I can tell because guys are staring.
At the grocery store this morning, waiting for my bottle to fill in the water machine, wearing snug jeans, tall boots, and a soft form-fitting grey sweater, I watched in the machine's semi-reflective curved facade as, walking behind me, they raked me with their gazes. A guy in his thirties, a guy in his seventies, same routine: a long slow sweep, head to feet, then half-way back up, linger on ass for a moment, then up and away. They keep their faces stony while they do it, which I took at first for a scowl, but which I read now as their best shot at stealthiness.
I feel practically a sacred obligation at this point to write something dismissive about piggish men, but the thing is, I know first-hand how it is when you have that much T in your bloodstream. The impulse to look comes on like the impulse to sneeze. You can try to stifle it, but you sure can't make it go away. And if the opportunity is there, one takes it.
What to do with this femme power to make men look? And with this weird combination of feels in response - ick and pleasure stirred together. Ha. Still very much working that out.