I’m Done! Whee!
As I was walking home after handing in my sloppy-but-passable and oh-so-finished report on this particular patch of ground where we dragged around a few wires last week, some guy pulled over and called out that I had the nicest breasts he’d ever seen. He didn’t call them breasts, of course, but I figured out pretty quickly what he meant. My response to that kind of thing is always to think up some snappy comeback a la Al Jafee, and then keep walking without a hint of response. Because I know damn well that any snappy comeback would inevitably devolve:
me: Oh, so how many breasts have you seen, then?
me: Fifteen? What, you bite off yer ma’s nipple trying to suck on it after she’d been in labor for thirty-six hours to get your fat head into the world?
creepyguy: … hey, baby…
me: Dude, you need to get out more. Go find a strip club, you can see all the nice boobies you want there.
creepyguy: (here comes forth a soulful ode to the virtues of the honest, unaltered breast, wherein creepyguy paints himself as a sensitive, modern man in words of one syllable or less, all the while referring to me as “girl” or “baby” and staring at my chest for signs of nipple.)
me: … (blank stare as I realize once again that pop culture feminism has somewhere gone terribly, terribly wrong) … look, just fuck off, okay?
It’s not so much the sexual objectification that disturbs me – after all, I can read a full issue of Cosmo without puking once. It’s the fact that, unlike Cosmo, creepy guys give you no reasonable path to conversation.