A poem for men on dating apps, men on the street, men in bars
I am not your hun.
I am not your babe precious sexy what you up to now wet dream.
You can’t fool me into thinking we are intimate.
I don’t know who you are but I know I’m not your hun.
Hun is not even a word. It’s not even the correct version of the shortened word.
If we were intimate you’d know that would bother me but we’re not so you don’t.
Here’s a nice word: hello.
Bonus: hello is also appropriate in any situation. Like this one, in which we are strangers.
When you have thoughts about what you’d like to do to my body, keep them to yourself.
Don’t make it my business, I have more important things to think about.
Like anything but that.
Like wild French horses like cyclones like what am I having for lunch like did I pay the power bill like is my friend ok like ancient philosophers like plucking my eyebrows like succulents in terrariums.
Like people who actually have things to say to me as a person, not as a repository or a vessel or an entitlement.
Like what book are you reading like how cool is the prime minister’s pregnancy like this is great weather for a G&T like what kind of pizza topping would you be like anything but your slobbery unsolicited thoughts about my body.
I once knew a man who proudly recited pet words for women.
Chick babe fluff tart brush skirt bird I can’t even remember them all.
You lazily indicate interest as if I should want you because you want me to want you.
I’m not grateful for the compliment. Your lust is not a compliment. Your lust has nothing to do with me until I agree it can.
I tell you I am not your hun. You say easy tiger and I say no.
I say no and you say you fucking prude you fucking slut you ugly bitch I don’t want you anyway I was just bored no one would want an uptight cunt like you.
And I think: great we’re on the same page at last.