I Tried to Say 'Yes' to Every Creepy Guy That Approached Me On the Street

This article originally appeared on VICE France

One Saturday night, while waiting for my train at Paris' République Station, a stranger asked: "Should we get to know each other a bit better?"

"Okay," I replied. The guy froze and stared at me as if I was messing with him.

"Really? You're actually up for it?" he said, laughing. "I'm not used to that!" Well, to be fair, neither am I.

See, I had decided that, for two weeks, I would attempt to say "yes" to every single stranger that hit on me on the street and engage them in conversation. You know, just to see what would happen. I wanted to get into their heads and find out who they are, if their tricks worked and, perhaps most importantly, whether or not they were aware that women get fed up of it. The only thing limiting me would be my instinct. You should always listen to that beep-beep echoing in your head and bolt from whatever situation you're in as soon as you feel uncomfortable – even if the person you are with is telling you that everything is normal. This metro station guy, however, didn't set off any of my alarm bells.

So, we got chatting. Things were a little uncomfortable; me standing stiff as a lamppost, him sitting on a little chair with his hands joined. Hicham, Judith – we ever so politely introduced ourselves to each other.

"I love Paris because you ladies always wear classy pink dresses like that," he felt the need to tell me. We began small talking about how he comes from Picardie and plays soccer. Sadly, he seemed completely horrified when he found out I was a kid.

"What? You're 29? I don't believe you," he said disappointedly. I desperately tried to revive the now-dead conversation by firing off every question I could think of: "Is it tough to be an athlete? Where are you from in Picardie? Do you like, uhm, stuff?" By then, he was only answering in mumbled single-syllable words. Punishing.

"I won't hold you back Judith, your man must be waiting for you," he said in a final attempt to escape from the chat. We stood silently beside each other, waiting for the metro for two painful minutes without uttering a word, without knowing where to hide – a bit like when you take the elevator with your boss. When the train finally arrived, I got into my carriage, put my headphones on and watched him purposely choose a seat as far away from me as possible. This "I'm just going to say yes to everything" experiment was off to a miserable start.

That Sunday, while returning from a particularly sweaty jog, a guy approached me as I was putting my keys in the front door.

"Into sport, darling?" he said.

"I try," I answered, probably being a bit too nice.

He was in his forties and wearing a beige parka – the "dad look".

"That's great! I certainly hope you're wearing enough support? Because it seems like there's a lot to support there, if you know what I mean!

"Right?" Just to make things crystal clear, he began miming breasts and pouting his lips. "If I was brave enough, I'd ask if I could touch them. Fuck it, I am brave enough! Can I? I have money if you want!" That's when I interrupted him. When things like this happen, I'm always polite but never mince my words.

"No mister, I am simply trying to go home and you are making me feel very uncomfortable," I said very clearly. I could't stop thinking that if the guy raped me and it led to an eventual police inquiry, I wouldn't want to be accused of having been ambiguous. It's sad that girls need to think like that.

"Oooh, you should have said that you weren't feeling confident about your body," he joked.

I got inside and slammed the door shut. Every woman has encountered a creep like that at least once – if not five times. Thankfully, I've noticed that the older I get, the less perverts I attract. Between the ages of 14 and 18, I met so many creeps. People who would ask me to go to their hotel with them or mime cunnilingus with their fingers while staring at me. Just to mortify me even more, they would even do it while I was with my mum. It must be something about the fragility of teenagers that excites them.

Anyway, this asshole aside, the experiment needed to continue.

The next guy I met was called Yacine. Actually, the vast majority of guys that approached me over the course of those two week, were Arabic. I contemplated whether or not I should mention this, because I don't want to be feeding whatever ridiculous racial prejudice people might have, but it's the truth. I actually spoke about the fact with Yacine.

"Oh yeah, a lot of them hit on you? That might be because they have better taste in women!" he told me, laughing. And with that, he calmly swept away my poor attempt at sociological analysis. I didn't care. Yacine and I were sitting on a rusty metal bench above Belleville Park, with a perfect view of the whole of Paris. He was by far my favourite of the guys who approached me.

