*Names will not be mentioned so as to protect the guilty.
This letter may contain issues which could trigger those with a past history of sexual abuse or harassment – ie: most women*
So we’ve been acquaintances on Twitter for what must be now 6 years or so. You followed me, and I reciprocated. I remember as I don’t find and follow many over there, only the truly fascinating, which you did not come under.
You whore your watercolour paintings on Twitter, occasionally asking for feedback and often not actually wanting it. Just trying to “engage your audience” I suppose. I gave feedback on works I liked and on aspects that you openly asked for. Very occasionally you replied to me. Nice, but busy and possibly rather self involved was my diagnosis of you from these interactions.
I believe you once sent me a spam message, whining about how you wanted me to promote you or join you on Facebook. I ignored the crap out of that. Perhaps there was more to that message, now I think about the way you treated me yesterday.
Your watercolours are supposedly amongst the best in the UK with your distinct style which you have given a unique name to (yes bitch, I did look you up and did some light internet homework after our interaction yesterday. Some of these details were most unflattering, very eye-opening and brought some light to our interaction). I was happy to retweet on my own terms, as I liked your use of light, perhaps even considered buying one at some point when I actually had money, obviously not now. I wouldn’t want anything your fuckboy hands have been involved in anywhere near me now.
So despite our complete lack of personal interaction, really getting chatting to each other, you decided to push yourself on me yesterday. Not the first, nor shall you be the last to demand my attention by DMing me out of nowhere, relying upon the fact I have manners and humanity, knowing that I would not outright ignore a simple greeting. However, I smelt fuckery straight away. You see a LOT of men seem to think I am here for their amusement, be that sexual or otherwise.
**Look boys, if your mum didn’t breast feed you enough or hug you, that is not my problem.
If you want me to be your therapist, I require payment and for you, “Dear Pervert” that price is tripled. **
So regardless of my thinking “oh shit, another man looking for a mother or slut and I can’t be titted being either.” I responded to your ill conceived, terribly spelt attempt at communication. Perhaps I was wrong, after all, you try to sell work through this Twitter account, by DM nevertheless, there’s just no way you’d risk your professional reputation by being a creepy man on this account, would you?
Yet you did exactly that. 7 messages, that’s what it took you. No romance, no wooing, no paying attention to social cues like me telling you I am busy working, hinting (so clearly that a dog would have picked up my not so subtleties) that I wanted to be left alone and had no interest in you whatsoever. You just kept going didn’t you? Did not give one fuck that you might be making me uncomfortable, annoyed and deeply nauseous. No, because your dick was in control. You pathetic sack of crap, you let your base animal instincts override any sense of socially acceptable behaviour that you might have had.
7 messages of me saying I am working and you sending badly spelt trash, bibbling on about how your in bed and so tired. “Go to sleep then you absolute fanny and stop bothering me I have work to do” was what I was thinking but instead I stated “I am working, I have a lot to do so it will be many hours before I can similarly relax like you are doing.”
You piled on ambiguous emojis like a schoolgirl who’s just got their first smartphone. “Here check this shit out” I called to my husband as I stated I thought I had yet another live one on DM. That was on your second message – the third in our entire interaction. Then you witter on about distracting me from work. ”Dear Pervert”, you really should’ve bowed out but oh no, not you. You felt entitled didn’t you? You then had me reaffirm my I AM BUSY statement and then sent me a shot of your erection barely clothed by grotty hospital style pyjamas.
What in the name of anything sacred or sane were you thinking? At no point did I state any interest in your grotty ass. Not one smidgeon. Not one cell of my being asked for your vague innuendo then shot of your erection. Bam! Rank pyjamas and that, in my face.
Thank you, “Dear Pervert”. Thank you for not reading my timeline or taking any blind bit of notice that I am part of the #metoo movement, part of the #SexAbuseChat survivors. Only recently found my voice. Only started to barely grace the depths of my survival and story. Barely trusting, yet finding strength in the shared stories of my sisters of the internet, stronger perhaps than I can ever be, who have managed to out their pain sooner. More succinctly than I.
Do you want to know my first thought “Dear Pervert”? You made me flashback to the time when I was on holiday with my natural father in a Bulgaria. The last time he forced me to share a room with him. You made me recall those 2 weeks in all their glory. Buckle up buttercup, because this is what you had me relive and refeel in all it’s hideous detail.
Not my first, by now I am in my early teens. I have faced emotional, physical, psychological and sexual abuse for many years. That was my secret. I became good at keeping secrets. But that’s a whole set of tales for another time, “Dear Pervert”.
Back to the flasher. My second by this point. I am waiting to get breakfast, it’s a raised static trailer, I am short and have to tiptoe to see over the counter edge. I place my order, the man says just a minute and exits. I step back and wait for what must be 5-10 minutes. I am looking at my shoes, bored and bewildered, when out of my peripheral vision I see the cook come back in, with his dick in his hand, masturbating furiously. By now, I know what to do. I am a child and already had faced so much worse. “Reaction, this shitbag wants me to give anything” was my first thought. Now my first flasher I shot down in flames by pointing at his penis and in my loudest, best stage laugh proclaimed if that’s all he had he’d better see a surgeon. This one deserved more and less. I immediately looked down at my watch swore about this guy being a lazy so and so, then walked off in the opposite direction to the nearest busy shop. I was shaking, I thought I was going to pass out or throw up. I walked slowly so he wouldn’t know I saw him, then sped up gradually, afraid this man was going to chase after me.
