(car rolls up)
M: hey slut, suck my dick!
F: that’s really intimidating and insensitive dude.
the car grinds to a halt
M: you’re asking for it
F: pretty sure I’m just listening to radiohead and walking down the street
M: but you’re wearing clothes
F: just like every other person on the street
M: provocative clothes
F: that fit into some fucked-up notion you have that I dress to signal my sexual availability specifically to you
M: I’m just trying to communicate my internal sexual desires to you
(a car pulls up behind, starts to beep its horn)
F: you’re not
M: I am, I’m trying to show you I like you, and this is the only way I know how
F: actually, this has nothing to do with your personal sexual desires – you’re just reinforcing a power structure based on the idea that public spaces are men’s spaces, and you feel entitled to comment on my body based on my appearance and mannerisms.
M: but I –
F: you’re trying to control me because I’m walking by myself, in control of myself. The way your dick feels has nothing to do with it.
M: I’m really sorry for reinforcing the patriarchal power system that tries to control and regulate women’s bodies. Thanks for the education.
F: you’re welcome.
(car drives away, bathed in the glow of understanding)
THE WOMAN: Have you ever tasted blood?
THE MAN: Only my own. Cuts, you know, licking them clean. Flossing too hard.
THE WOMAN: If I ask you, will you taste mine?
THE MAN: I can’t.
THE WOMAN: For love? If I ask you, for love?
THE MAN: I’m afraid.
THE WOMAN: That it’ll repulse you?
THE MAN: That it’ll delight me.