You’re Asking For It: A Short, Situational Guide
Out singing holiday songs to raise money for your local homeless charity.
Your volunteer group has just finished with a bouncy rendition of Chanukah Bamba and moved on to the traditional Christmas staple, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. The audience seems to be enjoying the group’s slightly off-key, ‘we’re out here just having fun’ vibe, and all is going well until you, the only woman wearing a skirt, sing the words “COMFORT AND JOY” with the rest of your group. Luckily everyone keeps singing, but there’s no hiding their absolute dismay at your clear ‘invitation’ to every man, both singer and listener. Next time, spare everyone the embarrassment and just put an ad on Craigslist offering private concerts.
Dancing at your third cousin’s wedding to look like you’re not just there for the open bar.
You’re smiling and moving from foot to foot to show everyone that, twenty years later, you’re not the reclusive outsider you were in high school. To your “surprise” you become instantly more approachable to the guests wearing ill-fitting suits. But you were just dancing, you say? Trying to be sociable and polite, you say? Please. You may have well have been wearing a neon sign with ‘Come Here, Great Uncle Jerry, And Put Your Arthritic Hand On My Pert Ass.’
Getting a root canal from a male practitioner.
What decent woman pays to have a strange man in her mouth?
Voicing a concern at a Town Hall zoning meeting.
The frat boys on the corner have decorated their front lawn with truck nut garland and bedsheets painted with DROP YOUR WIVES AND DAUGHTERS HERE. You haven’t come to the meeting to run them out of town or even advocate for a professionally-landscaped perennial garden – you just want to join the discussion. When it’s your turn to speak, you’re immediately subdued by a well-versed dad. “Boys will be boys,” he says. And, although you say, “I disagree with that,” what you really mean is “I, a woman, am challenging you, a man, because I haven’t been fucked in so long that I’ve forgotten how to be happy and enjoy life.” The anonymous dick pic you receive that evening via Facebook shows the community is ready to proactively deal with the real problem: you.
While getting the news that a family member didn’t make it through surgery.
There you stand, surrounded by stark, white walls, sweat-rumpled magazines and the sound of machines breathing and keeping time. A professional approaches to confirm that the beeps you were counting on have stopped. You’re wearing trousers, trousers that some would consider a bit too snug for your indulgent thighs. You walk to the hospital cafeteria for something warm to drink. Cup in hand, you’re eyes lose focus and begin to stare into the space that is grief. Nice try. Every man within a twenty foot radius can see the desperation in your eyes. They can also see that you arranged your scarf to be seductively askew atop your hunched, spent body. Oh, you don’t want a caretaking shoulder massage? Maybe go home and grieve, bitch.
At the repast.
A guy you haven’t seen since the ‘94 family reunion needs to tell you how much you’ve grown since he tried put his hand inside your swimsuit at the lake. Oh c’mon, it’s not his fault you look so hot when you’re crying.
Being at a soiree when Simon & Garfunkel’s So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright begins playing.
What an unexpected surprise! It’s on your playlist at home so you’re not exactly deprived, but it’s always nice to feel the comfort that comes with hearing a favorite tune in the wild. You’re standing on your own, smiling; conjuring architectural waterfalls and vocal featherbeds.
So, what else are you conjuring in that wicked mind of yours? Clearly a telepathic invitation to the 60-something divorcee standing next to the potted spider fern. “You’re too young to know this song,” he says, among other important observations while visually gobbling your breasts. He’s going to graze them with his drink hand to remind you who was a Simon & Garfunkel fan first. Why bother with nervous laughter when you can just say “I always swallow.”
Walking down a relatively busy street with a baby carriage.
It’s been three weeks since you gave birth and you’re finally feeling confident enough to trek down to your favorite coffee corner and make introductions. So what if your uterus is still the size of a prize-winning cantaloupe? You have yoga pants! Seriously though, yoga pants have become a new best friend to your healing, baby-nurturing body A best friend that tells the world you could probably ride a horse without a saddle. About halfway there the baby makes a slightly uncomfortable sound—oh no, what’s wrong little guy?—so you bend down to see if everything’s ok. Nothing but gurgles and excited kicks. Good. Did you even need an excuse to bend over? You seem invigorated by all the whistles and audible lip-licking. These guys know that the quicker you walk the quicker you get down to your goal weight. How thoughtful. You “feel threatened?” If you’re going to play that card, maybe it’s time to ask the most important question: why did you even allow yourself to be born with “that ass tho” in the first place?
At your own funeral. (Casket burial)
If you don’t want anyone commenting on how your tits pop in that dress, hit the crematorium.
At your own funeral. (Cremation)
It’s your choice obviously, but don’t be surprised when some guys at the back refer to your urn as a “nice jug.”