I’m trudging through a pack of U of T students, intentionally ignoring the mindless conversations as we all herd ourselves to St. George station. I take a rest at the red light, shift the weight of my backpack, and notice with irritable familiarity that a young man has decidedly fixated his eyes on my breasts. It lasts for the whole duration of the traffic light.

I wondered, “Why do men incessantly stare at women’s breasts? Do they have no shame? Can they not see the disgust on our faces?” Suddenly, the problem became crystal clear: they don’t know what it feels like to have a private body part gawked at on a regular basis. If they knew, of course, they would understand the uncomfortable position women are put in daily. They would realize we don’t like that sort of attention, and, hopefully, cease their lewd behaviour.

However, knowing men will never learn on their own, since they cannot believe or comprehend that women don’t appreciate their glaring, I decided to become a professor for the day.

Entering the eastbound bus at St. George, I quickly found a seat while concocting an appropriate lesson. I knew it would have to be something that other people could notice so the male under study would feel the panic and public humiliation that breast-gawkers give to their female victims.

My pupil came through the crowded doors at Yonge and Bloor, standing directly in front of me with his crotch practically in my eye because of the pushy people surrounding him. I prayed silently that he would be on the train for as long as I had to be.

I gazed into the Coke bottle he held beside his crotch, knowing it looked like I was staring directly at his penis to the other passengers. Out of the corner of my eye, I was pleased to see one man staring at me in disbelief. He took it upon himself to be embarrassed on behalf of my pupil, who had not yet noticed.

It was time to pull out all the stops. I leaned in closer with a slight grin parting my lips. This time, ladies, I was really staring at his crotch. He looked down, completely shocked, but remained composed. I was starting to doubt the efficacy of this lesson, knowing men usually think we are hungry for their penises.

What was I going to do? Was I supposed to give up now that there were no fits of rage? Was I to let down all of my breast-gawked comrades?

I caught my second wind as a revelation almost knocked me over. Men are constantly afraid of us making fun of their packages. They fall into depression if a woman makes a harmless joke about the size of their penis. I realized that I was still in control as long as I could be cruel.

Instead of my explorative glances, I narrowed my eyes into an analytical glare. I even chuckled a few times. He looked at me, turned his head to the sympathetic man who was growing more pale with every chuckle, and began searching frantically.

Meanwhile, the empathetic man who had been witness to all of this had turned a discomforting shade of white (from sheer shock, I suppose). He stayed this way until my pupil got off of the train. After my victim’s departure, the man continued to stare at me in disbelief as I continued to chuckle over my small feminist victory.

But it’s not enough. Men, take what happened to your comrade into consideration. Women, if the only way you can teach a man a lesson is through experiment, then do it. The lesson for today is that nobody likes to be stared at. Grow up and stop looking at our breasts. Otherwise, be prepared to feel your self-esteem decrease rapidly as we chuckle audibly over your teeny manhoods.