Dear Joely: The Case of the Wandering Toe

Dear Joely,

I am fortunate to live in one of the nicer areas of Sydney with my husband and our two young children. All is as well as can be in those departments.

We are very good friends with our neighbours across the street. They are a couple, about ten years older than us. Every month or so, the four of us get together for drinks and some food. We alternate between our houses as the venue.

We both have spas in our yards and, at the end of these evenings, we usually end up having a tub together, with more drinks and chats. We don’t wear clothes on these occasions. This isn’t for any racy reason. It just came about because none of us normally wears clothes when in our own spa, so we figured: why would we start on these social evenings?

Nothing is made of the nudity, and we all really enjoy chatting together in the warm tub under the stars.

All good so far, but the problem is this: the male neighbour has taken to touching me underwater with his toe.

I don’t mean an accidental touch. I mean he is putting his toe between my legs and looking for encouragement.

This is incredibly awkward for me. If I call it out when it’s happening, that’s the evening — and possibly future get-togethers — finished. Or he could deny it.

If I speak to the female neighbour about it alone — we are very close as friends — she might feel awkward or jealous, or not believe me.

I told my husband, and he seems more amused than anything.

I don’t want to encourage him in any way. I like things, apart from this problem, as they are.

I learned of your page from a different friend and thought — hoped — you might be able to help.

Yours

Unwanted Toe Attention

Dear Unwanted Toe Attention,

What a beautifully civilised arrangement you have created: good friends, warm water, drinks beneath the stars — and one man’s big toe attempting to start a separate social programme.

Let us clear up the only part that appears to be confusing anyone. Being naked in a spa is not an invitation to be touched. Your neighbour knows the difference between an accidental brush of the foot and deliberately placing his toe between your legs while watching to see what happens next.

This is not a rogue limb. He is conducting a small underwater feasibility study:

Will she react?
Will she say anything?
Might the toe be permitted to return?

The answer to the final question must be no.

You do not need to turn the evening into a neighbourhood emergency or suddenly announce, “Whose toe is that, and why is it there?”

Although it would settle the question rather efficiently.

The next time it happens, move away, look directly at him and say quietly:

“Please don’t do that again.”

No nervous laugh. No apology. No long explanation that allows him to pretend you have misunderstood the fascinating migratory habits of his foot.

If he denies it, simply say:

“Good. Then it won’t happen again.”

That is all you need.

I would not begin by speaking privately to his wife. He created the problem, and it should not be handed to the two women to manage between them over coffee. Speaking to her first also gives him the opportunity to deny it before you have ever addressed him directly.

Your husband’s amusement deserves a second conversation too. Tell him plainly that you are not flattered, entertained or secretly enjoying the attention. You feel uncomfortable and sexually intruded upon, and you need him to take that seriously. He does not have to storm across the street with a pool noodle unless that is what you want, but he does need to stop treating it as a saucy neighbourhood anecdote.

You are worried that objecting may spoil the evening or end future gatherings.

But darling, the evenings are already being spoiled. You are sitting in warm, bubbling water wondering whether a toe is about to make another covert border crossing while everyone discusses schools, renovations and interest rates above the surface.

That is no way to relax.

One calm, unmistakable boundary may be enough to return the foot to ordinary civilian life. Should it happen again, I would retire the shared spa evenings altogether. Not because nudity caused the problem, but because one guest has shown that he cannot be trusted with the arrangement.

Warm water, cold drinks and neighbourly nudity can coexist perfectly well.

They simply require all four adults — and all forty toes — to behave themselves.

Yours, with both feet firmly where they belong,

Joely

More dilemmas? Read more letters and replies in the Dear Joely advice column.

Dear Joely: The Towel Fell. His Assumptions Shouldn’t Have.

Dear Joely,

I live in a rather large share house in Surrey. I'm 28 and it suits me at the moment. I only knew one of my housemates when I moved in. There are three others, two females and one male, that I had never met before. I get on well with each of them, but we tend to get on with our own lives and cross paths fairly randomly, mostly. I've been here for about three months at this point.

Without getting super complicated, most of our bedrooms, with the exception of the girl I knew when I moved in, are on the first floor.

