Dear Mr Palmer,

if that’s even really your name. I searched a little, but nothing came up . . .

You sir, are a predator.

You are the reason that women don’t go to bars and restaurants alone.

You are the reason that honest, respectful, thoughtful men get verbally or even physically attacked by us:  we have become terrorized by men like you—who, by the way, are a dime a dozen—and we literally feel panic each and every time we step outside our front doors.

You are the reason I have become incapable of telling real men how I feel about them, men who really do care about me and want to protect me. I’ve been burned so many times that I’ve come to expect to be raped or abused or played with emotionally or touched or shot down or looked right through or interrupted as I’m trying to finish a sentence, and I hide my inner self deep down inside so that they don’t use my feelings against me.

Today I was so terrified again that I stayed home, stoned, in bed, curtains shut tight. Unable to face people.

Tonight, I’m starting my first speech to present at victims support groups and I’m going to tell them all about your attempt to get me into bed.

I’ll explain to them that it’s actually “our fault,” or what was it you said, after I told you that I was celebrating the wrap-up of my story of my first rape by having a cheeseburger and fries because I had only been eating celery, peanuts, and chocolate for the last week, something about, “well, what do you expect us to do when you take your clothes off?”

. . . mine were on, but the way your eyes were burning through them, I felt stark naked and under a microscope.

I felt penetrated just by the way you were staring at my body—with the composure and confidence of a monitor lizard, hunting its prey.

I will tell them about you and all the other men like you who threaten me; every time that I leave my house it seems to happen in some shape or form. I will tell them that you are to be watched out for, suspected—no avoided like the Zeka virus by every woman and girl on the planet.

They should post warning signs with a picture of your face and a list of your pick-up lines on bar room doors.

But don’t worry, I’ve been a very good study, and I’ve also been taking notes. I’ve compiled a list of your character traits so they can see you coming a mile away and run for cover.

I can still feel your hand on the small of my back, and it makes my skin crawl and my stomach knot and every muscle in my body spasm; it’s that muscle memory that comes right back . . .

Thanks so much for bringing those memories back again, just when I was trying so hard to forget.

I had ventured out yesterday afternoon to be around people since I’d been alone in my studio, which resembles the wake of Hurricane Katrina, for nearly a month, going back through all of those horrific, agonizing memories . . . many that I had not allowed myself to face for 40 years . . . and I was seeking a little human companionship.

But instead I found a snake.

You may have passion and creativity and maybe even caring somewhere deep inside you, but those things have gone dark—like mine were most of my life—and believe me, I know when I see a lost soul. You are seriously disconnected from those things. You endlessly recite your past because you’re desperately trying to get back in touch with the part of you that wrote it, but you don’t just get it back with liquor and fornication or by puffing up your chest and strutting around, boasting about how rich and famous you are . . . maybe you were somebody once, but what are you now? What are you doing now besides throwing money around and being the life of the party, even when you know that it only makes you feel like shit the next morning because all that pain is still there, though it’s masked with feelings of nausea and drilling in your brain.

And all that I said to your face, after all of that, was that you don’t listen, which you don’t. You “let” women speak for five or ten minutes while you contemplate your best moves and you don’t hear a thing we say before you take the stage and start your show. Then the only voice you hear is your own.

I get it. You’re hurting. But you know what? We ALL are. Stop taking it out on us. Pick on somebody your own goddamned size.

And remember:  women are not the brainless lesser beings that you think. We do have brains, and we are wiser than you. And all we want is love, also, but you refuse to listen to a fucking word we have to say. You don’t need to know more than we do. You don’t need to educate us. Show us a little respect and compassion and REAL appreciation instead of cheap flattery on our appearance and empty offers of help:  like when I asked you what you knew about agents but as the true sexist pig that you are (you are no feminist sir; having 5 ex-wives does not make you so), you instead wrote down the names of books I should read to learn how to write.

Because again, you are so far above me, all you need to do is throw me a bone or buy me a drink and you think I’ll swoon and drop to my knees?

Really?

To you, a new woman is merely something to try, like a new flavor of vodka. And your insatiable appetite for both is truly astounding.

Even I, an expert on narcissists and psychopaths (since I have spent so much intimate time with them), even I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say a thing about your sick behavior. I had my voice stolen from me at a very young age, and I still have a hard time using it, but I should have told you the first time you swept my hair behind my ear to get your fucking hands off of me.

I had to get over my initial reaction of physical pain first though, and identify the cause of my pain before I could confidently defend myself. I’m always afraid that my “blowups” may be over-reactions and can also sometimes be completely wrong . . . like recently with a very dear friend of mine; one of those real men that I mentioned before.

I can’t believe that I allowed you to do that to me. I was an emotional wreck, and you took advantage of that fact, plain and simple.

You sir, are a Rapist.

Rape   (rāp) n. 

1. a. The crime of using force [*or coercion] or the threat of force to compel a person to submit to sexual intercourse.

*Co·erce  (kō-ûrs′)
1. To pressure, intimidate, or force (someone) into doing something.

 

 

 

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