitter writes: “Help us understand the problem with @hornyguy1968. What issue are you reporting?”
My choices are: “I’m not interested in this account,” “They are tweeting spam,” “It appears their account is hacked,” “They’re pretending to be me or someone else,” “Their Tweets are abusive or hateful,” or “Their profile info and/or image include abusive or hateful content.”
Since there is no category for pornography, I pick “Tweets are abusive and hateful.”
Twitter writes: “How is @hornyguy1968 being abusive or hateful?”
My choices are: “Being disrespectful or offensive,” “Engaging in targeted harassment,” “Directing hate against a race, religion, gender, or orientation,” “Threatening violence or physical harm,” or “Contemplating suicide or self-harm.”
Since there is no category for pornography, I pick “Being disrespectful or offensive.”
Twitter writes: “We understand that you may not want to see every Tweet of @hornyguy1968, and we’re sorry you saw something on Twitter that offended you.” Turns out Twitter speaks Southern Lady Code. “Sorry you saw something that offended you” is Southern Lady Code for: Get that stick out of your butt, Mis
s Prissy Pants.
My choices to disassociate with the pornography are “mute” or “block.” Mute makes the pornographer disappear from my view. Block makes us both disappear from each other’s.
I block @hornyguy1968.
Out of more than 15,000 followers, I’ve recently blocked 208 because I am a lady. But I fear that Twitter pornographers are like mice: you kill one in your kitchen, there are thirty more in the walls.
So, I decide to look deeper. I decide to clean my virtual house. And I do it the only way I know how: I look at each of my followers one at a time.
You are who you associate with, and as I scroll through my newest 1,600 followers, for the most part I find married women and moms, sorority girls and gay men, yogis and professional organizers, librarians and booksellers. But mixed in are ninety-eight pornographers. And they ain’t all posting American housewife amateur porn.
Here are the video cover images I saw, but did not click: a naked woman penetrated by a penis in her every orifice; a naked woman wearing a hijab with a penis in her anus, being choked; what looked to be a naked twelve-year-old girl holding her breast; and—I can barely stand to write it—a naked woman bent over a bed in front of a donkey.
I feel nauseated and assaulted.
These can’t all be willing participants. How are these things in existence, much less on Twitter? How is what I’ve so easily found not monitored and policed?
So, I try a new tactic to get Twitter’s attention: instead of reporting tweets, I report that a profile image is abusive or hateful.
Twitter takes notice. “What kind of content does their profile image contain?”
My choices are: “Adult,” “graphic,” or “hateful.”
Since there is no category for pornography, I pick “Adult.”
Twitter writes: “If we find that this account is violating the Twitter Rules, we will take action on it.”
I don’t know the Twitter Rules, but I’m willing to bet gang bangs, rape, pedophilia, and donkey sex are in the Don’ts column.
Twitter writes: “We appreciate your help in improving everyone’s experience on Twitter. Your 7 reports over the past hour will help make this a safer and better place.” And then they list the accounts I reported, so I am made to see them again: avatars of penises and accounts named IWank, Bigman, Traphoe, and Dick Sanchez, whose avatar is Anthony Weiner.
My husband asks, “Did Twitter delete their accounts?”
I say, “I don’t know. They confirmed that I reported them but don’t say what they did about it.”
My husband says, “They should. Do you want me to check?”
“No!” I say. “I don’t want that in your history.”
“So you’ll check?”
“No!” I say. “I’m not going to go snooping around accounts I reported. Why is it my job to double-check if Twitter is doing something about it?”
But I do. I email Twitter and set up a phone call with someone in their public relations department. She is polite and patient, but the gist is: Twitter allows porn.
As long as the Twitter account or its tweets are marked as containing sensitive media, or the sensitive media is hidden behind an interstitial, or the sensitive media does not appear in the account’s avatar or header, it’s cool.
Sensitive media includes adult content, which is defined by Twitter as “Any media that is pornographic and/or may be intended to cause sexual arousal.” Examples given are “full or partial nudity (including close-ups of genitals, buttocks, or breasts),” “simulating a sexual act,” and “intercourse or any sexual act (may involve humans, humanoid animals, cartoons, or anime).”
I have no idea what a humanoid animal is, but like pornography, I guess I’ll know it when I see it. And if I see something that violates Twitter Rules, I’m told how to report it. As when I see pornography, I get the sinking feeling I’ve been doing it wrong. I need to report the tweet. And if I want to stop seeing pornography altogether, I should make my account private or go to my safety settings and uncheck the box that reads, “Display media that may contain sensitive content.”
But taking all of these actions won’t stop pornography accounts from following me.
I don’t know what Twitter gets out of hosting pornography accounts, or what pornography accounts get out of following me. Do they want me to visit their sites and type in my credit card to watch more than 1:12?
