Lady Cooks from Planet Babe, or: The Fox in the Cockhouse.
Kitchens are boys’ clubs. It’s just a reality.
There is always a constant whirr of inappropriateness in the background, of the sort that, anywhere else, people would be horrified to find. And, as a girl, there’s different ways to deal with it: get so hard the boys don’t want to fuck with you, play the game and whip out the dick jokes just as fast and bad, stay in that space of Girl so they start to feel weird about messing with you….
If something really heinous is happening, yeah, something will — should, if the machine is working properly— be done about it. There might be a tone of big brotherly protection in whatever happens to the offender — cracking knuckles, what did you do to our girl, style of thing— rather than the appropriate, fully professional attitude, but if you’re in the club, you’re safe.
The most violated I have ever felt in a kitchen wasn’t when the guy next to me would answer my call for a sausage with “ONE BIG HOT BRATWANG, COMING UP!”, or when the guys would put “Ass & Titties” as loud as possible on the stereo after closing.
It was that time that prick cornered me alone and tried to kiss me.
Fuck you. It’s not waving the bread-dough testicles around that makes me uncomfortable in the kitchen, it’s you assholes that think because I’m hanging out in your clubhouse, I’m yours to make a move on.
wrath of prawn: Lady Cooks from Planet Babe
(I’m rebaggling myself, but I wrote this about a year ago, before I started at Intergalactic HQ. Today, I had to have a long conversation with my Falafelchef about whether or not he needs to fire one of his full-timers because the guy will not stop harassing me.
The machine, in this case, is working. The system, however, is fucked right the hell up. This club sucks.)