I have to admit that Yacine was really good looking. Caramel skin with long black eye lashes – it looked as if he was wearing mascara. His way of approaching was sort of original, I guess. He just walked right up and asked if I'd like to smoke a joint.

"I'm in detox, but I would like to smoke a cigarette," I lied.

There were plenty of people around us, children playing, tourists – so I felt safe. I felt good, even. So much so, I let myself have a toke of the joint. Yacine said he lived in a small suburb called Les Lilas, in Seine-Saint-Denis. He told me that he never really hits on girls in the street, only "on exceptional occasions, when a woman is as beautiful as you are." Probably a line, but hey.

"I am trying to settle down and be serious. I want a little family, and a nice house just like my parents have. I guess it's natural, I am getting old. I'm 30 now." He admitted that he doesn't think he's going to meet the woman of his dreams in the street, but he finds it amusing. Sometimes it works, sometimes he gets a straight "no".

"I'm sure it can be annoying for girls to be approached like this. Some guys are really disrespectful. But I think I understand things better. You see, my ex would always complain about 'annoying guys' approaching her, but she would also complain when she didn't get approached, because it made her feel ugly. Seriously!"

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It wasn't at all unpleasant to listen to Yacine talk about the complexity of the male-female relationship. He was constantly laughing and cheerful. I really appreciated his talkative side because it helped avoid awkward silences. He didn't ask me many questions about my work but he was interested in small details: asking me whether or not my feet were hurting because of my high heels and what kind of sport I liked doing. I think that's why it was so nice to hang out with him, he actually had something to say. We talked for a good 40 minutes, kissed each other on the cheek as we left and I even went as far as to gave him my number. He called me immediately to check if it was fake, of course.

With all the other guys I met, the conversational tone changed as soon as I told them I was a journalist. For instance, there was this one man I met on a Tuesday night while sitting on a bench waiting for a friend.

"Please don't tell me you are waiting for your boyfriend. Please!" It actually made me laugh. Abdelkarim was 23 and lived in Saint-Denis. We may never know more than that because as soon as I told him what I did for a living, he closed up.

"Oh really? You're a journalist? So you're a Freemason? Stop lying, you're a Freemason. Or your dad is?"

Wow. I tried to navigate his hatred for journalists and explain that I wasn't a Freemason but it ended with me feeling as if I was banging my head against a wall. We left it there.

The following day, I was approached by two students next to La Sorbonne University. I was sitting at the terrace when they came up and asked if I wanted to have a beer with them. The kids – both History and Political Science students –were extremely surprised that I accepted. Once again, the situation changed just after I unveiled my identity. "You're doing an article for VICE? I only read international papers, they're much better. Le Monde is right wing and let's not even talk about Libé," one of them said, the other nodding along.

When we finished the beer, his friend left to take a bus and I walked Matthieu to a metro station. We had nothing to say to each other so I would just kind of nervously laugh. He kept on mumbling about the trivialities of 24-hour news channels, the "dictatorship of emotions", the "same images broadcasted all day long", etc, etc, to infinity. I had far less patience for him than I did for Abdelkarim. As we were about to part, he gave it a shot, god bless him.

"Do you want to come to my place? I live close by. We would be more…" he paused.

I stood there wondering how he'd muster up the courage to finish that sentence. With which grammatical attributes would he dress up this indecent proposal? We were standing on the Saint-Michel Boulevard, in the middle of the day, sober – I'll hand it to him, he was being brave.

I stayed silent and stared at him. Which can't have been helpful at all.

If I were a nice person, I could easily have smiled to imply that I got it, or just declined without leaving him the time to finish his sentence. I could even have had the tact to act as if I didn't get it and simply escape by blurting out, "Oh my God, I am late!" But being the sadist that I am, I took some pleasure in watching him trying to get his words together.

"More… more… well… it will be more quiet," he concluded.

As you can probably guess, I politely declined.

"So, why did you have a drink with us?" he mumbled while leaving. "Anyway, Judith is a shit name." He certainly had no problem getting that sentence out.

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