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A few weeks ago I played a word association game with my co-workers in which I was compared to a “firecracker”—pretty to look at, don’t want to be there when I blow up.
I’m letting the firecracker loose on this one.
Dear “guy who pinched my butt on the train today”,
Who do you think you are? How dare you think that it is alright to lay your finger on me.? How dare you think even for a second that it would be somehow acceptable to touch me. How dare you smile at me with that “I’m so smooth” smirk when I turn around horrified after I felt your dirty little hand touch my butt. How dare you ask me “how are you doing sweetheart”.
No, “guy who pinched my butt on the train today”, you messed with the wrong “sweetheart” .
Dear “guy who pinched my butt on the train today”, let me clear up some things for you.
I don’t feel attractive when you touch me without my consent.
I don’t feel wanted, or sexy, or beautiful.
Instead, I feel dirty, horrified, disgusted, like a piece of meat, a commodity, a thing…you name it.
Your touch along with your presence is unwelcome.
Your touch in nauseating, and disgusting.
How dare you, even for a minute think that your touch will be ignored or welcomed. How dare you, even for a minute, think that when I grab your hand, I’m inviting you for more.
How dare you call me obscene things when I call the station manager and report you.
How dare you be surprised? How dare you, not even for a minute, think that what you just did was perfectly alright.
I hope you enjoy the night in jail—this is for all women you have ever laid your finger on.
I hope this incident has taught you something.
I hope you never repeat what you did again.
And most importantly, I hope you understand—I am not, nor will I ever be your kind of "sweetheart".
