Your cat call, wolf whistle, sign of appreciation of my dungarees, my red striped tee that clearly said "I wish to be objectified" today and every day that I second guess my outfit. Because it would be my fault if I was asking for it, with a skirt just a little too short. Above the knee, thighs seen by the world and his wife would disapprove because she has lived with his mysogynistic views that now fall upon deaf ears.
Numb from the daily pats on the bottom, grabbing anatomy behind closed doors or even out in the open because his property is his castle. Yet he carves cracks in her walls, paints her how he pleases, shows her off when it suits because she was a looker back in the day, but now she is showing her age. She's too tired to argue, too frail to have a voice. Now when he treats her like a piece of meat, she smiles and agrees and another Queen is confined to the kitchen.
So, at fourteen when I was groped I learned to be silent, because I would be silenced either way. When compliments are hurled like sewage from a van, by an unseen man who is everywhere, is everyone, who forces young women to accept that this is as good as it gets. That there is no white picket fence, while endless judgement is the norm and "nice tits" is the highest form of flattery, especially when yelled out from a moving car.
Well screw your misogyny. I'm sorry I don't sound like a lady and that offends you, sweetheart. I'll take a compliment when it is not about my body, which I have felt you undress, with your snake eyes, ten times over the course of this conversation. And I'll ask you this question that you will never answer. Imagine if the roles were reversed? And I was the cancer who called out to you while you were defenceless and alone. Modestly dressed but you and I both know that won't hold up in court.
So, I will not kick up a fuss and draw attention to myself any more than you already have. Instead I will bide my time, write down what I have seen in words that are mine, that not even you can make me change. Not even you will make me feel ashamed for wearing shorts on a summer's day and a T-shirt in spring.
Because I could wear anything and it would never be your place to say a word. To make a single sound in regard to how I dress my body. I am not asking for much, in all honesty. Just a gew more steps towards equality. So, next time I am in my denim, roll your window up, hold your breath as you pass me, and keep your damn mouth shut.