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Tuesday, June 14, 2005


Dear Man on the Street,

We need to talk. There are some things you should know. I hope this letter will shed some light on such matters.

When I walk down the street, it does not, as you may presume, give me pleasure to be shouted at, just because you have spotted my breasts and approve of them.

Contrary to what you may think, it does not make me happy, when your eyeballs are transfixed onto my tits. Staring, ogling, drooling: none of these make me appreciate the male race. In fact the opposite is true: when faced with a man unable to tear his eyes away from my chest area, I am more inclined to think ‘arsehole’ than ‘knight in shining armour’.

I know this may come as a shock to you. I assume you think that when you shout at me,

‘Nice tits!’

that I must love the attention, but you are wrong. Very wrong.

Let me explain:

I am not complimented when you make a remark like that to me.
I do not find it a turn on when you stare at me.
I do not go home and rub myself into oblivion, thinking how sexy your words made me feel.
And your behaviour does not tempt me to drop my pants in front of you, and say,

‘Oh please, I love it when you say that, fuck me now!’

In fact the only time anyone has a right to remark on my breasts is when a lover, in bed with me, tells me how much he likes them, and asks me to rub them against his cock. Then and only then, do I like them being talked about, stared at, and fondled. Any other time is just not on. Especially if you are a stranger looking at me in the street.

This goes for being at work too. You may think just because you are a colleague, that this automatically gives you privileged access to leer freely at me. Not at all. I will challenge you on your breast staring and ask you to stop immediately. (Being generous, I’ll often then give you 30 seconds to stare solely at my breasts, before disallowing you to ever look again. You should value that half-minute: it’s all you’re going to get).

You might think that I have no right to say these things, considering my own preoccupation with sex, and my admittance at looking at men’s crotches and arses, but I beg to differ: I occasionally look, and when I do, I observe subtly, and hopefully never get caught doing it. I wouldn’t dream of staring blatantly at a man’s package or making a verbal remark to him – intimidating or offending him would be derogatory, and I would hate to make him feel objectified.

But on the contrary, it seems very acceptable for you to do this to me: it’s like men have a free-for-all when it comes to their views – you can say what you like, when you like. And when you speak your mind, more often than not, it is offensive to me. Your behaviour makes me think that very few men have actually seen breasts in real life, let alone, felt them. Why else would you behave the way you do, when faced with mine? Surely you know better than to be so rude? And how do you expect me to respond, really?

So, I hope that this will clear up any misunderstanding when you heard,


‘Wanker’, and


shouted back at you today: it wasn’t personal love, promise.

Yours truly,


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