RACHEL'S COLUMNS

These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age

Facing the core issue and moving on
24th September 2004

If you've been hearing loud repetitive thumping sounds the last few days, relax, it's only me slapping myself in the forehead. Back in the dawn of time-in the '70s, women realised that although men are fabulous creatures, they don't have to be the centre of our universe. It's been a while now since women have had to depend on men financially and certainly we don't require a man to enhance our status in the community – just ask Monica Lewinsky.

Don't misunderstand, I'd rather be woken up by a lover telling me that my toast is ready just the way I like it – with my favorite jam on the side and a huge mug of coffee, than being stunned out of sleep by my own snoring, any day. But if I bung on a low-cut dress and some mascara so that I feel and look fabulous standing next to the man I'm with (whatever our leasing arrangement is) does that make me a floozy?

I almost choked on my Weetbix listening to callers on talkback the morning after the Brownlow. "Those girls all look like ticky tacky, exactly the same – thin, big lips, big breasts all over the shop. They're asking for it!" Another throwback from 1952 said, "How can they be comfortable in those high heels, they should be wearing sensible shoes with a good solid back on them." Some commentators suggested that in order to get noticed the women who attended the Brownlow had to bear cleavage and as much flesh as possible and that these expectations put them under enormous pressure. What medication are these experts on?

The women, who attend this event or any other with their main squeeze, want to look the best they can for themselves! They like what they see in the mirror and so do their partners – and the problem is? Excuuuuuuse me, but I don't believe these women feel compromised, nor are they stupid, or needy and nor are they "asking for it". They know they'll be photographed and admired, or not, it's their choice to participate in this transaction. But from what I could see they all looked spectacularly empowered and certainly not as if they needed rescuing.

It's that old chestnut "she's asking for it" that makes me want to drag my nails down a blackboard. If only Eve hadn't been hormonal that day and bitten the apple, we'd all still be in Paradise – correct? Because this must be the source of the "she's asking for it" theory. Eve came from Adam's rib cage and the cage still haunts her.

Back in the late '80s a lacrosse team – 14 guys – at an American college, raped a woman. The defense lawyer tried to cast doubt on her lack of consent by producing a witness who testified that he observed her speaking flirtatiously to a member of the team, engaging in sexual banter and she'd had several vodka and orange drinks. I do those things nearly every time I leave my house after 6pm. The more I think about this the more cranky I get; not only am I a trollop but nearly every woman I know must be a trollop. Sorry, but a couple of vodkas have never made me want to sleep with 14 guys wearing crash helmets and let's face it, the chances of running into 14 guys that my mother would approve of are pretty slim.

Any 50 eligible bachelors in Cleo will tell you they love "independent, assertive, sporty, sexy women". All those qualities are terrific until you're raped or violated in some way and then suddenly anything you ever did indicates that you were " asking for it". Hooley dooley, I'm three weeks overdue at the library with my book return – I must be a total whore!

We've spent years telling women that they have the sexual freedoms and rights their brothers enjoy. Why then, when a young woman acts on those rights and stands confidently and with poise on her stilettos, suddenly it's 1954? How can we ask questions about what she's wearing and what became of her virtue and her shame, when billboards are encouraging us all to use condoms, seek help for erectile dysfunction and bare our backsides? It was just one bite of an apple – can't we move on?