Harvey Weinstein: Male Predators and Their Targets

Harvey Weinstein bears a shocking resemblance to Quasimodo, as portrayed in the 1982 Hallmark production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But, other than his uncanny resemblance to Hugo's hunchback, nothing about Weinstein’s behavior shocks me. 

The first time I can remember a man coaxing and terrorizing me into a sexual favor was when I was 16 years old, working at Koeing Art Emporium, because I loved art, and I had no money.

There, at least three men, all in their late 20s, all in a supervisor position over me, attempted to kiss, maul or touch me in the back room that smelled of framing wood and Chinese takeout. Later, at Baptist Campbell University, my work-study professor would pull me down on his lap, show me condoms and stroke my hair. After I transferred to UNC Chapel Hill, two different professors asked me for sex, and threatened bleak outcomes if I refused.

The first, from the African Studies Department, asked me to sit on the front row in short skirts during lectures. I did not, but compromised and sat on the side row in shorts.  He later asked me to his office, and would rub my skin frantically and promised me an A if I would touch his privates. When I ran away from his office in fear, he ignored me the rest of the semester and gave me an A-. He still teaches there, in blissful tenure.

The more sinister predator was in charge of UNC's Writing Program. He picked me out of a line of students waiting for approval of transfer credits. This man was intense, tall, and Machiavellian. He told me that if I did not spend time with him, he would not grant any of my English credits from my college transfer.  The details are hazy, but I remember he came to my apartment. We kissed on my couch and I longed for my boyfriend from Campbell, a wrestler whom I adored. When the professor told me he wanted to order a pizza, like we were co-ed couple lounging on a rainy weekend, some ancient wisdom finally reared up in me. I asked him if he was married. He said he was, and I said, "I feel bad for your wife." He finally left. I avoided him and he eventually gave me the credits after I begged in handwritten letters I shoved his faculty mail cubbyhole.

I moved on with my life, graduated with good grades and even won the Francis L. Philip Travel scholarship.

Sexual harassment continued loud and proud, as I entered the legal workforce after law school. A smirking pervert, who reeked of cigarette smoke from ten feet away, and was the chief prosecutor in a huge county near Tampa, perusing porn on his computer while you briefed a case to him? You betcha. Same prosecutor and his knucklehead cronies ridiculing an African American murder victim’s photos because she had cellulite on her buttocks -- as she sprawled naked, bloodied, and beaten on the floor of an old house? I remember it in fluorescent detail.

My boss at the Florida Attorney General's Office, rubbing my shoulders, telling me I looked like a schoolgirl, and complaining that his nagging wife used the rocking chair as a clothes hamper (he should have seen my bedroom). It happened more than one time.

So, why did this happen to me? And why did it happen to Weinstein’s victims? Was my beauty so overwhelming that these men lost their minds? Hardly. There were other pretty girls, beautiful women in those environments, and they were unmolested. Just as there were other aspiring stunning actresses and waitresses who escaped Weinstein’s sweaty paws.

Was I sending out sexual vibes so strong these men thought I was a little minx? Not likely. I was often compared to Ellie Mae Clampett and was unsure of how to apply eyeliner, often resembling a sad raccoon. Forget seducing a man

So, how does the sexual predator choose who to terrorize?

The answer can be found in looking at Weinstein's victims did not have, and what I did not have.  Some lone voices on Twitter have demanded: Why hasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow spoken up?

Because she was never sized up as prey. She is protected. Globally powerful men surround Paltrow. Her godfather is Stephen Spielberg. Her deceased father was movie director. She dated Brad Pitt. She married and divorced a rock star. The girl has alpha men protecting her back.

And his victims? Ashley Judd. I have read Ashley Judd's biography. Nary a male in sight to protect her.  Not a male with any clout, when she was finding her place as an actress.  Likewise, if my father had been a Platinum Donor to the UNC Alumni Fund, those fat cats that fly into the games on private jets, would these Professors have believed it was an acceptable risk to threaten me with harm if I did not have sex with them, and risk their joke, cushy jobs?  Not a chance.

