>Dear boys,

>Yes, that is stubble you are seeing and feeling on my legs. No, I have not shaved in a week. Why? Does hair turn you off? Would you rather me bear the pain and expense of buying razors and shaving cream every week just to make you feel more at ease when you touch my legs?

I hate the feel and sight of hair on your balls, stomach, chest, arms, legs and back, but you don’t see me complaining about it. I would love for you to be smooth like a baby’s bottom, but I’m mature enough to understand that it won’t happen. I hate when you kiss me with a five o’clock shadow, but you don’t hear me complain about it.

Yes, I have a little stubble on my pubic area. No, I can’t shave down there everyday. I don’t like the feel and sight of razor bumps, burn, redness, itchiness and irritation, thank you very much. A little hair on the pubic area won’t kill you. It’s a benefit to me because it protects the delicate mons pubic area of the female genitalia. No, I will not shave or wax the crack of my ass. Yes, women do grow hair back there. It’s normal–get over it. No, I will not bleach the crack of my ass to make my complexion more uniform. I’m not a porn star and I’m not a commodity.

What did you just call me? No, I’m not your whore, your bitch or your slut. No, you can not grab my ass on the dance floor at the club. No, you can’t force your way into my private space just because I glance at your for a split second.

What, because I’m wearing a skirt and a halter top, that gives you the right to free access to my body? Just because I’m wearing high heels and a camisole doesn’t mean you have the right to touch at-will. Yes, I will continue to ignore your cat-calls because I can. I will ignore anyone who calls me out of my name.

No, I’m not a freak in the bed. No, I’m not an Amazon, waiting to unleash my sexual voodoo over your masochistic soul. The color of my skin has no bearing on my sexual desire. No, I’m not your video ho–I don’t drop it like it’s hot, back that thang up or lick it like a lollipop.

No, I will not starve myself just to squeeze into a size 0. Yes, I like to eat–pizza, burgers, pasta, desserts, etc. Yes, I like to drink. No, I will not throw up that double fudge chocolate cake I ate at Applebee’s. It was actually very delicious. No, I will not lose five pounds to look like the barely-legal jail-bait you secretly fantasize about next door. No, I will not starve myself while you sit back and down a six-pack and a whole pizza every night in front of the living room television.

And, no. I don’t wear make-up everyday. I like the feel and look of my natural skin, mmkay? I’m sorry I can’t look like a porcelain doll for you everyday. They don’t make women like that anymore.

No, I will not wear that skirt you like to see me in at work. I’m not eye candy on display if you get bored or restless. No, I will not give you a massage–even if I’m a pro at it. I’m here to slave for a paycheck just like you are, so keep your eyes on your own chest, legs and ass, mmkay?

And for the love of God, don’t call me sweetie, dear, baby or honey. I’m neither one to you and probably never will be. Save that for your wife or your significant other. You don’t know me and I don’t know you and I would like to keep it that way.

Sorry, boys, but this fantasy you have of me just doesn’t exist. I know this is hard for you to grasp, but I’m just being honest and open to you about it.

No, I’m not some hairy feminazi. I’m just a woman whose tired of living in this pink, glass box you and your boys force me into everyday with your narrow-minded views and boorish behavior.