I Am Not That Kind of Woman
I am not that kind of woman. I don’t owe you a smile or the brightening of your day. Feel free to be polite and quietly watch me walk away. Perhaps I’ll return your “good morning.” Perhaps I’ll even give you a grin, but I get to choose whether to leave my guard up or let it down — whether to keep you at bay or let you in.
I am not that kind of woman. You want me to show more skin? You want to know why my shorts aren’t shorter, or why my cleavage stays hidden? You are not entitled to the display of my body. Your access has been denied. When I chose this outfit, I didn’t dress to please you, I put on what I like.
I am not that kind of woman. Keep your hands to yourself. Don’t use a crowded train as license to make sure your erection is felt. Mind the gap. Give me space. Men who invade a woman’s boundaries are often met with mace.
I am not that kind of woman. I dance for joy and myself. If I get lost in the music, I don’t need your uninvited touch to bring me back.
I am not that kind of woman. I don’t need your compliments. I look to those I love and trust when I’m lacking confidence. Like what you see? That really has nothing to do with me — not my mind, spirit, or soul. I am more than a body. I am a woman.
But I am not that kind of woman, so be careful what you say. Don’t stop me for directions so you can ask for my number and name. And when I tell you that I’m married, don’t ask me if happily so. I am not that type of woman. And you, sir, need to go.
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