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The Washington City Paper has an article about DC’s eligible bachelors — the guys who catcall women on the street.

Of course, it’s not the catcalling (or the flirting or the leering or whatever) that’s the problem; it’s who’s doing it.  If [insert favorite male actor/rockstar] were to Ay, Mami! women in the bar or on the street, they’d shoot out of their capris like a Slip ‘n Slide.  Verbal harassment is a subjective experience, even if you have to go way out to the margins to find the subjectivity.  The same thing happens to men, too, although to a much smaller degree since men are inherently less protective of their sexual dignity.  It gets annoying real fast for a guy when the drunk fat chick starts pawing his chest and thigh and whispering in his ear what she’d do to him with her crisco and dildo machine.  Substitute “fat chick” with “random hot chick” or, hell, “average chick without leprosy”, and he’d welcome the harassment.

Given that most guys (especially the ones in Mount Pleasant) don’t possess the sexual capital of movie stars to pick up girls with primitive catcalling, it’s a wonder why guys even bother trying it.  Of all the pick up methods, I can’t think of any worse than blurting out Hey hey sexy baby! at a passing woman.  It’s right up there with flashing, anonymous love letters, and CL missed connections.  Since the women in the article hint that the majority of catcallers are non-white I can only assume that these guys get more positive reactions from non-white women, which encourages them to try it on everyone.  They soon learn what they’re up against.  Like this professional catcaller, Rudy Contreras, says:

“It’s tough in D.C.,” he says. “Especially with white girls. They are stuck up, man. Bitches.”

It is tough in DC, Rudy, it is.  But you’re going to have to bring sharper skills than that if you want to bag a trophy prey.  A part of me welcomes these stupidly crass comeons because they make me look so much better in comparison, but it’s a double edged sword.  Women who are frequent recipients of catcalls will harden themselves with 24/7 bitch shields at maximum deflection power, so when a genuine guy like myself comes along who only wants to jizz all over them get to know the real person inside my job is that much more difficult.

With the 40 year old feminist and sexual revolutions now metastasized into every fiber of the culture, women have to realize that they have sacrificed some privileges that are never returning without a rollback of their liberation ideology.  Chivalry really is dead.  Men see no reason to extend themselves for self-sufficient, egotistical women they aren’t fucking, and those few male holdouts who do make a stand for the old ways soon learn to their dismay that chivalry won’t earn them the modern woman’s sexual attraction — in fact, just the opposite.  Chivalry is the unsexy handmaiden of the perpetual loser in love.  And so the gollums of the street feel free to harass at will, knowing that Sir Lancelots are few and far between these days.

The flock of young women to the atomized urban jungle practically made harassment a foregone conclusion.  In smaller communities where everyone knows each other’s business and social connections are less tenuous than in the fractured social scene of the city a woman’s father, brothers, male cousins, and uncles would corner the perp with a warning first, a silverback beatdown next.  Who’ll speak for her in DC?  Her male “friends”?  Ha.  All those guys are angling to get in her pants.  They’re just less obvious about it than the catcallers.

Reading some of the quotes from the women complaining about street harassment is illuminating, in ways I’m sure they didn’t intend.  At least half of the women saw fit to mention what they were wearing when they got verbally accosted:

Late night, walking from car to apartment: From across street, from a guy getting out of his car, hear grunts, kissy noise, and the popular low-pitched “beauuuutiful.” I have on jeans, sneaks, puffy winter coat. Puffy winter coat.

These women are revealing a deep-seated understanding that, yes, what they wear will have some impact on how men react to them.  She is surprised a “puffy winter coat” didn’t stop a guy from whistling at her.  I doubt she’ll ever contemplate the direction her logic necessarily takes her — that revealing clothing will attract more unwanted male attention.

My suggestion for the omegas:  Deliver your catcalling in Italian, the language of love.  You can say just about anything in Italian and make her feel like the most special woman in the world.

[Italian]Let us make beautiful anal music together, and with my hot seed injection you will bring forth a buttbaby.[/Italian]

Spend some time crafting the perfect pitch.  She’ll appreciate the effort.

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