Last week on Facebook, I shared the following post in response to #metoo.

Instead of all the victims stating “me too”, how about all the perpetrators state “it was me.”

Then I walked away, thinking it wasn’t me.

But it was me.

I’ve perpetuated the culture, as if not having sexually assaulted a woman is all it took to make me a feminist.

I’ve lied about having sex with an almost unconscious drunk girl, as if having people think I’m a sex offender was better than having them know I was a virgin.

I’ve told and laughed at Trump-esque “locker room jokes” as if women only deserve respect while within earshot.

I’ve used accusations of femininity as if the mere idea of being a woman is worse than any form of manhood.

I’ve complained about being friend zoned, as if my emotions and desires should automatically outweigh those of a woman.

I’ve demanded that a girl give me love along with sex, as if her sharing her body with me also gives me ownership of her heart.

I’ve had sex with women who loved me without returning the feelings, as if my sexual desires overrode their emotional ones.

I’ve expected a “second performance” as if having sex with me once automatically gave me the right to expect it again.

I’ve worn a mask of masculinity as if being a fake man is better than being a real woman.

The majority of responses were applause along the lines of “you’re so brave to admit that.” One lady called it right, though. Admitting to past wrongs doesn’t count as penance. Saying “I did it” is nowhere near the same as saying “I’m sorry.” It’s even farther from making things right.

The only way to make up for the past is to be a better future.

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