I got back to the hotel room I shared with my father, telling him about the incident in full detail, as soon as he arrived. Surely he will do something or know who to tell, was my logic. No, in my natural father’s true style, he decided this would be the perfect occasion to show me his throbbing penis. Again for no reason. We were both reading later, after dinner. Father was in his underpants & t-shirt, which until then never bothered me. He then yelled jovially “hey what do you think of this?” and as I looked over at his bed he whipped down his underwear to reveal my second unwanted erection of the day. Again “Dear Pervert” I cannot underline, that even at this tender age, I was not a person to be reckoned with.
Let me break this down for those who have never experienced true fear. Seconds, feel like hours. Your heart races, you feel giddy, throat goes dry you swallow – it’s sand, you feel the shaking start, the adrenaline has kicked it now you have an eternity in this moment of horror. Sadly, I had lived here before. Many times. Fortunately, I have learned how to construct complex battle plans in those uncomfortable moments. A few seconds was all I needed.
I took one look at my natural father’s erection, raised an eyebrow and told him he should take that shit on children’s TV as a puppet act. Perhaps the broom cupboard on CBBC would take his act? I then went back to reading my book. I knew if I had reacted in any other way, we would have issues. Joke it off, brush it off as just a bit of fun then jam in the fact YOU ARE A CHILD in large letters, in hopes he will see. From that moment on, things between my father and I got worse. The brutal reality I had to face was that my father wanted me. Completely, in every sense of the word. My everything. I had to run. I had to survive, again. This had become my normality. I could never let him know that I had been here before. I knew even then, he would see that information as some sort of gateway for him to start full on abuse mode. I was not about to let that happen.
So to put it succinctly “Dear Pervert” you triggered memories of my father. For that I hate you.
In your scale of thinking it’s nothing, your junk was technically covered. No, no and NO.
No means no, by the way.
Drinking is not an excuse ever (looks like this excuse might be a habit for you “Dear Pervert”, again you made me look you up).
As for having a bad week, which was the main crux of your excuse. A bad week? Try having a hellish couple of years in which you almost lose every damn thing including your sanity and will to live. I’ve had that and not once sent pics of my flaps to random internet men. I think I might be able to speak on behalf of most women and say none of us would do that shit ever. I mean genitals are not attractive.
You don’t even remotely tickle my turnip “Dear Pervert” so why in god’s name would you think “oooh my barely covered erection is just what this conversation needs”?
You sir are a fuckwit. A massive gaping, diseased one at that. I have spent a day and a half by now (yeah writing this much vitriol takes time, it’s a craft) hating you “Dear Pervert” for the following reasons.
1: You hold a position of power. Lots of followers on Twitter, prolific artist, seemingly professional. I am an artist, just starting out, being sneered at for my style by the likes of bigwigs such as you. That is why I spoke to you on DM, that is why I gave you the time of day. I thought we shared a common passion, that you might be wanting to talk shop or art. You entered into a contract of trust and you pissed all over it. That’s what you’re doing when you randomly seek attention from a woman on the internet by the way. If they give you the time of day back, count your blessings behave like a gentleman and keep your dick where it belongs. Off my DMs and not in my face. You abused your position of power. For shame!
2: Right at the exact time your fuckery started my dog decided to start violently throwing up. Yet I had to take time out to yell at you & report you. So I’m just blaming you for my dog being sick, because I think she saw your pathetic wang and it made her chuck. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. It pleases me to do so.
3: I have had panic attacks, stomach aches & headaches since, thanks to the constant supply of panic adrenaline that my body seems to use as some form of defence. My heart has been racing, I can’t sleep & can’t eat. So thank you for that trauma.
4: You didn’t even care when I yelled at you and told you that I am not here to be an object of sexual gratification nor amusement to internet randoms, that I was a human with actual real feeligns attached to them. I also informed you that I am married, and again I didn’t want your pervy nonsense. Now every letter is riddled with hidden intent and double entendre. Every character takes on new meaning in light of your behaviour. You gave me eye rolled emoji like a fucking child. You make me sick.
5: I now worry about the safety of other women on the internet. Oh but fear not “Dear Pervert” the whisper network is in effect. I can’t out you here, but I absolutely can tell my loved ones to avoid you like a dose of virulent crabs. They have been told you are not professional and you are not a safe person. I think we can both agree on those very simple facts. My ladies will give you wide berth, they will tell other women who will tell other women who will tell other women. So in short if you’ve done this before (which I have to believe you have & much worse) it will come out eventually. If you really were just showing your dick to me and I was your special first, note if you do this again, the network will get stronger. Why? Because we are looking out for one another in trying times, as only real, actual humans do.
With that “Dear Pervert” I sign off.
Know the pain you have caused me and know you just pushed me to out pain and truth that I have never done before. You broke me, now there might be a landslide of cathartic outings here.
Sisters of the internet! You are not alone, together we are stronger. You there reading this, yes you. You are a Goddess. No you are, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Men, treat every woman as the Goddess she is. After all women have paid homage to your masculinity for aeons. Return the favour.
If we all treat each other as Gods & Goddesses, with the full respect that holds, perhaps there might be less of this infestation of men believing they have privilege over woman’s domain. Because random internet boys, we owe you nothing not one thing, therefore you have no right to demand anything from us ever.
We are not your sex toys.
We have feelings.
Yours Blistering with Rage