Trevor

Dear Young Men of the World, particularly "Trevor," who took me out last night,

Yes, you may ask me for coffee. Yes, you may take a night time walk with me, tell me about your life, and share a photo essay of your favorite photographer with me. Heck, I've probably even showered today, so your compliments about how nice I look/smell are even justifiable and appropriate. And yes, you may indeed walk me to my steps. Thank you.

However. No, you may not put your hands on my hips and/or thigh area. You may, maybe, may in fact touch my shoulder as we walk outside in public, but you may not, in any way "casually" nuzzle said shoulder with your slobbery lips, AND/OR TONGUE. GROSS. I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU. You may not put your hands even near my breasts, and actually, why don't you just stop thinking about them now. You especially are not allowed anywhere near my neck, and please to God, do not throw away any dignity to ask for "just a peek, please, just a little peek?" while gesturing to my bosom.

When I am finally able to wrap my head around such an invasion, remove your flobbery tendrils from my personage, and direct you with a stern push back to your vehicle, I would highly recommend you actually go instead of asking to "just hold me."

Once you do leave, please do so quickly and efficiently and not as if your second chance is right around the corner, 'cause, baby, it ain't. I'm already upstairs, journaling you off my body, dreaming of days when companionship was much sweeter.

With little respect,

Allyson West

aka

Allyson the Great