Dear Every Man Who Has Ever Made Romantic Overtures Towards Me From A Moving Vehicle

Posted by Shannon Gormley on Oct 17, 2011 in Diversions | 1 comment

"You must give me leave to flatter myself that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course." Photo by Flickr user radlmax, Creative Commons.

Dear Every Man Who Has Ever Made Romantic Overtures Towards Me From A Moving Vehicle,

Isn’t this nice?  This is so nice.

Finally, we can take some time to have a conversation longer than the 2.5 seconds it takes you to yell, honk, or whistle at me as you drive by! Ever since we first met – you remember how I’d recently grown out of my training bra – we’ve been just missing each other. Cruel, cruel fate. We’re two ships passing in the night, you and I. Or, if you’re going to get technical about it, we’re one hermaphrodite brig that’s veered wildly off-course, has a dysfunctional tail shaft that’s resulted in suboptimal thrusting capacities, and is overcompensating by making a pass at one canoe paddling along in broad daylight, only the hermaphrodite brig is usually a rusty ’98 Monte Carlo with a broken muffler that hasn’t been washed since it was driven off the pre-owned lot and the canoe is just me. Semantics! The important thing is that we get to know each other beyond the exchange of simple pleasantries like “Ow OWWWW!” (you) and “Fuck off!” (me).

Don’t get me wrong — our banter is stimulating. But it’s time we went deeper. (And no, you annoying little twerp driving your dad’s Honda Accord, that isn’t a reference to what you said you want to do to me “ALL NIGHT LOOOOOONG!!!”). Gosh, I haven’t even caught your names! (Although I have written down a few of your license plate numbers with the intention of forwarding them to the police. Lover’s quarrels.)

So! Tell me all about yourselves! What do you do for fun? Do your hobbies include working out, watching Two and a Half Men, and eating leftover pizza in your boxers while you rewind the copy of Whore of the Rings you’ve had since you were 16?  If you didn’t have to leave so quickly after hollering something irresistibly seductive like “HEY, BABY!”, “GREAT TITS!”, or “NICE ASS!” I’m sure you were about to considerately ask me where I’m from and what I’m interested in. The answers are, respectively, “Calgary” and “Writing letters to men whose lack of social skills have prevented them from attracting women for so long that they’ve resorted to yelling obscenities at strangers to satisfy their need for erotic contact of even the most superficial kind.”  I also enjoy long walks on the beach.

But I can’t neglect the not-quite-silent majority. You express your feelings through the sublime song of a car horn, whistle, or imitation of that scream cats make when they’re having sex/fighting each other to the death. Men of few words, you are. That is, men who never learned words. I’ve naturally responded in kind. But you already know that, since you’ve probably seen the reflection of my middle finger extended in your rear-view mirror.

Mysteriously, you all seem to disappear when I’m with other men. (A sign of respect, surely.  Not, say, cowardice.) There are some exceptions though.

Exceptions like Camry Casanova.  “Fuck me, baby!” you yelled.  I appreciate how quickly you got to the point (obviously, not an indication of your performance in the bedroom), but it wouldn’t have been a good time to do as you suggested — I was with my Dad. (By the by, he says, “No, fuck you, asshole.”)

And Prius Passenger: “How the hell did you get her?!” you asked the guy I was with, your head hanging out the window, really adding a special something to that dog-like mystique of yours. If only you hadn’t run that red light. I could have explained that, in contrast to your drive-by-shooting-your-mouth-off approach, he asked me out for dinner. Over which he asked where I’m from and what I’m interested in. After which he took me on a long walk on the beach. During which he kissed me. (Oh, “kissing” is that thing where two people who like each other very much stand really close and press their lips together. You’ve probably seen it on TV.)

Whether or not I’m alone when I see you, it’s easy to see that one of you is in a league all your own.  I know you’ve been anxious for this letter, Man in the Red Dodge Ram.  So sorry not to have responded to your marriage proposal sooner. But you did offer it right before pulling a U-turn in the middle of a busy highway specifically to make a comment about my legs and a very clever pun on the name of your truck, which was almost drowned out by the sound of horns honking frantically.  What you lacked in eloquence that afternoon—“HOLY SHIT, SEXY LADYYYYYY! MARRY MEEEEEE!!!” isn’t exactly what little girls fantasize about while they’re wearing white pillowcases attached to tiaras on their heads—you made up for in originality. You’re not the first man to discuss marriage with me, but you have the special distinction of being the only one to nearly cause a seven car pile-up while doing it. Sadly, I can’t marry you. Don’t feel bad. It’s not you — it’s that you’ll never pick me up in that pick up.

All this said, we have a problem. It has come to my attention that I may not be the only woman in your lives. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out that you’ve been hitting on all my friends? In addition to every other person who looks remotely like a woman? You scoundrels. You cads. I thought we had something special! But it’s almost like you just drive around all day, yelling stupid things at random women. How can I trust anything you’ve ever said to me now? Did you really mean it when you told me you love my ass or, as I’ve always suspected, does it actually look fat in these jeans? And do you truly want to fuck me hard like you said you did, or do you just want to fuck me medium-soft? I’m even starting to doubt the sincerity of your marriage proposals.

Your thoughtfulness over all this time won’t ever be forgotten, though. Since, like all women, my sense of self-worth falls at the mercy of strange men in cars providing a generous assessment of my physical appearance, I’m so grateful for your kind reassurances that I am, in fact, a valuable person. Thank you. I have, after all, asked for exactly that when wearing… well, in the case of last Monday, so much rain gear that I’m amazed you knew I was a woman, let alone one you were attracted to. But I won’t ask for those kind reassurances anymore. So I’ll have to cancel the rest of those dates that you think we’ve had over the last decade — anyways, my schedule’s pretty full with those asshole pedestrians who harass women in the middle of the sidewalk.

Yours Sincerely,

Shannon