Summer to me means three things: heat, hemlines and hard-ons.
It’s the time of year when women can parade around in a skimpy dress with strategic cutouts that would make my mom — who is a saint and don’t you dare talk about her that way — wince.
And when females know they’re looking good, and brazenly walk past my construction site, anticipating that whistle and “Hey, mama!” catcall. Works every time — my construction boner and I can’t fit through the door! Because there isn’t a door yet, haha, we haven’t built it, due to all this ogling we’ve got on the schedule today.
I’ll never forget my first time: At age 20, working a high rise job in Times Square and taking advantage of the company’s liberal sexual harassment policy, I was wearing a hard hat and a bright orange vest, work boots, and loose-fitting paint-smeared jeans, all the better to conceal my engorged manhood. A woman in a tightly molded pink tank top and black capris strolled by.
“You’re hot!” I shouted, high-fiving my buddy.
I could tell she liked it. Ladies like this, the ones who put it out there, you see, they want a break from the type of pussy-ass college boys who wouldn’t know how to talk to a gal if it crawled out of their X-box. This is the real world, honey tits, where guys like me tell it like we see it.
And what do we see? Your vulva poking through those tight capris. Mama mia!
Now, a decade later, I still get that blood-in-the-penis feeling whenever a sexy little girl walks past a construction stronghold (That’s what I call my scrotum). I’ve learned that it’s not what you yell — the “Nice guns!” or “Sit on my face pretty missy!” — but how. Yelling confidently at a group of women, each indistinguishable to me as a mass of legs and tits and ass, making eye contact and flashing a super slow and just kind of off smile shows you as you are: oblivious to the personal space and feelings of others. The wolf whistles that follow will send your ego soaring, unless you’re one of these stuck-up broads they have around here now. Fucking de Blasio.
I realize most men with healthy self-confidence don’t have to yell at women in the street in order to let them know that they would, hypothetically speaking, be open to the opportunity to poke her in the vag for 45 seconds behind the job site port-a-potty.
I’ve read all the hand-wringing online from dickless liberals and feminist bitches about how unwanted comments of the kind I pass out willy nilly, sometimes to women I’m not even all that particularly attracted to, is a part of something called “rape culture.” Haha, buddy, rape culture is what I majored in in high school. We had majors in my high school for some reason.
But the mystique and machismo of manly construction workers has always made the hearts of these slam-pieces beat a little faster, and put a little jump in their step, at least based on how fast they start walking after I yell at them. It’s as primal as it gets, my dudes! They either snarl in recognition or they ignore it. Playing hard to get is what I call it. It’s not brain science — when a total stranger notices you, it’s validating, but sometimes they play coy, to make me work harder at it next time. Women like to be hunted.
Oh, don’t go rolling those sanctimonious eyes at me, Hillary Clinton. Objectifying females doesn’t make you a rapist. Most of these sluts are asking for the attention anyway. Why else would they dress like that?
Isn’t feminism all about self-empowerment, anyway? Or am I just lifting from an impassioned speech by a college porn star named Belle Knox? Whose work I am intimately familiar with, due to living alone and not having a girlfriend at the moment.
Besides, hard hats need something to look at while they’re on their lunch break. You can be that objectified sex thing for us! What’s so wrong about a “You are sexy!” comment from any observant man? Or “I want you to bathe in a pool of my semen!”?
For me, it’s nothing short of exhilarating, yielding an unmatched level of euphoria.