https://goo.gl/nk1Uw9
When I was in my twenties, I used to joke with friends that well over 200 people had seen me naked:
“It’s like I’m a stripper, but without the dollars in my G-string, collagen- injected body, thumping music, sticky stage, fawning audience, strobe lights, drugs and alcohol, steak and shrimp buffet, glitter…”
I’m being hyperbolical. Sometimes when I’m stripped down glitter hits the floor. Don’t ask.
I’ve met strangers while sitting on the toilet using the bathroom.
“Hey, Emily! This is _____. My shift is ending and she’s going to take you off the toilet.”
I stick out my hand for a fist bump or handshake in an introductory greeting.
“Nice to meet you,” We smile at one another. “Oh, and by the way, it’s the second day of my period. My pads are in the cupboard on the left.”
Every single day of my life I’m seen and touched in intimate ways without giving explicit consent. It’s a quid pro quo, a tit for a tat, an unspoken acceptance that if I want to get out of bed, use the bathroom, get dressed, and go to work to earn a paycheck that I must, in return, sacrifice my privacy and often my dignity.