Middle-Aged Men Keep Ogling My 16-Year-Old
A Gen X mom explores sexuality, beauty, aging, and modern-day feminism in an era of “your body, my choice”
“This way, mom!” shouts my eldest daughter, carving a path through the throng gathered for the Fremont Solstice parade.
The parade is a wacky, wondrous annual tradition in our city, a counter-capitalism march through a once-bohemian neighborhood, and it always kicks off the same way — the riding of the naked cyclists.
Scads of people of all ages, sizes, and genders, mostly decked out in elaborate body paint and little-to-nothing else, ride up and down the parade route, leaving little to the imagination. The event isn’t sexual, just celebratory. Families bring their kids, and we all pack together and cheer for the artistry and exhibitionism of it all to celebrate the start of summer.
So my youngest and I pick up the pace and try to keep up with her. None of us want to miss a moment of the ride.
As we walk past a cafe, I notice a man and I ingest him in a flash — he’s my age; he’s kind of cute; he’s looking, no wait, he’s leering; ugh, he’s leering at my daughter, not me — as we walk past him. I catch his eye in that millisecond, glancing from her to him and back with a glare I hope wordlessly conveys a message: Knock it off, Leering Man. You’re staring at a child. My child.
He likely didn’t notice me at all, let alone my daggers.
I noticed this micro-leer moment, because I’ve experienced this scenario countless times since my eldest hit puberty at age 11, and escalating as she’s matured into the knockout she is at 16.
It’s disconcerting. It’s jarring.
It’s just weird.
And also: it’s completely commonplace.
My 16-year-old daughter is stunning.
While her facial features favor mine, she’s far prettier, and she inherited her dad’s long, lanky frame. And unlike me, she knows how to style hair, apply makeup, and invest in skincare. Maybe the beauty product gene skips a generation? Combine all that with her Gen Z propensity for tiny tank tops and ultra low-ride baggy pants, and you’ve got the idea. She’s gorgeous, she’s confident, and she knows it.
And really, why shouldn’t she?
I’ve been pondering this question and many others for ages, practically since our (male) obstetrician proclaimed, “those are labial folds!” during her 20-week ultrasound. Yes, the very first time a man responded to my daughter, he commented on her genitals. A simple “it’s a girl!” would have sufficed.
The questions pound my brain as we navigate our way through the crowd.
How can I embolden my daughters to own their beauty and move through the world with confidence, while also instilling a sense of caution about how men may respond to their bodies? How does it feel that my male peers increasingly see my underage daughters as sexual beings, but not me? How should I respond when I see my daughter objectified? Did she even notice what just transpired?
In the absence of answers and the rush of the moment, I don’t respond to Leering Man. I feel complacent, but also perhaps my default path of benign neglect may be the best response.
If I know anything at all, it’s that as women, we have to choose our battles.
I’m not a fan of modern-day hyper-sexual feminism, or what I like to call “WAP feminism.”
My eldest was 12 years old when Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion released “WAP,” and sure, one could argue how two women boldly rapping about their soaked genitalia is an act of feminist power. To my Gen X sensibilities, however, it’s playing into the patriarchy, a song — and subsequent culture — fully intended for the male gaze even as women proclaim their pussy power.
Also, I didn’t love how my daughters could recite all the lyrics when they were still in grade school.
I didn’t forbid them listening. Nothing short of taking their phones and friends away could have done that, and while I would’ve considered the former, the latter was out of the question. I couldn’t have fought it if I tried — so I didn’t.
I see this flavor of feminism permeating the “girl power” messages my daughters have heard their whole lives. Girls rule! Girls can do anything! These slogans dominated the t-shirts in the little girls’ section at Target, but then, so did the short-shorts with the one-inch inseam, starting at a shockingly young age. Now as teens, their tank tops are skimpy, their midriffs exposed. Girls can be and look like anything they want, and yet so many of them opt to look exactly as the male gaze wants them to — only this time, in the name of feminism.
I find it equal parts confounding and expected — and complicated to parent.
“That shirt isn’t school appropriate,” I told my eldest a few years back, and calling it a “shirt” was a stretch, as she tried to leave the house for middle school in essentially a sock tied around her chest.
“Mom, you’re slut-shaming me!” she protested. “You’re part of the patriarchy!”
I inwardly rolled my eyes at this absurdity.
I don’t see fashion as a one-way door, so I tend to be pretty permissive about what my kids choose to wear. I recognize she’s safe at her school. But in eighth grade, my child wasn’t allowed to expose her midriff at school, and she knew it. Those were the rules, and she was challenging them. I stood my ground, the alleged patriarchy be damned.
I am the matriarchy.
I’m not here to shame my child, or to try to squelch her sense of style or expression. But I am here to teach her about respect, propriety, and boundaries, three skills she’ll need in order to move through the world safely. That’s my job as her mom. There may be “some whores in this house,” but they’re still going to show up in appropriate attire for middle school.
“Go change your shirt,” I answered dryly.
I understand why my daughter wants to flaunt what she’s got.
I can only imagine how it feels to live in a body that aligns with current beauty standards as hers does, to never worry about one’s weight, or wonder if one can fit into the latest styles. My child knows this sort of insouciant body beauty. She’s not an athlete, she doesn’t diet. She eats with a hunger that awes me, always has; this child relishes good food and devours it with life-giving abandon.
Honestly, I’m grateful. I’d like to think her body confidence and eating inhibition comes at least in part from me, from how I’ve consciously parented her.
But her body shape does not.
Here I’m thankful she takes after her father. Turns out, my ectomorphic taste in men comes with perks for our two long, lanky, lean daughters. They’re graced with a musician’s long fingers, legs for days, and not an ounce of extra body fat between them. My eldest is a perfect size Brandy Melville, a size 25 jeans on a day when the 24s are sold out.
