As a female, I don’t require you to apologize for being a man. I don’t even expect you to all crowd around me as if I’m that one sheriff-turned-scruffy-looking-homeless person on “Walking Dead.” However, I’d like to ask you a very point-blank question, of which I feel bears repeating:
Why must you feel the need to send people photos of your ding-dong?
It’s not that I don’t enjoy that particular genitalia; really I don’t. I don’t mind how when we’re cuddling it pops up in your pants as if it were to give me a really enthusiastic “HELLO” as did the ass-holes in that one scene of “Space Balls.” It’s barely even a problem when I’m sleeping scantily clad next to a significant other and at some obscure hour of the morning – it happens. As I lay on my side, dead asleep, I feel something thrust betwixt my butt cheeks; like an oddly-contoured mushroom cap that hath made its way into a small crevasse. And lo, upon my feeling of it, I jumped about three feet into the air with a resounding “HOO!” Out of complete surprise – as if I were some cat receiving a rectal thermometer for the first time… No. I am a durable lass and I take pride in putting up with that shit.
Nay good sir, it is the fact that for some odd reason, you start out nice. You start out sort of like Captain Jean-Luc Picard in Star Trek; you give me a reason to make me feel some what safe and secure. You have given me compliments and told me how pretty I am (several times) and on the occasion complain about how you’re a “nice guy;” and yet your way of receiving rejection is about as graceful as watching a five year old throwing a temper tantrum in a grocery store.
And then one morning… My phone makes that noticeable and nigh capable-of-ignoring sound.
“Ah, I have received a text message!” I think. An lo, upon my unlocking my phone… There it is. While yes, it is a penis; it is one that is poorly photographed. It is done in often times a bathroom; there’s poor lighting; the resolution looks a bit fuzzy; it’s pointed at some odd angle to make it look as long as my thigh. Because you want to make sure to tell me “You could play softball with this thing if physics allowed it.” But no, instead it looks like you’re holding your ding dong hostage. As if ISIS was your PR and they informed you that the best way to get the ladies was to send them a photo as if the shoot were conducted in a small and damp cave.
And even though you may not be far from me relatively speaking as far as distance – and even though you want to show me you gave me a gift… In a way that a feral cat kills a bird and leaves it at my door step; awaiting my approval. Because for some reason you are convinced that I need this ‘thing’ in my life that you so expertly caught…
Could you at least try to jazz it up a bit? Maybe put some googly eyes on it or perhaps even a small hat? As a cisgender female and a heterosexual I take pride that I am what I eat… But if you’re going to sexually harass me via polluting my inbox with that – at least try to be creative… Or better yet, you could ask for consent, and wait for us to respond with a “yes” or “no.”
I know instant gratification doth make you pine for attention – the same way that I’m sure a pet parakeet might shake its weird, bell-covered chain-toy-thing in its cage at some god forsaken hour of the morning an squawking excitedly because you fucking can and have no real sense of knowing of where you are in the time-space-continuum.
So, basically what I’m asking of you, is to either be polite and ask; or just fucking decorate it and send the photo to us with consent. Because if you want to try and show off what you’ve got. Do it with fucking style!