Predators have a preternatural sense of the vulnerable. They know when a female has no male to turn to when another male attempts to harm her. If there is no powerful, moneyed alpha male to rain down an ungodly firestorm on their heads, it’s a green light to lunge for whatever they desire. 

The dreadful truth is that we have not moved that far from the cave and the campfire. We are still negotiating with Og and his club. And to beat Og, you need a bigger, meaner Og, ready to bash his brains out, or least the resources to pay a cold-eyed proxy (a lawyer these days) to gut him.

Women need powerful men to protect them from other men. For the celebrities who are feigning shock and dismay at this male abuse, they are as believable as an addict rummaging through your bathroom declaring she is looking for aspirin. The idea that this errant male behavior is systemic, and perhaps genetic, is heresy to feminists, the Left, and even people who believe that we live in a world where fairness and civility rule gender relations most days. It doesn’t.

The poor souls who have their faces melted with acid in the meaner parts of the world don’t come from the upper castes. They never have a rich father or a bevy of strong brothers to protect them. In the numerous documentaries I have watched, it is always a lone girl and her mother, trudging to a dusty court with half of her face ruined like a Dali painting, in hopes that someone cares that her life was obliterated by a man who was jealous or pissed off because he was rejected.

Our politically-correctness drenched world does not allow the thought to even bubble: that men are different -- as Fitzgerald told us the rich are. Men who have unchecked power, as Weinstein did, will use it to get what they want, and very often, they want sex with young, powerless females. And all the women reporting on sports that they have never played, or a sprinkling of women CEOs in Silicon Valley, or men acting cool with unshaved legs and armpits will not change this. (They actually are not cool with it).

If a woman had an influential, heavy hitting male in her corner, would she have been safe from Weinstein? Would I have been safe? Yes. And yes.

That is why Malia Obama, working her internship at Weinstein’s Miramax, was as clueless and protected as the Queen’s jewels, and why Lauren Sivan was  forced to watch Weinsten masturbate over a potted plan and told to shut up, was unequivocally not.

Harvey Weinstein bears a shocking resemblance to Quasimodo, as portrayed in the 1982 Hallmark production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But, other than his uncanny resemblance to Hugo's hunchback, nothing about Weinstein’s behavior shocks me. 

The first time I can remember a man coaxing and terrorizing me into a sexual favor was when I was 16 years old, working at Koeing Art Emporium, because I loved art, and I had no money.

There, at least three men, all in their late 20s, all in a supervisor position over me, attempted to kiss, maul or touch me in the back room that smelled of framing wood and Chinese takeout. Later, at Baptist Campbell University, my work-study professor would pull me down on his lap, show me condoms and stroke my hair. After I transferred to UNC Chapel Hill, two different professors asked me for sex, and threatened bleak outcomes if I refused.

The first, from the African Studies Department, asked me to sit on the front row in short skirts during lectures. I did not, but compromised and sat on the side row in shorts.  He later asked me to his office, and would rub my skin frantically and promised me an A if I would touch his privates. When I ran away from his office in fear, he ignored me the rest of the semester and gave me an A-. He still teaches there, in blissful tenure.

The more sinister predator was in charge of UNC's Writing Program. He picked me out of a line of students waiting for approval of transfer credits. This man was intense, tall, and Machiavellian. He told me that if I did not spend time with him, he would not grant any of my English credits from my college transfer.  The details are hazy, but I remember he came to my apartment. We kissed on my couch and I longed for my boyfriend from Campbell, a wrestler whom I adored. When the professor told me he wanted to order a pizza, like we were co-ed couple lounging on a rainy weekend, some ancient wisdom finally reared up in me. I asked him if he was married. He said he was, and I said, "I feel bad for your wife." He finally left. I avoided him and he eventually gave me the credits after I begged in handwritten letters I shoved his faculty mail cubbyhole.

I moved on with my life, graduated with good grades and even won the Francis L. Philip Travel scholarship.