They’re lucky for this. I think? As I witness the lecherous leers in their directions, and recall my younger days when I was more likely to draw unwanted male attention, I’m not so sure. Is it best to walk through the world aligned to body beauty standards? Or is it easier to stay out of that spotlight and all the negative impact it can bring?
I’ve always considered myself to be a niche taste in terms of my attractiveness. If your thing is feisty, curvaceous redheads with cat-eye glasses and strong opinions — well then, you’re in luck. If not, then I’m probably not your cup of tea. And that’s okay! I tend to be drawn to odd men as well, and when stars align and two oddball people find one another and click? That’s a special sort of magic.
I’ve had an easier time navigating aging than many. Since my appearance falls outside typical beauty standards, I have less to lose as I age and become less visible to men. I’d like to think my offbeat looks have made me more resilient, and enabled me to focus on growing my intellect, interests, and other pursuits outside of my physicality. I’ve long tried to instill this in my daughters as well, that they are far more than their appearances.
And yet. Observing one’s sexual appeal diminish as ones daughter‘s blossoms is a strange sort of ache.
It’s a relief to me, to no longer draw the menacing male gaze. But it’s a sorrow to age out of desirability. It’s a heartache to recognize what doors are closing, or have already shut. It’s a guilt to feel so conflicted.
And it’s a constant worry, as a mother.
It’s hard to encapsulate the turmoil of emotions that comes with passing the leering baton.
Watching middle-aged men ogle my daughter fills me with rage. How dare they stare with such abandon at a child? How do we live in a world where this is so accepted?
Watching middle-aged men ogle my daughter fills me with indignation. Why does a 50-something man see a 50-something woman and a teenage girl and see the child as the sexual being, not his peer?
Watching middle-aged men ogle my daughter fills me with pride. Look at the way she holds her head up, how she moves through the world like she knows every ounce of her worth. It’s so much more than her physical beauty, the way my eldest takes up space and owns it without hesitation or fear.
But I know fear. Watching men ogle my daughter fills me with it.
I see the possible consequences of what can come next, when things don’t stop with silent stares. I know how vulnerable she is, as all women are. My daughter thinks she knows the potential consequences of their stares, but from the perch of my lived experience, I know she doesn’t. I hope she never will.
As I consider those possible consquences, I wish I’d lashed out at Leering Man. Suddenly I want to obliterate him, to call him out in the most unutterable way possible. I want to protect her, to place her out of range of his eyes and every other body part, of all the predatory male eyes and body parts she may ever encounter.
I want to take it all out on him.
But mostly, I want to change the way the world works, for her.
But I can’t do that. With our recent election and the onslaught of “your body, my choice” raging misogynists it’s emboldened, I recognize how the world she’s inheriting is a perilous one. I can’t change that in any way.
For now, I can only follow her lead across the crowd toward the parade.
We find our friends, who’ve thankfully saved a spot for us on the curb with a front and center view, and plunk down just as the naked cyclists begin their ride.
The artistry is incredible. A giant crow looms over the crowd, and buddies up to Darth Vader. Thing 1 and Thing 2 ride past on matching bikes. And my personal favorite, a cyclist costumed as Chappel Roan zooms by, waving and lip-syncing, alongside her friend dressed as a pink pony.
I smile as I watch the painted private parts zip by, colorful and strange. I can’t think of a better way to show-not-tell my kids about body positivity, how bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and how nudity can be joyous when shared consensually. They can see how it’s okay to gaze at bodies with wonder, humor, appreciation, and good intent.
I needed to see that, too. It emboldens me to check in with my daughter.
“Did you see that guy totally check you out earlier?” I ask her, keeping it light but watching for her reaction.
She doesn’t look away from the cyclists as she responds. “That old dude by the cafe?”
“Yep, that one.”
She rolls her eyes toward me. “Whatever, he was like, your age,” she replies, indifferent. Then she rummages in her bag, drags out a mirror and cosmetics bag, and takes a look at her reflection.
“Ugh, my makeup is already a mess!”
Now she’s dismayed, her smudged eyeliner making far more of an impact than some “old dude” ever could.
The male gaze will always be there: flirting, threatening, and interrupting our freedom to move through the world without fear. It’s a tale as old as time, a legacy to be passed from mother to daughter ad infinitum.
My daughter totally knows this, and understands why men stare at her, with a composure beyond her years.
I’ve prepared my child to be mindful of safety. I’ve taught her not to lead with the male gaze when making decisions about how to present her own body. We’ve had frank conversations about how men respond to her based on her appearance, and I’ve allowed her to test and learn how she wants to show up in the world — within limits, like classrooms.
I hope it’s been enough.
A few months later — a few weeks after the Presidential election — I check in with my daughter again. As she opens the refrigerator door for a snack, I ask how she feels, now coming of age in the era of “your body, my choice.”
She turns to look at me like I’m insane. “How do you think it makes me feel??”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “But I mean, how do you think it will impact you? How will you change your actions as a result?”
She retorts without hesitation. “Why would I change my actions?”
She grabs a pomegranate and shuts the fridge door. As she grabs a cutting board and knife and begins to extract the seeds, my mind wanders back to that sunny solstice day, as my eldest trail-blazed us through the crowd.
“This way, mom!” she calls to me.
I’ll always be trying to keep up with her.
Greetings!
I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of two Medium publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns and Three Imaginary Girls. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.
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Great piece about you and your daughter in the age of “your body my choice.” I was so delighted with the end! Thank you!
Thank you so much!!