Hey Mister, I’ve Got Something To Tell You

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I AM NOT SEX.
I resent the fact that this is all you see when you look at me.

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Some men will always be the stereotype; sex crazed beings who can’t look at a woman as anything more than meat-on-legs.  I’ve got no problem with these sorts of men, so long as they keep their damn pokers away from me.  Actually, I kind of think a traditional sex addict, is funny.  They’ve always got entertaining stories to tell; hell, if a girl is stupid enough not to see it coming, then she damn well deserves it.

But I’m not that girl.  And I resent the fact some men just don’t get it, pisses me off.  How many times can you say, “Don’t go there with me.  I’m not that girl.  There are plenty out there who are.  If you want, I’ll send one to you. But stay the FUCK away from me.”  Before you get nauseated because he just refuses to get it?

I’m cool with you and fetishes; you and your inability to think strait without climaxing at least once a day.  I can handle the concept that you’re thinking about sex almost as often as you’re breathing; I can even grasp that you might be visualizing me from time to time.  But don’t step on my God damn toes by classing me with the trash that will go to bed with you after a few cheesy sentences and over-indulged compliments.

There is etiquette to talking to people; no matter what the relationship.  It’s not okay to start mumbling about the recent lows and highs in the stock market during foreplay with a prostitute.  It’s not ok to attempt phone sex with someone you’ve just met, who isn’t in that damn trade.

Understand it.  I am not a prostitute.  I am not going to jump into bed with you, because you’ve got a few clichéd lines (that really aren’t that convincing), and you think you’re the shit.  Understand it.  I am not sex.
The fact that you could possibly still wonder if I am, just makes me question your damn intelligence.  And the least attractive characteristic of a man is idiocy.