OPINION: This International Women's Day, I've decided to dedicate this column to men. I mean, don't get me wrong. On the other 364 days of the year, I'd rather pierce my eyeballs with shards of hot coal and walk through a field of glass shavings than even speak to a member of the opposite sex, but today is different.

Today I feel gracious, open-hearted. I feel like it's time we got together and shared some things. I'll go first.

We need your help.

That was horrible to write. It kind of gave me goosebumps and made me sweat a little at the same time, and because I ran out of tea and am currently drinking a tepid Milo, the end result was a feeling akin to being on school camp and being told you are the first up on skit night. (The trauma never really leaves you.)

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As a woman who regularly sups from a goblet of male tears, this is not fun to admit.

But it's true. In a world where men still run almost everything, women can't do this gender equality thing alone. Nor do we really want to, because in all actuality men are our friends, and sometimes partners, and dads, and brothers, and sons. We quite like men, even love them, most of the time.

Nor should we have to, because a world unshackled from gender roles is one that's better for men, too. Imagine growing up and being able to cry without being called a wuss. Not having to pump iron and sink DB to be considered "one of the boys". Developing close male friendships. Being valued as a father.

I've been thinking a bit recently about the importance of male allies, in relation to the #Metoo movement. Reaction to this campaign for social justice has not been roundly positive, as illustrated here last week when journalist and broadcaster Alison Mau announced she would be leading a national investigation in conjunction with Stuff. As in the States, and in every country where the movement against sexual harassment and assault has taken root, there have been detractors.

It's kind of an uncomfortable time to be a man, to be honest. This must be a strange feeling, because it's not often that men are cast as the villain in a global story. Usually, the men are the ones doing the telling, and they get to be the stars. The hero who saves the princess, the guy who gets the girl. When there are hundreds of thousands of voices challenging a commonly-held narrative - in this case, that a woman is safe in her workplace - then it is a confronting thing.

In my experience, men take the main arguments that swirl around #Metoo – that women have not achieved equal rights, that we continue to be subject to abuses of power that thrive under patriarchy, and that these injustices are often taken for granted and deemed as socially acceptable (because, patriarchy) – one of three ways.

The first is to get defensive, and take the suggestion that society might be weighted unevenly towards men as a personal affront. These people find it impossible to conceive of the idea that the story isn't specifically about them, but a cultural issue, and that they could stop being part of the problem (ie. denying that it's happening, minimising women's experiences, derailing the conversation) and become part of the solution. They also seem not to see the irony of emailing me to say things like: "Just curious why you became a journalist? You could of become a hooker and done something useful for society...good luck being bitter and hateful."

(It's sex worker, Benji, and you're wrong. It's could have.)

The second is to go out into the backyard, dig a giant hole, and stick their head in it.

The third is to empathise. To listen to women's stories, to take them seriously, to back them up when they're talking, and to draw attention to their voices.

This support can come from unexpected places. On the phone to a hardened rural bloke last week, who was speaking about the alleged sexual assault of a former colleague, I felt a lump come into my throat.

"You know," he said, "How can I truly understand how disturbing and emotionally repugnant that kind of thing is to a woman?

"We say we can, but I don't think we can. I know if someone violates my property that really bothers me, let alone my body.

"How could you ever forget that?"

You don't.

But, here's the thing. He hadn't forgotten it, either.

Michelle Duff is a journalist, and a weekly columnist for Stuff.