Why won’t chivalry just die?

“So, are you going to write something about us?” asked one of the three public school boys I had dinner with on Saturday. It certainly hadn’t occurred to me; they were just like any other mischievous 20-something men on a night out; drinking hard and checking out women.

Professionally and also for fun (because I do, despite what I’m about to say, like them), I spend a lot of time with men. Vaguely aiming to establish myself as one of the boys, I usually match them drink for drink in the pub. Unfortunately, of course, while I am quite capable of consuming the same amount as them, I’m far less likely to manage it with my dignity in tact.

On this occasion, someone was foolish enough to bring up ‘chivalry’. I despise single quotes (for writers, they’re like talking and making the international sign of the inverted commas with your fingers) but I use them here because the term feels, to me, massively hypocritical.

The group explain that they treat women well. They all make a point of holding the door open for a lady and buying her dinner. If she was cold, they would give her their coat. They would respect her less if she slept with them afterwards.

These three men have nailed, between them, at least 200 women, a fact which makes them respect one another significantly more. The evening was considered a success because they all went home with women who aren’t their girlfriends. They didn’t buy them dinner, and they aren’t going to call. They aren’t going to tell their girlfriends, either.

But all these conquests are at this point some four hours and 30 whisky and cokes in the future, so the next hour’s entertainment was provided by me, going absolutely postal at the suggestion that this is a group which knows how to treat women properly. My long, drunken rant consisted of repeating many times that there was no difference between these men and me, except perhaps I was much, much cleverer than all the rest of them put together. Times a million. It was a weak, incoherent, at times bizarre argument that ended with me being rather unchivalrously laughed at and accused of cock envy.

But in the cold light of day, I hope I can put it better (using my massive brain, obviously). As a woman, if I hope to be treated as an intellectual and professional equal, then I also expect to be treated as an equal socially. I should be able to open my own door, pay for my own dinner, and remember to wear something appropriate for the weather. If I have sex, I hope the guy won’t judge me any differently to how he judges himself. If we have a relationship and he realises he doesn’t want to be with me, I hope he’ll be man enough to tell me straight, rather than going out and behaving as badly as possible so that I’ll dump him.

The reason I hate having doors opened for me is because it creates a power distinction. The man thinks he is saying, “I am well brought up and being very polite to you.” But what I hear is, “You are a bit weak and need looking after.” It’s patronising. And if your version of looking after me is going to entail making me think you’re a great guy and then screwing around behind my back, it’s kind of false advertising.

As on Saturday night, I’m aware that I’m on shaky ground here. Not many men want to hear this argument. And as someone who has a huge gender issues chip on her weak, feeble shoulder, I’m the worst person to make it. A big part of the chip is the fact that I actually do want a man to look after me. The rest of it is that I’m starting to despair of ever finding one who will do that in any meaningful way – by treating me as a person, rather than someone who has trouble with door handles.