I’m not going to do that.
Do they want me to become desensitized to the abuse and objectification of women?
I’m not going to do that.
Do they want me to stop reporting and blocking, and just relax, reset my privacy settings, and accept that pornography is part of my world?
Honestly, I consider it.
But now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen, I can’t go back to watching what I thought was “okay” pornography. For every video of consensual adults playing Cuisinart in the kitchen, something sinister must exist. Doesn’t one form of pornography enable the other? It must. Within the Twitter walls, it’s multiplying like mice. In the last twenty-four hours, two out of six of my new followers have been bald gray silhouettes with a penchant for women who unroll their bodies like airplane evacuation slides. Plus, I still have more than thirteen thousand followers left to investigate. And I can tell you, I’m so repulsed and exhausted, I want to quit.
But I’m not going to do that.
This is my house, and I will escort every unwelcome guest out. Because I am a lady. And from now on, I’ll use my imagination to enjoy myself.
DUMB BOOBS
Right before my forty-seventh birthday, my gynecologist told me I had to get a follow-up mammogram because I have “dense breasts.” “Dense breasts” is the term du jour. This year, every woman I know has dense breasts. Or as I like to call them: dumb boobs. Dumb boobs flunk mammograms. Suddenly all the women in my age bracket have breasts that have thickened like congealed New England clam chowder. If cancer is a green pea in that soup, radiologists can’t see that pea. So our dumb boobs have to be retested. Or take harder tests. Dumb boobs.
So back I went to Lenox Hill Radiology, which is run like a Burger King. You’re in and you’re out in half an hour, and the technicians handle your tits with the ease and nonchalance of someone flipping flame-broiled patties.
And here’s my advice about radiology technicians: you want the ones who look like flight attendants who’ve been pushing a cart since the days of coffee, tea, or me. You want older women. Been there, done that women. Weathered women. “Weathered” is Southern Lady Code for someone left the cake out in the rain (and the cake is that someone).
The last time I had a technician under thirty, she was stunning, with winged eyeliner and red lipstick, but her answer to my hello was: “So you don’t get your period?”
I was there for a sonogram because I had a twinge in my belly where my low-rise jeans cut me off. I said, “How old do you think I am?”
She said, “I didn’t look at your age on your chart. Are you here for an abdominal or vaginal test?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
She said, “You’ve got good insurance, you might as well have both.”
I said, “No, thank you.”
She left to find out what test she was supposed to administer, then came back and said, “The front desk spoke to your doctor and he says it’s abdominal.”
“He?” I said. “Who do you think my gynecologist is?”
She looked at my chart and confirmed that my gynecologist’s first name is very much a woman’s name in the way that Jennifer, Dorinda, and Clarice are most definitely women’s first names. She explained, “Oh, I call all doctors he because most doctors are men.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, “be a good little feminist!”
We did not speak for the remainder of my test, whi
ch turned out fine. I bought a larger pair of jeans. No more abdominal twinge.
The technician who gives me my follow-up mammogram has a thick gray ponytail and never stops talking. She tells me about her family’s history of breast cancer and calls me honey and baby more than my husband has done in our long life together.
I come from generations of women who do not like to be called honey or baby or anything else that a sexually harassed waitress or secretary or CEO might be called. Mama used to reprimand Papa for calling her “your mother” when he spoke about her to my sister or me.
“My name is Helen!” Mama would shout from another room.
My name is also Helen, and I ask for so much respect that my husband’s pet name for me is Mrs. Haris.
But here in this exam room with my top off with this stranger, her terms of endearment are a comfort to me. She sees the likes of me—I’d estimate—four times an hour, eight hours a day. She knows that I’m anxious, whether I want to admit it or not.
If there is a word for the opposite of a hypochondriac, I am that word. I take care of myself, but I don’t panic. A headache is just a headache. A cold doesn’t need antibiotics. I don’t Google symptoms. But I do practice preventative care. “Preventative care” is Southern Lady Code for sunscreen to ward off skin cancer and a crossword a day to keep Alzheimer’s away. I get annual checkups and, even though I have no maternal family history of breast cancer, since I turned forty, I get mammograms once a year.
But a friend of mine is fifty-eight and never had a mammogram because she’s afraid of radiation. My paternal grandaunt, who wore a leopard-print bikini well into her sixties, was so terrified of a mastectomy, she never went to a doctor until cancer ate a hole clean through her skin. One in twenty women are so terrified of finding cancer or something that looks like cancer—another technician told me—that they faint with a breast wedged in the machine. Some women bring rosary beads into the exam room. Some cry. It’s understandable. The lead aprons and metallic nipple stickers don’t put you at ease.
