The leather was just starting to make my legs sweat when I decided the breeze coming from the windows no longer compensated for the sticky seats and lack of cold air. Luckily, with my side kicks beside me, $2.00 consisting strictly of coins emerged from the depths of my floor mats by the time I pulled into the nearest gas station.

With in-and-out intentions, I pulled right up to the entrance, threw my car in park and hopped out- keys, friends and radio roaring behind me. On my way towards the welcome mat, I pondered: the seat belts beginning to stick to the skin of my very dehydrated friends, the average whereabouts of a water bottle amongst other gas station wonders, and the possible meaning behind the hazy last few words in a melody fading from the running car behind me. Temporarily amaurotic from the real world, I walked through the open door held by the cashier and almost missed the elderly man staring at my butt walking in behind me. With excessive heat exposure and an overload of determination forbidding any natural body function, a whole minute passed before my brain could process the words “sexy little body” billowing out of his mouth, one archaic to my Fathers. I got all the way to the back row of coolers by the time I actually realized what just occurred to me- and without any prior consent, out spit: “excuse me?!”

Unfortunately, catcalling is nothing new to me. Born into a generation of lionesses, and just so happened to be raised by a household of lions, the carnivorous stares belonging to men with blood on their teeth are the reason women began hunting in prides to begin with. The irony you see, is this: men have been throwing themselves at women like prayers for centuries. The term catcalling, dated back to the mid 1600’s, is by Oxford Dictionary defined, "A loud whistle or a comment of a sexual nature made by a man to a passing woman." You’d think, with 400 years to test the theory, somewhere, somehow, somebody would discover that whistling at women never really worked in the first place.

I noticed a noise from the isle over when the familiar phrase “sexy little body” filled the, other wise empty, family owned gas station located opposite from my side of town. At this point, I had all the odds against me: roaming from the pride, in unfamiliar territory, and within close proximity to what could be a real threat. As I approached the counter- water bottle in hand- I continued to ignore the vile comments coming from behind me. Making eye contact with the cashier, I calmly waited for him to react to the the blatant harassment occurring in front of him. With a name tag and familiar logo stitched perfectly above his major blood source, one is likely to expect a man who so proudly displays his responsibilities to at least acknowledge such behavior- and especially in a situation as such.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying I needed a random stranger to fight my battles... but I am saying, if you hold the power to step in and stop such a known form of harassment, I don’t see why you wouldn’t.

After a few blaspheme remarks and passively aggressive questions regarding relationship status and home life, I discovered the man making me feel uncomfortable in my own skin, not only had a daughter, but also a wife waiting for him at home. At this point, my legs were shaking but I proudly informed him of the obvious as I fiddled with my change:

“Sir, I am not a piece of meat. In fact, my IQ score is most likely seven times the size as yours, and that being said, I’m going to cut you a break. Most people like yourself don’t realize that we have entered a new millennium- one in which women are not skin for you to gawk at or curves for you to comment on…”

With that, the familiar doorbell placed atop the convince store entrance way signaled a woman, about mid 30’s, walking in. “Hey! Watch out, this dude is a total creep!” I said, and with out second thought, the women walked right up next to me, placed her arm on the counter to support her vicious stance, and said “Oh, is he?”

With the water bottle in hand, a bit of resentment forming for the clerk and a much better feeling about the situation, I nodded at the fellow lioness standing beside me and headed for to door. Leaving the man, so boisterous and blatant before hand, standing silent in his shoes.

Catcalling isn't a joke. It isn't a compliment to women. When faced with this kind of incident, women should have the power to stand of up for themselves. Better yet, maybe the lionesses can get some respect and not hear these things to begin with.