DON'T CALL ME SEXY addresses the various forms of sexual harassment and objectification women face that has been allowed to flourish in our society till it attained normalcy.
Just ask a group of females whether they have encountered any form of sexual harassment or objectification and you will be surprised by how many have a story to tell.
A conversation about sexual harassment is long overdue so I went ahead to start one, feel free to drop a comment and let's have a conversation in the comment section.
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Don't call me sexy. I am a person with a personality and feelings, not a pound of flesh to test your
lame strokes or insatiable thirst on. So, when I walk by and your alternate brain tugs at you,
begging you to spew some condescending, sexually objectifying, rapist-like comments,
count to ten and then shut up. To the random teenage boys with blabber mouth, to the loose
young adult male, to the elderly men who are a testament to the fact that all doesn't always
equal wise, to the boys or men somewhere in between who let their dangling third limb do
the thinking and speaking. Don't call me sexy. Cat calling me in the middle of the streets,
only to haul insults at me for getting self-conscious and briskly walking past. Pardon
me, cause this is my only defense against a pack of wolves quickly turning sweet names like sexy
baby, honey, darling, to a shell, slut, ugly thing thing, or flat as a wall six o'clock body. But as
I said already, all doesn't always equal wise and that explains why a man thrice my age would try
to slip his arms around me in a cab just to grab a hold of my right breast mistakenly. My dress sense
now revolves around what the safest option might be per location, cause surviving another day is
way more important than looking good. Eureka! Large breasts must be the answer, but oh no,
there comes another. Speaking of how women who cover their bodies from head to toe are freaks
in bed, taking time out to explain his unsolicited and invasive deepest darkest fantasies. Where can
I run to? Who will believe the atrocities thrown at me daily despite having a face that boldly we
not trespass. I step out of my home every single day consumed by the fear of objectification,
only to get blamed for people's actions I have no control over. Maybe your dress was too short,
maybe your clothes clung a little too tight, or your hair was seductive, maybe your makeup was
too flashy or you smiled a little too much. And the award winning, are you sure it didn't seem
like you were begging for it. This is not a feminist poem, but a plea from a woman tired
of sexual objectification. Thank you.
