Slut Rant

Is it my fault that guys want to fuck me? This sounds like a horrible stereotype of a sorority girl waist-deep in a cess pool of premature ejaculation and vodka, slobbering into a Lancome juicy tube and hollering the aforementioned question to her fellow sisters. In all actuality, this is a question that every female should ask herself.

I was recently walking alone in downtown Los Angeles, a bit tipsy on some chardonnay that tasted too much like Mott's apple juice, and I had an experience that made me feel obliged to answer this. The first question that needs to be answered though is the obvious: What the fuck are you doing walking around in L.A drunk on apple juice in the broad day-light by yourself, Lexi? Well, Nancy, the answer to that question is not relevant to the point I am attempting to make. I had to walk three blocks to my car regardless of my state of sobriety or lackthereof - I left my pack of cigarettes in my glove compartment due to a paranoid visit to my Portuguese grandmother's house earlier in the day. The choice was not mine, the addiction made the decision for me, so I trekked to my car in order to fetch my fix. I was obviously looking super fly, because a car full of perspiring skater boys started yelling at me as I walked. I gave them a thumbs up, because the middle finger is too aggressive, and like, it would be so rude of me to flip off my harassers, right? The next male land-mine to dodge was a loitering man with wandering eyes. He followed my body with his bulging pupils as I sauntered by. I watched as he took in my legs and chest, lingering on my face and lips last. "Did I forget to untuck my dress from my oversized panties after I peed? No, I'm all Gucci. Is there a large cut on my leg gushing blood that I am unaware of? Are my breasts out? Nah. Why are these motherfuckers hollering? Do I actually look that good?" I thought as I walked drunkenly to my car. I needed that cigarette more than ever now. Yes, the answer is yes, I looked that good.

Summer is a good excuse to dress like a 90s prostitute. L.A is the perfect place to dress like this. After all, what girl doesn't want to feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, stepping out onto Rodeo Drive in velvet stilettos and a body hugging dress that makes her silhouette look like a glass of 2% milk? I wasn't wearing this exact outfit, per se, but I was wearing something pretty damn close. Four-inch mirrored wedges that look like an invitation to do several lines of coke off of. Check. Slightly sheer mid-thigh length black dress that any witch from Salem would have been envious of. Check. Pink lipstick that Baby Spice would have applied at one point or another during her short-lived career. Check. So yeah, I was the epitome of a 90s prostitute and I didn't think anything of it. It was fucking hot, Nancy, what do you expect me to wear? I seriously would have preferred full nudity to the outfit I was wearing - that's what a scorching bitch of a day it was. I dress like an un-sexy librarian in the winter, so summer is the perfect time to compensate for this. If I were to wear jeans and a t-shirt in the unbearable California heat, I would be fucking miserable. I try to avoid all things that have the potential to make me miserable. Jeans stick to the crack of my hot, sticky ass and t-shirts are an open invitation for unattractive armpit stains that no amount of Lady Speed Stick can prevent. Do I sound like a little narcissistic bitch yet? I'm trying really hard to convey that I am a dime piece and that I am always looking like I am asking for it.

But really though, ladies. Are we deserving of the whistles and cat-calls that come our way because of our attire? When we show a little leg or cleavage, are we asking to be ogled by every fucking male specimen that we encounter, whether it be a Los Angeles crackhead or a hot dad in the produce section at Albertson's? Am I a skanky-slutty-harlot-hoe if I wear white jeans and a red g-string? Note to reader: I rocked that combo once when I was thirteen with no regrets. I've always accepted sexual passes as a part of being a young female, but my experience in L.A was extremely bothersome because I felt slightly deserving of them. The problem I have with that statement is the part where I said accepted and deserving. I can't even fathom that statement. I accept sexual harassment? I felt deserving of sexual harassment? Are you fucking kidding me? I felt guilty for wearing a short dress and a pair of rock-star killer shoes? That sort of mentality is perhaps the reason why some women don't report sexual abuse.

Cat-calling and street harassment is not just disgusting - it is evasive and personal. A man can violate a woman just by looking or yelling at her. In all honesty, when I experience street harassment, I feel upset, anxious, and disregarded as anything other than an object. I feel powerless and weak. The man has trespassed upon me without my permission, and it makes me sick.

I watched a Lifetime movie the other day starring our favorite celebrity adulterer Kristin Stewart, called Speak. Stewart plays a fifteen year-old high school girl who gets raped by a popular jock at a Project X-like party in his Jeep. She goes back to the party after the rape, torn-up and bleeding, and calls the police. When the police come to bust the party up, she freaks out and walks home and doesn't report the incident. The entire school ostracizes her for calling the cops on the party, unaware of what happened to her. Stewart becomes mute and spends the entirety of the film looking really pale and depressed. Her lavender under-eye circles are particularly disturbing. She channels her post-rape pain through art and talking to herself, and eventually comes out on top as soon as she exposes her rapist, which takes about a year. By the end of the movie, I was crying on top of my mom. Like, I literally was on top of my mother, smothering her and getting tears on her clothing. The fact of the fucking matter is that no one is deserving of sexual abuse, even if its as seemingly harmless as an elderly man licking his cracked lips at you when you walk by, hips-a-swingin'. It's not just fucking excessive and annoying, it's unacceptable. The next time someone yells, "Hey mami!" from a garbage truck, I'm going to yell back, "CASTRATION!" Keep it to yourself, you fistful of fuck. This brings me to another observation. When I was traveling in Australia, I spent every single day walking around Melbourne, Brisbane, and Sydney by myself, and I never fucking once got cat-called. Never once did I see a tongue wiggle between the index and middle finger. Is this because I had acne and hair that resembled the mane of a majestic unicorn? Perhaps. Or perhaps men in America are too comfortable with sexual passes. What's up with it, American men? What about this: When I ride around Orange County with my girl riding shot-gun, windows down, cigarettes hanging out of the window, do you hear me hollering at thirteen year-old boys walking home from baseball practice? Maybe this is a terrible argument. This is completely a terrible argument because the bodies of thirteen year old boys are not fucking sexualized like bodies of young girls.

When a professional business lady wears a skirt with a slit and a push-up bra, is she asking to have her ass pinched by her boss in the copy room? If I were Senator Todd Akin, I would say yes. I would also say that if this woman were raped, her body would act as a natural pregnancy repellent, so abortion in the instances of rape are still not something I support, because I'm actually just a piece of shit with no fucking right to comment on female politics. Suck a dick, Todd. At this point, I'm just belligerent and angry because I'm on my second day of quitting smoking. Smokers Beware: If you quit smoking, you will turn into an angry feminist.