When Women Become Invisible, We Become Cockblockers

Cougars, it’s your turn to gawk

I’m looking forward to becoming totally invisibleThen, I get to bug men at the swimming pool while they’re trying to look around me to get a glimpse of something younger and firmer.

I get to be the one critiquing their flip-turns. I can’t wait to say, “Hey buddy, nice flip-turn. I liked the way your ass looked when you were in mid- summersault. Are you an ass model?”

Yep. I plan on being a dirty-old woman who makes men flinch as I cross the lane lines to tell them what I think about their stroke.

“Hey, baby. I’ve been watching you from lane four. I had to come over right away and ask you, were you in the Olympics? I couldn't swim one more stroke until I knew.”

I’m not doing it to women, though. I’m a femogonist. Pronounced fem-og-in-ist. It’s like a misogynist with breasts. But ladies, when I become a boundariless, gawking, foaming at the mouth, tell-it-like-it-is, whippersnapper, I’m leaving you alone.

Your flip-turns are your own. Even when you’re adorable, and I want to tell you about how I used to be young and fine, I’m shutting my trap. I’m reserving all my unsolicited flattery to those meat sticks in swim shorts.

I might even Swiss Guard your ass, so no one else approaches you either. What’s that called? Cockblocking. Yeah, I’m going to become one of those. A cockblocker.

I’ve had enough drop-dead gorgeous friends to have some experience with invisibility. I know what I’m talking about. I’m not romanticizing not being seen. Invisibility has its place.

I had a friend who was a ballet dancer and also had curves. When we went to the beach, I could have been nude sunbathing and slathering up with Coppertone, and still, people would have scooched up to her, sliding me and my slippery ass aside.

It was relaxing, though. Because as a female, I was normally on the receiving end of gawking. It was refreshing being fly on the wall to misogyny. It was like a break, a hiatus, a vacation, an anthropological experiment. But in retrospect, I should have shooed those men away with a stick, even if they weren't coming for me.

Men would approach her like she was sitting inside a booth where the sign read, “Men Wanted. Please approach and critique how my body looks in my bikini. Don’t hold back. Please tell me how it makes you feel. Don’t forget to get my number before you leave.” It would be a long sign, maybe more like a banner. She handled it like a champ, though, in my opinion, she was too polite.

Being polite to men hitting on me was never my affliction. I’ve always believed, almost religiously, that unwanted visitors deserved immediate reprimand. Almost as if they were disrespecting a commanding officer. “Fuck off” or “Take a picture” are my reliable go-to's. You’re welcome to use them. I won’t sue you for copyright infringement. They’re public property, not like women’s bodies.

I’m from the South Side of Chicago, see? I’m not from one of those places where people are sweet no matter what is occurring. I’m nice enough to order a cup of coffee without throwing it on the barista if it’s the wrong temperature. I am not, however, going to pretend I find you attractive just because you find me attractive.

Anyway, my friend knew she looked fantastic in her swimsuit. She didn’t need to spend her day fielding compliments, like the press secretary of her body. But some men are like Chris Colombus when it comes to women's bodies. They think if they can just plant their flag in there, they’ve discovered America.

This is why I’m looking forward to cockblocking and making men uncomfortable in swimming pools in my twilight years. I don’t want to be petty, but what goes around comes around. An eye for an eye. An unwelcome body critique for an unwelcome body critique.

If you're showing me your stuff, I’m going to tell you what I think about it, how it makes me feel, and all the trimmings. If you see something say something. I might even get your number. A slap on the ass for a slap on the ass.

You want a woman’s attention? You’ll get it. It just might not be the year of wine you were hoping for. I’m blocking that one from your chicken tenders.