I'm not sure I'd call it "straight panic," but just plain fear, and anger. In any case, it doesn't surprise me; any woman (lesbian or not) who says she's never wanted to pummel a harrasser into ground hamburger is either in denial, or lying.
I grant you, there is a "special" kind of anger lesbians have for straight men who want to "straighten" us out. No woman should be cornered, but I'm guessing it's more acceptable (or at least less
un-acceptable) in the game between straight men and straight women. In the straight world, men are the predators, women the prey... That doesn't make it right, but I think it's more accepted that straight women are
supposed to spend their lives fending off unwelcome advances.
Now, watch as dozens of straight DUers jump down my throat. Just remember, I didn't say it was
right -- just part of the War Between (Straight) Men and Women.
But when a straight man won't take no for an answer from a lesbian, he's succeeded in negating our identity --
again, just like every other moron who told us we were just going through a "phase," or tells us we can't get married because our relationships aren't as real or valid as hetero couplings.
The rage I feel at being dismissed, reduced to such
nothingness like that, has at times been indescribable.
Not that it's in my nature to be violent -- despite my contrary
verbal nature, I'm gentler than a lamb in real life, and will do almost anything to defuse a bad situation and avoid (physical) confrontation altogether.
But there were two times in my life the rational Sapph checked out, and the beast took over...
Both incidents were remarkably similar, and both occurred in early adulthood -- let me just tell you about the more memorable one:
When I was 18, I was walking with my then-gf down a city street at night, when she lagged behind for a moment to look at something in a shop window. I turned to see where she'd disappeared to, and to my horror, saw that out of nowhere there had appeared two real, live, big, scary Hell's Angels, one on either side of her, chatting her up. I was momentarily frozen to the spot as I tried to size up the situation, quickly deciding that it was all OK, as long as they didn't touch her...
Of course, that's when one of them touched her. All he did was put an arm around her shoulders, but that was enough. All rationale went south, and adrenalin took over; I went at him in a dead run, both arms stretched straight out in front of me, and -- hissing,
"You GET your fuckin' hands OFF her!" -- smashed my open palms directly into his chest, pushing him back a good four or five feet and almost knocking him down.
I was sure he and his buddy would kill me right then and there, but I guess the move was so unexpected -- imagine this short little dyke lunging, full-bore, at this big, hairy biker number right out of Central Casting -- he just blinked, collected himself, raised his hands in defense and said, almost softly, "Oh...! I get it! Dykes! OK... OK..." And the two dudes just turned around and walked away. (Talk about an anticlimax... Thank goodness!)
Of course, only after they were gone did my knees buckle. I felt like I was going to throw up.
I can't even begin to describe the rage inside me when I ran at the guy. No, he
didn't know we were lesbians, or lovers, when he came on to my gf -- but that didn't matter right at that moment. He ended up getting the brunt of all my pent-up anger at
all the men who
did know I was gay and tried to corner me, or come on to whoever I was with (and there was already a fair number of times that had happened to me, even by the age of 18).
So, Jamastiene, I'm still waiting for your big bombshell. ;) Seriously, I can't imagine any woman who
doesn't understand. I had major revenge fantasies about a guy who tried to rape me when I was just a teenager -- until I realized the revenge fantasies were coming out of me blaming
myself for the attack. Which is what women are conditioned to do: blame ourselves for the actions of subhumans who view us as nothing more than sperm receptacles. (How does that exchange go between Celie and Shug in "The Color Purple"? Something like: "He just gets on top of me and does his business." "You make it sound like he's going to the bathroom on you!" "Well, that's what it feels like.")
One thing that helped me, immeasurably, put the whole thing into perspective -- and channel my anger where it belongs -- was
BAMM (now called Impact Bay Area). No doubt you've heard of the women's self-defense classes where you just get to whale, full force, on a guy in a padded suit -- that's what this is. Learning some great moves to defend myself was certainly valuable on its own -- but 90% of what I got out of it was the ultimate feeling of (hold on to your gag reflexes, boys and girls, I'm about to use a hackneyed feminist cliche!)
empowerment. Having to confront my most basic fears and tap into my own well of self-protection, five hours a day, five Sundays in a row, was emotionally devastating (and was much more so for the shockingly high number of students who had survived childhood sexual abuse, and/or been raped, some repeatedly) -- and was the best catharsis on earth.
I've never had to use any techniques I learned (knock wood), but, more than ten years later, I know that if I were accosted now, I could deal with it. More importantly, I know I could deal with it
emotionally.