Fuck You.

Yeah.

I said it.

Fuck you.

And you know who you are.  The boys who grabbed my ass in high school, or randomly leaned over in class, when I was trying to learn Algebra 2, to say, "I sit here so I can look at your legs."
Those guys who went out of their way to say, "Nice tits," when I was 15, 16, 17, in the high school hallways.  You who sang, "I like Joanna's butt and I cannot lie," while you're walking up the stairs behind me when I was just trying to get to class after lunch.
I didn't know what to say to you at that time.

Now I do:
You are pigs.  Jerks.  Assholes.  Gross.
You treated me like I was a sex object.  And you acted like I was privileged by your attention.
Fuck you.
You made my stomach churn.
I didn't know what to say, because I was a kid.  I was still a kid.  And naive. And I had been awkward and ugly in middle school.  Enough, so my mother made sure I had blond hair by the time I was 13.
Yes, I was taught, through society and social experiences, I should feel like your sexual harassment was a form of compliment.  Thanks.  Fucking, thanks.

And now... Sometimes I regret making my body feel more like it did before I had babies...  Because perfect tits and a flat stomach mean...  What?  I'm asking for attention?  Even if I'm married?  Even if I'm a mother?  I'm asking for men to comment on my body?  I'm asking for sexual innuendos?  From colleagues?  Students?  Former students?  Male friends? People, who remember me from high school?

No!  Look at me.  I'm not so pretty.  I rarely bother with makeup.  There is nothing special about this face I have.  Isn't my nose weird?  Aren't my lips too thin?  Look at me.  Why do I have to point out my flaws?

Guess what?  I have a huge scar under my abdomen... That's where my twins came out.

I'd take my implants out if that's all that makes me special now.  I don't care about perfect, round tits. I used to mourn the loss of my breast tissue, after nursing twin babies.  But these beautiful silicone mounds aren't worth being treated like I'm not... Human...  Not a mother...  Not a wife...  Or that I'm asking for attention.

I got small ones, anyway, you bastards.  I got ones just about the biggest size I ever was naturally.  I didn't get them for your attention.  I got them so I could feel whole.  And now that seems shameful.

I don't know how or why I ask for this strange, unwanted attention from men...  Hmmmm...  Maybe I chose my Halloween costume that year because I wanted to look sexy... No, I threw it together in 10 minutes because I couldn't think of anything else, and it was easy.  I won $100 for "best costume" chosen by the band, at a bar I had just walked into 30 minutes before, with my sister-in-law and a friend, and we had danced to a few songs, remembering the college concert days, because the music was kind of undanceable, and kind of Phish/Pink Floyd-sounding.  Haha, Teresa, younger than me, said you just move like this, swaying to the song in a silly way.  And that's what we did.  We were silly.  I took the $100, though.  I should have given it to my sister's boyfriend.  They had been there all night in elaborate Red Riding Hood and Wolf costumes.  "He would have won if you hadn't shown up.  You know why you won."
Oh.

Should I be confused by the attention I receive from males whom I knew long ago or strangers at a bar.  Boys, who are almost half my age, former students (ack!)?  Former schoolmates?  Oh goodness:  Former boyfriends?!  Should I want them to tell me how I was their fantasy, always have been, that I'm so hot?

SHUT UP!  No.  No.

Leave me alone.  Please.  I'm not "asking for it." You don't need to know if I'm happy.  You don't need to know about my life.  You really hope you can see my tits?  That I'll tell you sexual things...  Because I'm a good writer and I know what to say.  Yeah?  But I won't do that.

Find all the other girls in the world:  So many perfect tits, clever minds, highly sexualized appetites.  A world of women.  Beautiful women.  Perfect for you, or to you.  They are not suffering from PMDD.  Not already messed up.  Prettier than me.  Not married.  Not a mother.  Not me.

I'm not yours.  I belong to myself, and I belong to a family.  And you just hurt me with your attention.

But wait...  I'm old and had babies.  Should I want someone other than Sam to think I'm beautiful? Attractive?  See, I can know so strongly how horrible it made me feel when I was a teenager.

How horrible it really felt to be groped by a stranger, when I was dancing with my friends in college.

I'm not so young now.  Should I mind when men catcall me when I'm mowing the lawn?  How about having the stepfather of the groom at a friend's wedding I'm filming, start talking closely near my ear, after I had slowly backed up near him with the camera slowly to get a full shot of the dance floor, and tell me how he likes watching me dance.  "It's a shame you have to work so hard, you should be dancing.  I like watching you dance.  You are beautiful.  That dress fits your body perfectly."  Oops, I was filming still, sir.   (That happened!  And it was so shocking to me...  Nope.  Not a bit.  I was used to it.  Used to it.  I had to erase the sound, from that part of the film before handing over the raw footage to the happy couple.  I'm sure your wife, your stepson, and oh, just about everyone in your family would prefer not to hear you hitting on, or should I say, sexually harassing the videographer.  Asshole).

God, but I part of my brain goes back to the 15-year-old confusion again, wondering if I should be grateful someone thinks I'm pretty or sexy...  That they even noticed me at all.

Are they complimenting me?  Are you?  Do I want you to write just to tell me I look amazing?  Do I?

Ha.  Let's not fuck around with that question.  Don't even think about it.  I'm not anymore. Just leave me alone.