A few weeks ago, I went through a hard time with a work situation. I'm not a big drinker, but on that particular occasion I decided to bring a few beers home and sit in my room and drown my sorrows. When I drink beer, it gives me a particularly strong signal when I need to have a wee. And this particular night was no exception.

It had gotten late and the house was quiet. I made the decision to creep down the hallway in just a short towel to use the toilet. I know this isn't acceptable in a share house, but I genuinely thought everyone was in bed. I was down in the dumps and a little bit tipsy.

Anyway, I ran into the one male who rents a room here. It sounds like a bad comedy, but I was so shocked when I ran into him that I dropped my towel. I was incredibly embarrassed, of course, but numbed a little bit by alcohol. I made some ridiculous remark and carried on to the bathroom.

You might think that might be the end of the story, but it isn't. He has taken this as an invitation to begin pursuing me, I think. He talks to me more than he used to. He hints at eating together and has sat down in the lounge room when I have been watching TV a couple of times. That's not a problem, but he tries to initiate conversation. Also, not a problem, but he would never have done this before the towel-dropping incident.

Last Friday, I was dressed up to go out and meet a girlfriend when he saw me on my way out. He asked where I was going and what time I thought I'd be home. The bottom line is things have gotten awkward. I'm really not interested in him. I wish I was. It would be too easy. But I'm not. So, what I have left is awkward, awkward, awkward.

I thought you might be able to help with some advice.

Yours

Regretting the Towel Dash

Dear Regretting the Towel Dash,

First of all: yes, walking down the hall in a towel in a share house is a risky little expedition. But let us not get hysterical. You did not stage a cabaret. You did not issue engraved invitations. You were tipsy, sad, caught short, and made a poor wardrobe decision between your bedroom and the toilet. These things happen. Sometimes the human body has needs and the laundry basket has the only available strategy.

The important point is this: accidentally dropping your towel is not consent, flirtation, foreplay, or a legally binding indication of romantic interest. It is a towel mishap. A mortifying one, yes, but still just a towel mishap.

Your male housemate appears to have taken one awkward glimpse of you and built himself a small conservatory of hope. That is unfortunate for him, but it is not your responsibility to furnish it.

You do not need to apologise for not fancying him. You do not need to reward his interest because it would be “easy.” Easy is not a reason to let someone into your life, your bed, your evening, or your nervous system. If you are not interested, that is the whole answer.

What you need now is a calm, boring, unmistakable boundary. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Not a house meeting with biscuits and laminated minutes. Just something direct enough that he cannot keep pretending the situation is charmingly ambiguous.

The next time he asks where you are going, when you will be home, or hints at dinner, say something like:

“Just so there’s no misunderstanding after the other night, I’m not interested in anything romantic or sexual between us. I’m happy for us to be friendly as housemates, but that’s all.”

Then stop talking. Do not pad it with “sorry” six times. Do not explain that you are busy, complicated, healing, not ready, emotionally unavailable, secretly joining a convent, or allergic to men who appear near bathrooms. Explanations invite negotiation. Clarity closes the door.

If he is decent, he will be embarrassed, back off, and life will become awkward for approximately seven to ten business days before everyone resumes pretending to be normal around the kettle.

If he does not back off — if he keeps asking where you are going, monitoring when you come home, sitting himself beside you despite your discomfort, or making the house feel unsafe — then this stops being a comedy of errors and becomes a housemate problem. In that case, speak to the housemate you already knew before moving in, and consider putting the boundary in writing. You are entitled to use the lounge, the hallway and the toilet without being quietly auditioned as someone’s girlfriend.

As for the towel dash: retire it. Not because you have done something shameful, but because communal living is already intimate enough without adding accidental nudity to the rota. Buy a robe. A proper one. Belted. Reliable. Less “French farce,” more “woman with bladder and boundaries.”

You are allowed to laugh about this eventually. But you are also allowed to feel uncomfortable now.

The towel fell. That was an accident.

His assumptions are not.

With sympathy, and a firm recommendation for pyjamas with elastic,

Joely

‍ ‍