Recently, I endured a week more cursed than an image of Megyn Kelly smiling: two men asked for my number, and I gave it to them. That situation itself is pretty universally bone-chilling, but I’m a lesbian, which heightens the ungodliness of these moments. Look, I have a big gay crush on Harry Styles as much as the next gal, but I don’t identify as bisexual — I spent a decade in the closet, forcing myself to date men and perform heterosexuality until my early twenties, when I came springing out and proud like a jack-in-the-box. Today, I have zero interest in men, I don’t enjoy when men flirt with me, and I certainly am not interested in dabbling in heterosexuality. That ship has sailed, and the thought of relapsing sends a shiver down my spine. And yet, within the span of one cursed week, I gave my contact info to two very forward men. Why?

It’s complicated. If I could therapize myself, I’d boil it down to a few reasons. The obvious one is fear of men. I’m a femme-leaning lesbian, easily straight-passing, which means I have to come out over and over again, every day for the rest of my life, to seemingly everyone who demands to know: the doctor, an Uber driver, a bartender, a stranger at a bar, a new friend. It often feels like I’m the gatekeeper to my own safety; I can choose to relay information about my sexuality when it comes up, or I can choose to dip back into the closet.

As a white, straight-passing woman, I’m aware of my privilege and the effect it has on my safety. In Hannah Gadsby’s Nannette, the masculine-of-center comedian tragically retells an account of being violently beaten on the street by homophobic men because she was visibly gay. Last year, four black lesbians were murdered in the same week in the U.S. Being afraid of homophobic men is not only justified, it’s smart.

As it turns out, women who don’t date men actually give their number to men often. Their responses as to why were nearly uniform: “I felt paralyzed.” “I didn’t want a confrontation.” “I just gave it to him because I wanted him to get rid of him.”

Yet both times I was asked for my number, I didn’t feel any immediate sense of danger. I gave it away nonetheless. The first time was at Starbucks, while waiting in line for the restroom next to a man who struck up a friendly conversation. Later, he passed by my table and asked for my number. I was caught off guard — it had been ages since a man had asked for my number so boldly, out of nowhere — and I felt paralyzed, like words were pouring out of my mouth without my permission. Before I could even process what was happening, I had given him my Instagram. When he left, I was gobsmacked at what had happened, at my response, and at how little hesitation I had in giving it to him, even though my head and heart were swirling.

A couple days later, a man started talking to me at a party. He was funny, so we kept talking. I could tell what was happening; I was being friendly, maybe making a new friend, but he thought we had chemistry. Eventually, I decided to cut it off, because I didn’t want to lead him on (even though speaking to a person isn’t leading them on), but as I was leaving, he asked. I hesitated this time — what kind of sick, twisted hetero-vibe was I giving off this week? But I felt embarrassed to say that I was gay, like he would’ve thought, “Then why the hell were you talking to me this whole time?” So I gave it to him. And that’s really sad.

Straight men often make me feel this way. If we’re chatting at a bar or a party and getting along well, and then they find out I’m gay, they immediately stop talking to me, like I’ve lost all worth in their eyes. As a person who dates women, I have literally never stopped talking to a woman after realizing she’s straight or uninterested. But straight men do this. There’s something totally dehumanizing about a man finding out you’re gay, then kicking you to the curb like useless human trash.

Other queer women have had similar experiences. When I asked women on Twitter, I received more than 50 DMs almost immediately. As it turns out, women who don’t date men actually give their number to men often. Their responses as to why were nearly uniform: “I felt paralyzed.” “I didn’t want a confrontation.” “I just gave it to him because I wanted him to get rid of him.” They echoed my exact sentiments — that it’s easier to give him your number then ignore him later.