anthurium

Some of you may recall my rant about the two men that asked me out at the library a couple of months ago.

After I turned him down, one of them gave me a packet of poems he wrote, which I promptly set aside and forgot about. I came across them recently, and read them, and wow…I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to

a) laugh
b) cry
c) throw up in my mouth a little, or
d) all of the above.

Perhaps it’s cruel of me to write publicly about this. However, the dude in question showed no qualms about making me feel uncomfortable in front of more than twenty people by asking me out in a public computer lab. He then continued to disregard my boundaries by foisting sexually explicit poetry upon me after I had already given him a firm no (and informed him of my latent gayness, to boot). I’m not providing any identifying details about the man, so I am giving free reign to my righteous feminist scorn.

I’m sure women exist, somewhere, who would find a sheaf of poems entitled “Odes to your Sweet Ass” given to them by a near-stranger to be endearing. However, you may rest assured that I am not one of them.

Poetry is rife with romantic potential, but his approach was the literary equivalent of suggesting we go catch “Debbie Does Dallas” for a first date. Gee, thanks, Smoove B. Even if I was straight, and interested, those poems would have given me the creeps.

Some choice quotes:

“Be not bashful, my dame, in asking to have me bask in ass.”

“Plus post-climax attacks, yeah, slipped her some sap till tooth decay.”

“I feel you’d find this sex comes ocean size for the obliged
You’ve nothing to lose but your mind and time.”

“Here’s an ode to your sweet ass
Written in icing.”

“Platonic
just another word for pending.”

“Do you have to play so hard to get?
As if I didn’t get you wet?”

“Oh how I yearn for you,
For you to learn me,
For your concern for me,
For your hurt for me…”

et cetera. For fourteen effing pages. I hope I wasn’t the sole inspiration for that disturbing miasma.

I’m fully aware that, as Inga Muscio puts it, “for half the population of the planet, my sole purpose for existing on this earth is to make dicks ejaculate, either for recreation or procreation, and no matter how I live my life or what I accomplish, this is not likely to alter significantly in my lifetime.”

I know this, but I tend to forget until I am blindsided by yet another patriarchal cock-knock. I strongly dislike being reminded that, as a woman, it’s pretty much a given that men who know nothing about me whatsoever have constructed graphic sexual fantasies about me. Furthermore, I find it infuriating to the extreme that said men lack reservations about how sharing these fantasies with me might, just might, make me feel uncomfortable or violated. Here’s an ode to your douchenozzlery, written in vomit. I’m going to go take a shower now.

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blair made me do it