“Grab them by the p*ssy”: What it feels like to be the one grabbed by the p*ssy.
I don’t normally write about politics etc as I don’t know big fancy words or facts & figures. But I just needed to write this. As Donald Trump’s crude phrase triggered an unpleasant experience.
“Grab them by the p*ssy”?!
Do you know what that actually feels like? Because I do.
And maybe it’ll show why some people are so passionate about protesting against your presidency…
The sound-bite of your crude words have been triggering to me.
Whilst you laugh it off as a joke and say that it is ok because your wife supports you, your words seem to match your ego which is echoed by your disregard to people who don’t represent the likes of you.
This isn’t a political letter this is just one young (ish) woman who wants men, in particular, to think twice about the language they use and their actions.
I have worked for many years as a professional dancer and I have entertained numerous large rich men such as you.
I used to tolerate their sweaty arrogance towards me.
I was just the dancer, the air head, the tits n teeth and nothing more.
It doesn’t matter if you are a married man or you have a highly paid “good” job, I was just “fair play” to you.
I was dressed in a sparkly bra & skirt, dancing around a bar, with glitter sprayed all over my body. So why would you respect the likes of me?
You knew I needed a taxi home, you knew I was wanting to be paid and had finished my shift.
But my wage was like dangling a carrot in front of this messed-up “pretty sweet” show-girl who needed some cash.
After waiting patiently and, politely reminding you that I needed payment for my job.
You just looked me up and down with your greasy brow furrowed and sweat dripping down to your dark and evil lips.
Then you shoved some notes in my bra.
“Who’s a lucky girl then?” You thought.
I smiled, I thanked you for paying me and I went to wait for my taxi.
I opted to stand outside in the dark with pouring rain beating down over my head.
I just wanted to be away from you.
But, no, my taxi never came.
Instead you and your friends pulled up in a posh car something that suited the size of your egos.
“Get in. We’ll take you home. You get your own chaperone service, lucky girl!” You shouted through the wound down window.
“I’m fine thanks, I’m waiting for the taxi you ordered.” I smiled although there was a noticeable tremble in my voice.
“Stop being a silly girl, get in.”
The rain was getting heavier. The dark air had become suffocating.
What do I do? I don’t want to seem rude but I really just want to get home, I thought.
Eventually, his friends got out the car and ushered me in.
I sat in between two old (ish) men.
I remember praying to myself, please just get me home, please.
“We’re going to a house party,” one of the greying men who was sat next to me said.
“I’ll jump out here, and get a taxi,” I replied with a quivering smile.
And that’s when you grabbed me by the “p*ssy.”