Dear dudes who check out women’s asses and think nobody notices,
You know who you are. Don’t deny it. I saw one of you just the other day, and despite my glares and mouth agape at your conspicuousness and lack of class, you just kept on staring, which compels me to write you this letter, just to clear up what I was thinking, and what, perhaps, we’re all thinking. About you. You somewhat dirty man in your 50s.
Here’s what you did.
I was standing in a long line at a coffee shop. You were over at the end of the counter waiting for your drink. A young woman in jeans was standing at the register, ordering. Admittedly her curves didn’t suck. You also noticed this and decided to get a better look. So you backed up, took a few steps to the left to get an unobstructed view, and stared. Just STARED. Your eyes did not move from her ass. I stared at you. I kept staring at you. You didn’t notice. I tilted my head to one side like “for reals?” and wished I could bitch-slap you with my mind, for being an asshole.
I felt a pang for this woman, because she was just standing there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, a college student, ordering some coffee, and she became the object of whatever sick shit was rolling through your kinda-old-man brain. And you didn’t even have the decency to hide it.
You looked away for a minute. Then did it again. You were fixated. To me, you looked pathetic and creepy and almost violent with the forcefulness of your attention.
She walked over closer to you. You kept staring. I kept glaring.
The truth is I wanted to tell you you’re a fucking sleazebag slime ball, to so obviously lust after a woman at least 30 years younger than you, with no respect for her or anybody else. With no regard for who she may be as a human, or that perhaps she deserves a little privacy, or respect. That she’s somebody’s daughter and maybe mother.
And maybe you think we don’t notice. Maybe you think we can’t see what you’re doing as you undress her with your eyes and contemplate the beauty that will never be yours.
I was once the woman you dirt bags stared at, as most of us were, when I was young and thin and, um, perky. But I ain’t anymore and I gotta tell you, it doesn’t really bother me that much. And now, I feel this weird motherly-like protective instinct for women who aren’t asking for it and yet become sex objects under the power of a masochistic gaze.
I have a feeling you don’t get it very often. I have a feeling you have a very small wee-wee.
I have a feeling you aren’t much of a man at all. You probably pay for it. You probably pay women to meet the expectations of your self-centered fantasies. It was clear you thought nothing of her beyond what she could offer you sexually. Everybody in the place was watching you gawk. My intuition was raging that you were not a man to be trusted.
So let me just say we all know, dude. We know what you’re doing and we know you’re a fucking loser. And, yes, we know your wee-wee is subpar at best.
That is all.
Everybody else in the world.