I’ve got a lot of men catcalling and making advances at me on the streets these days.
I warn you all – this is not poetry. It’s a rant. An angry, feminist-cunt rant. It contains some harsh language. I’m not sorry.
First of all, you stray men who gather around me like a flock of horny bulls, do not think I’m angry. Do not think I do not understand where you’re coming from. I am aware of the fact that I am an easy victim.
Woman. Below 25. Attractive, or so they would have me believe. I look in the mirror and I get you. There’s no denying it – I have nice tits. A quite appealing face, at least with makeup applied. I’ve got a slim figure and a rather shapely back-end as well.
But most of all, I’m an easy victim because I stand out from the crowd. My black and emerald hair attracts gazes from a long distance. I wear heavy eye makeup and black clothing. I even have the guts to wear a skirt when it’s hot outside. My appearance is practically screaming out:
“Hey, I like to be harassed by unknown men on the street! I’m so sad and insecure and I need your affirming hints and shouts to fill my shallow, girly confidence!”
I don’t come with warning labels, though. There are no painted signs on me stating: “Watch out, ’cause I’m a writer. Right after this, I will go home to my desk and have my revenge on all of you. Just wait.”
Neither does it mention: “I suffer mental illness and I am self-destructive. I am terrified of the world, terrified of people and their gazes, but I still hold onto my values and will to express myself trough my appearance, which I think is quite brave of me.”
Not that I think these things would matter to you. I’m playing with the thought. If people were like whiteboards, their minds all written out on them in bright red markers, would it make a difference? Would you react any differently knowing there’s a human being in under that powder, eyeliner and rejecting stares? Or would it just assist you in labeling me as a misfitted, rebellious goth-freak who’s probably depressed, possibly suicidal? In other terms, a self-proclaimed target for your perverse fantasies.
Do you dream of pinning me down to a table while you fuck me, ejaculate on my scarred thighs and tell yourself you’re doing me a favor, giving me some appreciation? Or are you one of those men who goes with the almighty-savior-style, telling me of how you and your cock are going to save me from my vicious mind? My illness is seen as a perfect way for you to get laid. You think you can screw me until I forget about my anxiety? And when that doesn’t work out, and I’m still not feeling well, even less so now that I’ve been degraded to someone’s cliché fantasy, you will dismiss me as “cranky” and too hard to handle.
Do you want this, or do you just need to display sexual authority over me to appeal to your need for manliness and your ingrown Oedipus complex?
And when I tell you I’ve had it, and am not interested and don’t care how many times you compliment my hypnotic eyes or my tight ass. I go home and cry. Think about hurting myself. Then, deflect the blow and reapply the makeup to my face before going out, after having a breakdown behind closed doors, ready to face the world again, looking intimidating and tempting and intellectual and irresistible.
So, last of all, thank you. You, slimy guy in the corner. You three, passing my and seeing fit to throw in whistles and humiliating words. You, elderly coot, trying to evoke the interest of a woman young enough to be your grandchild. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your blessed attention and confirmation. Thank you for ignoring my potential talents, thoughts and intellect and instead viewing me as a piece of organic material for your next masturbation round. I might still have to fight my self-destructive nature, my OCD, panic and anxiety, but heck, at least I can rest assured that I am “fuckable” in the eyes of unknown men on the street, should I ever doubt my fortune with the other sex.