Sexual harassment continued loud and proud, as I entered the legal workforce after law school. A smirking pervert, who reeked of cigarette smoke from ten feet away, and was the chief prosecutor in a huge county near Tampa, perusing porn on his computer while you briefed a case to him? You betcha. Same prosecutor and his knucklehead cronies ridiculing an African American murder victim’s photos because she had cellulite on her buttocks -- as she sprawled naked, bloodied, and beaten on the floor of an old house? I remember it in fluorescent detail.

My boss at the Florida Attorney General's Office, rubbing my shoulders, telling me I looked like a schoolgirl, and complaining that his nagging wife used the rocking chair as a clothes hamper (he should have seen my bedroom). It happened more than one time.

So, why did this happen to me? And why did it happen to Weinstein’s victims? Was my beauty so overwhelming that these men lost their minds? Hardly. There were other pretty girls, beautiful women in those environments, and they were unmolested. Just as there were other aspiring stunning actresses and waitresses who escaped Weinstein’s sweaty paws.

Was I sending out sexual vibes so strong these men thought I was a little minx? Not likely. I was often compared to Ellie Mae Clampett and was unsure of how to apply eyeliner, often resembling a sad raccoon. Forget seducing a man

So, how does the sexual predator choose who to terrorize?

The answer can be found in looking at Weinstein's victims did not have, and what I did not have.  Some lone voices on Twitter have demanded: Why hasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow spoken up?

Because she was never sized up as prey. She is protected. Globally powerful men surround Paltrow. Her godfather is Stephen Spielberg. Her deceased father was movie director. She dated Brad Pitt. She married and divorced a rock star. The girl has alpha men protecting her back.

And his victims? Ashley Judd. I have read Ashley Judd's biography. Nary a male in sight to protect her.  Not a male with any clout, when she was finding her place as an actress.  Likewise, if my father had been a Platinum Donor to the UNC Alumni Fund, those fat cats that fly into the games on private jets, would these Professors have believed it was an acceptable risk to threaten me with harm if I did not have sex with them, and risk their joke, cushy jobs?  Not a chance.

Predators have a preternatural sense of the vulnerable. They know when a female has no male to turn to when another male attempts to harm her. If there is no powerful, moneyed alpha male to rain down an ungodly firestorm on their heads, it’s a green light to lunge for whatever they desire. 

The dreadful truth is that we have not moved that far from the cave and the campfire. We are still negotiating with Og and his club. And to beat Og, you need a bigger, meaner Og, ready to bash his brains out, or least the resources to pay a cold-eyed proxy (a lawyer these days) to gut him.

Women need powerful men to protect them from other men. For the celebrities who are feigning shock and dismay at this male abuse, they are as believable as an addict rummaging through your bathroom declaring she is looking for aspirin. The idea that this errant male behavior is systemic, and perhaps genetic, is heresy to feminists, the Left, and even people who believe that we live in a world where fairness and civility rule gender relations most days. It doesn’t.

The poor souls who have their faces melted with acid in the meaner parts of the world don’t come from the upper castes. They never have a rich father or a bevy of strong brothers to protect them. In the numerous documentaries I have watched, it is always a lone girl and her mother, trudging to a dusty court with half of her face ruined like a Dali painting, in hopes that someone cares that her life was obliterated by a man who was jealous or pissed off because he was rejected.

Our politically-correctness drenched world does not allow the thought to even bubble: that men are different -- as Fitzgerald told us the rich are. Men who have unchecked power, as Weinstein did, will use it to get what they want, and very often, they want sex with young, powerless females. And all the women reporting on sports that they have never played, or a sprinkling of women CEOs in Silicon Valley, or men acting cool with unshaved legs and armpits will not change this. (They actually are not cool with it).

If a woman had an influential, heavy hitting male in her corner, would she have been safe from Weinstein? Would I have been safe? Yes. And yes.

That is why Malia Obama, working her internship at Weinstein’s Miramax, was as clueless and protected as the Queen’s jewels, and why Lauren Sivan was  forced to watch Weinsten masturbate over a potted plan and told to shut up, was unequivocally not.

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