Don’t Touch Without Permission

Something I was too timid to say

I became an adult in the 1980s, before the “Me Too” furor. It was a decade when national newspapers (admittedly the trashy red-tops) published images of topless girls as a ‘feature’, the cameramen on pop-music shows regularly upskirted the female performers and Gail Porter’s nude image was projected onto the Houses of Parliament.

It’s undeniable. The social mores of the 1980s left plenty of loopholes for predatory males to say inappropriate things and make physical contact that was not invited. The recipients, mostly the female population, were supposed to laugh along, be a good sport, take it as a joke (despite being disrespected and creeped out by it). Racial and homophobic comments and behavior were also rife, but I can only recount what happened to me.

I had a driving instructor who abused his position to get his kicks.

Although I am no great brain, I’ve always done well in class, but I stumble at practical challenges: playing sports, or using fabric and a sewing machine. I struggle to improve my basic technique, the way I do things. I can concede I needed more practice, but it doesn’t seem that coaching or advice help me correct bad technique.

I used to blame it on bad hand/eye coordination. Some disciplines, like typing and Pilates, have improved with regular application. My skill for tennis, netball or ten-pin bowling have not benefitted from practice, thus I feared it would be the same when learning to drive.

Still, I started with high hopes. In my first informal lesson with my father in my mum’s “run around” car, I couldn’t even start the engine; I flooded it with too much choke. We sat in a large empty car park and waited for it to ‘recover’. That failure had me re-setting my sights: Low. My dad wasn’t blessed with much patience, while I got panicky, defensive and tearful. After kangarooing horribly, because I couldn’t get biting point, I had made no progress. My father suggested he pay for me to take driving lessons.

I had procrastinated about learning for so long, that most of my friends were already drivers. With no one to recommend a good instructor, I sourced “Derek” from the local free paper.

Derek was old enough to be my father, but his appearance gave me the ick. His teeth and fingers were yellow from nicotine and his hair was slicked back like a rock’n’roll greaser. On the plus side, he was patient and spoke kindly to me. He had dual control so he could slam on the brake if necessary and with him, I found ‘biting point’ and drove the car sensibly, if a little slowly, around the quiet streets.

It seemed almost natural when Derek rested his hand on my left leg. His reminder that it was my clutch foot and to go gently when releasing it — perhaps all driving instructors did this.

A less timid, more worldly-wise person would probably have seen the red flag here. I think I was on ‘amber’ — it did seem a bit too familiar, but Derek did it so casually that he had me fooled. Plus I was woefully inexperienced with men and the ways of the world.

After two lessons, he suggested I was ready to progress from a Saturday morning lesson driving on residential streets to ‘traffic’. Derek would pick me up from my office so I could drive in rush hour.

My work wardrobe differed from the jeans I wore at the weekend: a skirt and heels. On that day Derek’s hand lingered, even wandering on my thigh. I was wearing stockings and suspenders, under my skirt as that’s what I preferred. Unfortunately, Derek seemed just as keen.

His hand-on-leg behavior that day gave me the creeps. I made a point to change into trousers before future driving lessons. But I didn’t have the confidence to tell him to stop.

My younger brother was ready to learn to drive, so I recommended Derek as an instructor. After his first lesson, I talked to my brother about how he was finding learning to drive. Then I tentatively mentioned the way Derek rested his hand on my leg to remind me about clutch control.

“He does what?” My brother stopped chewing mid-sandwich.

“Doesn’t he do that to you?” I asked.

“He certainly doesn’t!” was his disgusted reply.

I finally had my confirmation, he didn’t touch the thigh of a boy but he thought it was OK with a girl. It was not standard practice for an instructor, and it was most likely a sexual move. I felt disgusted and ashamed of myself for being a fool. I had been used.

My brother and I canceled our lessons with Derek. When I asked around to find another instructor, I discovered Derek had a reputation. He had left his wife to set up home with one of his pupils, a girl about my age. I concluded that younger girls were Derek’s thing, but I wasn’t prepared to give him his ‘jollies’.

It took me quite a few more lessons to pass my test and two more driving instructors. The guy who was my final instructor was very polite and seemed genuinely pleased and proud of me when I passed.

He asked, “May I give you a hug?” and I appreciated his respectful behavior, especially after lessons with ‘Derek’.

My advice to any young woman:

“Don’t consider whether it sounds polite, if someone makes you feel uncomfortable, tell them to back off or stop.”

Around the time I was learning to drive, the internet didn’t exist, so I wish I’d confided in someone or had guidance on the meanings of common physical touches.

A ‘learning to drive’ story with a carefree message from Marie A. Rebelle

Legs can be a distraction, read this from May More 💜 Tales