An Open Letter to the Leerers and Cat-Callers of NYC (And Elsewhere)…

Dear ::ahem:: “Sirs”,

Last Thursday, I was not, as they say, “asking for it” in anyway. That is to say, I was not wearing:

• a tube top
• a tank top
• anything showing an inch of my “breast-eges”
• short shorts
• hot shorts
• shorts with words on the buttocks
• low-ride anything with my thong hanging out
• low ride anything with my absence-of-underwear hanging out
• high-hemlined anything with my panties showing
• high-hemlined anything with my “va-jay-jay” showing
• a shirt that bared my shoulders
• a shirt that bared my elbows or wrists
• a bottom with any skin above the ankle, nay, even up to and including the ankle, showing

To put it simply, unless my wearing a suit with pants that flatter me and a button-down shirt underneath that doesn’t have a button at the collar (yet nonetheless showed almost no skin past my collar bone) is “asking for it”, I strongly believe that I safely skirted this categorization.

However, this did not seem to stop you.

Some of you ::ahem:: “restrained” yourselves. I could walk by in silence, with only the distinct feeling that I was being undressed with your eyes as you stopped what you were doing to watch me.

Others of you wished to make your “approval” known aurally (probably with the hopes that I would “thank” you orally). I wish it to be known that it is unnecessary to stare at the rest of my body in order to determine whether or not I am a “beautiful woman”. A look at my face will suffice, thank you.

And so, I wish it to be known at this time that, as a result, if I am stripped visually, or hear a variation on the phrase “Hey, baby” intoned in “come-hither” tones directed towards me any further, I will be even more tempted to take action.

The more I am confronted by your undesirable advances, men of New York, the more I want to do this:

• take your testicles
• allow you to be lured into a false sense of security because I’ve taken your testicles in my hand
• cut off said testicles with a swift flick of my wrist
• give them back to you

You see, men of New York, with that act I would finally feel at peace. You, my dears, would be holding your balls in your hands as I walk away. I, on the other hand, would be smirking with the knowledge that I have emasculated you, disempowering you as much as you have succeeded in doing to me because of my gender.

I bid you well.

Sincerely,
“Beautiful-woman” Mc”Hey-mami”

P.S. I don’t intend to actually slice off any portion of anyone’s genitalia, but sometimes, the thought of that kind of revenge is sweet… especially when all you are trying to do that day is go to a job interview in Midtown. ::sigh::