By Hilary McMurray

Thursday was supposed to be a night just like any other. I was supposed to be sitting around with friends, having a few beers, chilling on the porch of my friend’s Mission Hill apartment; the only significant event being the presidential debate.

But it was different.

Ever since PartyGate, my friends and I have gotten used to sitting on that porch smoking butts, counting at least three cop cars in the span it takes us to finish one cigarette. But this night we counted more. In my mind, I was laughing to myself, thinking, “Come on, NuPo, it’s the presidential debate — Northeasterners only riot over sporting events.” My friends and I sat on the porch laughing, having a good time.

The laughter stopped when one of the roommates pulled up to the curb with her boyfriend and informed us there had been two rapes in the area. It didn’t affect our plans; we were staying in, but when we stepped out for the next smoke, I was glad to be in the company of guys.

The next morning I was working swiping cards, and the first thing I saw on the desk was the yellow Public Safety/SAFEnet advisory and I broke down and cried. I don’t know why; I just did. I tried to gain my composure, and when I did I called up one of my best friends — a guy who lives on the North Shore. I explained what had happened and asked him if he’d come into Boston for the night.

“It’s not so much that I don’t feel safe,” I said, “but it would just be kind of comforting if you were there.”

After hanging up, I couldn’t help but focus on every female resident who walked in the building, and it made me suddenly aware of my own femininity, which I assumed got lost somewhere behind the sweatpants and the Red Wings hat. Every time a girl walked through the doors, tears stung my eyes. Women, myself included, exude such strength and confidence that we make it easy for guys to forget how hard it is to be a chick.

I’m not referring to four-inch heels or butt-floss undies either. I’m referring to the fact that no matter how many laws are passed, no matter how many teams we play on and no matter how many cents we earn compared to a man’s dollar, women will never enjoy even one day with an absolute guarantee they will never be raped. Think about this — the average rape sentence isn’t even half of the average drug possession sentence (www.aclu.org). That’s assuming it’s even brought to trial.

All the radical feminist propaganda I’ve ever heard came flooding into my mind all at once — shouldn’t I stop crying and be militant in fighting back against rape? Shouldn’t I see that every man is a potential rapist/enemy? Shame on me for calling a man to comfort me when the significance of the rapes actually sunk in.

But hating men is not synonymous with feminism. Feminism is about assuring fair, just and equal treatment for my gender.

So, listen up guys. Some simple facts about being a man: No real man would ever hit a woman. No real man would ever use his penis as a weapon. No real man would ever assert his masculinity by intimidating, shaming or humiliating a woman in any way, shape or form.

Chicks dig real men. Sure, we may get a twinkle in our eye when we watch testosterone-laced hockey games or the Chippendales Show at the Roxy, but honestly — these are just displays. Performances.

Women are some baaadddd motha-(you get the point). We’re equipped to bear children, after all. We pluck. We wax. We’re equipped to handle intense physical pain. And, if someone hurts one of our loved ones, we’re prepared to inflict pain as well.

We’ve fought for our rights, our bodies and our lives. We’ve shot point-blank and we’ve sliced off penises. We take self-defense classes so even a toothpick like me can kick some serious butt.

But rape is not only physical, it’s emotional. Rape doesn’t go away like cuts or bruises. Rape damages. When I found out what happened, I felt pain and fear because I know that I am lucky. One in six women will be victims (www.rainn.org). If that doesn’t sound like Russian Roulette, what does?

So what can men do (besides not raping us)? Be a real man. Listen to us. Be walking proof that there are still a few good ones left. Give us a shoulder to cry on when our hard shells get broken. Even the hardest, coldest, most bad-ass chick has vulnerabilities. Real men give strong women something to run to, not from.

— Hilary McMurray can be reached at [email protected].