Can I trust men?

This happened December 7, 2024:

I’m melting into a warm pool. Next to me, old Russian men beat each other with branches, for circulation or something. Because it’s San Francisco, casual co-ed nudity encourages rather than hinders sociability. The place is busy and loud.

I see a 60s-something white man in a larger body, leading two pre-pubescent girls. Impulsively, I laugh, pointing them out to my partner, Craig, and wondering about their story. They don’t look like his children or his friends. The shorter girl looks like a startled bird. She hunches over herself, covering her bare breasts with her arms. The girls stand close to each other, slightly turned away from the man who is claiming their attention. They look like they don’t want to be here. They can’t be older than fifteen.

An hour later, two of the staff—the biggest, most assertive ones—point to the old man and mouth, “that’s him.” They pull him into the stairwell. I can see through the window the staff-guys are stern and disapproving. The old man is shouting, angry, defending himself. After a few minutes, he huffs back inside. He walks straight to me and asks loudly, “Can I sit here?” daring me to reject him. I say sure, I’m leaving for aromatherapy. I see the staff-guys staring at me with concern.

During aromatherapy, I feel my heart racing and a twist in my stomach. And it’s not just because I’m in a two-hundred-degree room, five feet from an unstable-looking furnace, drawing in ragged breaths as the tips of my ears burn.

I dip in the cold plunge, then ask Craig if I should offer the girls help. I admit I am profiling, but since they are clearly underaged, I’m willing to risk being an assuming, problematic jerk. What if he’s trafficking them? What if he’s pimping them? What if they don’t want to do sex work, but they think it’s their only option? Maybe I can help them get to a women’s shelter. Craig is apathetic, comforted by a general attitude of, “We don’t know.” Translation: “I don’t care to know.” I can see I’ll be doing this alone.

I follow the girls into the women’s locker room. I don’t want to offend them or creep them out, but the possibility of threat urges me onwards.

“This might be completely wrong, and is just wild speculation, so please forgive me, but are you okay? Do you need any help?”

They laugh nervously and reassure me they are fine. They thank me for my concern. They explain, “their company is just a bit inappropriate.” The tall one covers her face in embarrassment. I ask what happened, then back-track before they can answer, feeling controlling. I leave.

A few minutes later, the old man addresses me again, in the same angry tone. “Did you see two girls in the locker room? One black and one white?” He demands the information in a way that suggests it was my responsibility to keep track of them and I failed the easiest of tasks when he thought he could count on me. I infuse warmth into my “yes.” He leaves.

Twenty minutes later, the old man returns to demand an update from me: “Are they still in there? Could you check and tell them I’m waiting for them?” Then, he turns to Craig and says, “I’m sorry to interrupt you.” I don’t clock that he addresses his apology to Craig, for interrupting Craig’s access to me, rather than to me, for interrupting my actual time.

I want him to continue choosing me to execute his demands, so that I’m in a better position to influence the situation. I keep my energy open, deferential, suggestionable, bemused, vague, empty. Like I’m a waitress reassuring an angry customer they will get a discount on the meal they didn’t like. We’re so sorry you didn’t like your pork chop; we will do everything we can so you leave satisfied with our service.

I feel protected by my servile role. I have been written off, which means I have disarmed my threat. I am in a position to gain useful information and act in the girls’ best interest. I feel pleasure at the thought of provoking his disgust when I reveal myself as a discerning sovereign with a separate agenda.

I ask him his name. “Bob.” I feel paranoid it’s a fake. The bench behind Bob comes into focus: seven naked white men, staring at me.

I find the girls in the front lobby, fully dressed, preparing to leave. I tell them Bob is looking for them. I ask if they are trying to get away from him. They insist, “no.” They tell me to tell him to meet them at the front. I tell Bob. He becomes enraged, asking me to repeat myself. I do. He leaves. I sit with Craig and sob. I am worried about the girls. I know it is paternalistic, protectionist, undermining of their agency to not believe the words they say and project these stories. Still—what if?

I tell Craig I want to leave.

When we get to the lobby, they’re still there. I ask if they need a ride. They smile, say no, and thank me. As I walk to my car, I call the front desk and suggest they google the girls’ names to make sure they’re not on a missing person’s list. She says she can’t say much because the girls are in the room. Craig drives away. I sit in my car and file a police report. If they are sex workers, the girls won’t get in trouble because they’re minors. The woman on the line agrees with my concern and says this is a top priority. I move parking spots so I have a better angle to take pictures. They emerge. Their car arrives as the police car arrives. A middle-aged, white policeman gets out and wanders past their car. I think about sprinting down the street to redirect him, but what if Bob has a weapon? To my relief, the officer looks into their car window. A second officer—also a white man—walks up next to him. They talk for 10 seconds. Then, both cars depart in opposite directions. What if Bob’s white maleness was enough to put the white male police officers at ease? What if the girls were not in a position to safely ask for help, with Bob sitting right there?

Craig calls from the bridge and asks if I want him to come back. I feel disgust at his lack of concern, that he would come back as a favor to me, rather than to investigate whether the girls are in danger. I feel a fracture of resentment ripple along my heart like a fault line. I reply, “Up to you,” because he’s already shown himself. He’s one of them.

I call 911 again. A new woman says the case has been marked as “resolved.” I wonder how a few seconds could have verified the girls were safe. He didn’t even check IDs. She says the officer has moved on to the next thing and is no longer in my area. I ask if they want pictures of the car. She says, the officer would have seen the car. I repeat my confusion. She looses patience, snapping, I can “feel free to call again if I learn anything more.” We hang up.

Craig pulls up behind me. He gets into my car and waves more flaccid reassurances: “We don’t know,” and, “Everything is going to be okay.”

I rage back, “Right, we don’t know whether they are safe or not. Why aren’t you more concerned?”

I reason, Bob is likely not their pimp, because they both had cell phones. It’s possible they were sex workers Bob hired. Maybe he got handsy or started masturbating or something, so they left after the staff gave him a talking to. Sex work did not concern me by default; just when combined with their age and other unknowns.

I probably imagined everything. Maybe it’s a savior complex. Still, I cycle between despair, rage, and helplessness. I long to fight, but the enemy is too abstract, too complicated. My brain rebuttals with a picture of Craig’s passivity. He is the enemy. Then it flips to the bench of peaceful men. They are the enemy. I suddenly feel alienated from the men in my life.

I know I did all I could do, and now must surrender control over other peoples’ experience. All I can do now is defend my own freedom. I feel ferocious: Not me. Not ever. I refuse. I don’t know what I’m fighting, but I know I’ll never surrender myself.