My first approach to navigating this world was to try to desexualize myself — to be one of the guys, or if not quite that, at least something like a little sister. I didn’t want to be seen as a “female comedian,” so I tried to write jokes that didn’t appear to come from a distinctly female point of view. I wore hoodies and jeans on stage, which once prompted one of my male friends to say — while wearing a stained shirt and tattered jeans — “you know, Marcia, you could dress up every once in a while. Maybe brush your hair sometimes?” I took it as a joke. How could I have done otherwise? What could be worse as a female comedian than being seen as not having a sense of humor about these things?

But after a while, it started to seem that this approach wasn’t serving me well. As a young comedian, I was desperate for a mentor. My friends who had begun to make money all got their start from someone with clout taking them on the road to open for them. Yet every man I talked to seemed either alarmingly flirtatious, uncomfortable interacting with women or determined to keep me at arm’s length. Some even seemed offended that I presented myself as sexually unavailable. (Once I told a male friend I considered him an older brother, and he told me that was “gross” and to “never say that again.”) Were these people bad men? No. Did it mean they would never give me a chance? No. Did any of them masturbate in front of me? Also no. Did I wish I could transform into a man so they would see me as a comic and not a potential sexual partner, or the type of woman who would make trouble? Yes.

I tried to shrug it off. It didn’t matter if the men determined to see me a certain way didn’t like me, I thought. I always worked hard and would continue to. Anyone who thought differently was committed to misunderstanding me, and there was nothing I could do to control that.

But the fact is you need to be liked in comedy to be given that initial shot. The sense that successful men would want to work with me for only one reason began to internalize as self-doubt about my own talent.