Why, exactly, do I hate creeps? Well, because they’re so freakin’ creepy, that’s why. They make you want to unzip your skin, step out of it, dip it in hot f*&king bleach and then dry it on double-high heat before you can finally feel comfortable putting it back on. It’s the worst.
For me, the worst kind of creepiness is stalking/pseudo-stalking/clinginess, because I went through a full-on stalking experience myself with the ex, Toad Blowhard, who just keeps getting mentioned around here, for some reason. The different between pseudo-stalking and full-on stalking is that pseudo-stalking only lasts for a couple of weeks, whereas stalking tends to go on and on and on. Pseudo-stalking seems to be borne out of a person’s more-or-less well-intentioned effort to show you that they like you. Because showing up outside someone’s apartment, drunk at four in the morning, and throwing snowballs at their window until they wake up is the best way to say “I really think we have something special and I would like to see you again.”
Other forms of creepery for which I will kick your ass include:
Staring. Most women would specify “staring at my boobs,” but I do not appreciate any form of staring at all. I had a flatmate in Paris who would sit on the loft bed and stare down at me like a gargoyle. Yes, I realize I’m beautiful, take a picture, except DON’T TAKE MY F*&KING PICTURE YOU STUPID CREEP.
Propositioning me via social media or email. There’s a reason you’re not asking me for sex face-to-face, and it’s because you don’t think I’ll give you any or because you’re married, or because you haven’t figured out how to ask someone for sex face-to-face without getting slapped.
Asking me for naked photos. I don’t mean if we’re in a relationship together, I mean if you’re some rando I talked to for five minutes at a party the night before and you have the stone-cold balls to friend me on Facebook and then message me asking for pics of my tits. It’s not just that you asked for pictures of my tits, but that you think you deserve to look at my tits every day for the rest of your life, long after the tits in question have become mere shriveled sacks of old-lady flesh.
|I relish the thought that even after I'm dead, you'll still be wanking it to pictures of my tits.|
Rubbing your genitals on me. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST WALK UP AND HUMP SOMEBODY AND THAT’S OKAY. I mean, this isn’t even as bad as walking up to me in the bar or club (people never do these things when they are sober) and telling me how you’d “split me in half” as one guy put it. (Seriously? That’s supposed to be sexy?) Although, still, that’s pretty bad. If you’re about to ask someone for sex, stop and ask yourself if that person has any reason to expect you to ask them for sex. If the answer is no, remember that tact, like kindness and manners, is free.
But I digress. I was telling you a story about this time when some guy humped me. I was sitting in my favorite bar in France, the Monkey Bar, where I was a regular, and some grody stranger who appeared to know everyone was in there, and he was talking to my friend, who was sitting next to me, and who apparently knew the dude, whose name escapes me at the moment. Well, after he’d been talking to my friend for a few minutes, he turned around and introduced himself to me, and as he was doing so, he straight up started humping my leg. I’m not even joking. I was sitting on a bar stool and he was about the right height so that his crotch came up just level with my knee, and he straight up started humping my leg. Real slow and subtle, like, so no one else in the bar would notice. And as he was doing so he said, I sh8t you not, he actually said, “I can tell you and I are gonna get along real well.”
So I kneed him in the junk.
|Real slow and subtle, like, so no one else in the bar would notice.|