Tori Morrison An Open Letter to the Man Who Filmed My Cleavage

So a couple of months ago I was walking down the street on my way to the gay village to meet my girlfriend. I was dressed in a corset style top and being small framed and on the busty side, I pretty much have cleavage in anything that isn’t a turtleneck. I didn’t realize what you were doing but you were creepily mumbling with your friend with your iphone pointed out. I caught something you had said, which was filthy and odd. I kept walking down the street as you laughed with your friend; it took me a moment to realize what happened. You were filming my cleavage. . .

It was a strange situation to realize because I instantly was shocked, then I felt kinda guilty and gross and finally, I decided to laugh make a Facebook comment about how men are stupid and go on with my life. For a long time, that was pretty much all I thought about the matter, until I remembered the words of a great thinker.

“I mean it didn’t seem like I was a slave. I guess some slavery feels like freedom. I didn’t notice what they were doing to me, untiI well, till they tried to do it to you.” ---Wembley Fraggle, Fraggle Rock: Season one, Episode two.

Two things happened to me, one I became very aware of the thought that for some reason, I was only offended, truly offended, when I thought of this happening to anyone but myself. And two that I was once again struck with the ever existing fact that I can become an object. When it was my cleavage bouncing into the gay district, I felt in control of the situation, and I was aware of the messages I was sending and I was comfortable with them. It was when my breasts became random boobs that I lost my ability to feel safe in that moment.   

Overtime, I began to feel worse about the situation and you started to become a regular in my mind. This moment in your life as a douche bag was probably pretty fleeting and I likely was deleted from your phone the second you needed to update your Farmville. But you didn’t my leave my mind. Every time I got dressed, I remembered you. I wondered if I would run into you and your male gaze phone. I felt like no matter what I tried to do in my life I would ultimately become an object again.

So my imagination made you into a character. In my mind, you write brony erotic fan-fiction, have shoe cams, spent weeks setting up toilet cams at the local WalMart and are obsessed with finding the erotic in everything. You spend your time lurking around the catholic schools with uniforms, and every time anything creepy occurs in Toronto, you did it. In my mind you broke a rib trying to suck your own penis. You sometimes dress as a woman and hang out in the change room at the YMCA to watch women undress. You’ve been kicked out of four chapters in the area for masturbating in washroom to discount anatomy books and national geographics. You spent the extra money to make sure your Japanese sex doll had a realistic pubic hair weave. You have at least one fleshlight that’s stained with pickle rind. This is who you are to me. No matter who you are or what you do for the rest of your life, I will imagine you as pickle juice fucking weirdo molester. You see this was my way of developing a mental safety net; to create you into a pathetic monster, as revenge for you making me into a bouncing rack.

I guess I just wanted you to know. Oh also one more thing, if I ever see you again, I’ll trip you and krav maga the shit out of your balls. 

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