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It isn’t enough for you to grope my ass through my skirt. You have to put your hand up my skirt and grab my bare skin.
You have no idea how long I will spend in the shower, scrubbing myself where you touched me, or how many minutes I will spend thinking about the fact that you were that close to my vagina, how almost GRATEFUL I am for the fact that you didn’t touch me there.
How dare people like you have made girls like me grateful you didn’t touch me there.
I work hard for my grades at a top university, I never go out because I prefer reading, chatting to my friends, exercising, cooking, watching movies. I bothered to dress up and go out, and I felt damn good.
You made me feel bad for dressing up.
And then I turn and face you.
And you smile in that way that means you know I know, but you’re going to act like I don’t. Like you never touched me.
If you won’t admit it, why do it? Are you too shy to tell me I’m pretty? Not an excuse. Is the music so loud that you considered THAT the best way to get my attention? Not an excuse. There is no excuse.
I wonder if you have sisters, cousins. A mother.
I want you to imagine someone putting their hands on that woman you love, and I want you to feel sick with yourself.
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