Let me talk to you about this feminism thing, yeah.
3 years ago whilst working at a restaurant, I had my boss stroke and caress my ass behind the bar while he looked and smiled at his wife only a meter from where we stood, yeah.
But it didn’t start there.
4 years ago, there was the time I was offered a pay rise if only I would go down to the cellar and suck him dry. After all, my lips were created for more than just talking, yeah.
But it didn’t start there.
5 years ago, I had to call the police, he wouldn’t leave me alone. But it’s 6 of one and half a dozen of the other, yeah.
I lay there, “where can I come baby? On your tits, yeah. Oh I’m sorry I hit your face, did I get it in your eye. It’s alright, yeah.”
But it didn’t start there.
6 years ago, he asked if I wanted to see his new kitchen, but that somehow translated that I was definitely up for it, yeah.
But it didn’t start there.
“You love it hard yeah, do this for me and you know it means I love you yeah.”
“Come on we’re mates, you know you’ll like it, just let me put it in yeah.”
“Bend over you cunt, let me know show you what it takes to be my women yeah.”
“You’re so much better than her, prettier than her, I really do love you more than her.”
“You’re special baby, real fucking special, you let me fuck your ass like you don’t even care.”
“Look how wide your legs go, do your hips hurt? Oh well, I’ll come yeah?”
But it didn’t start there. Or there, nor there.
“Look at your mum, she’s a good fuck yeah.”
“I don’t hurt mummy, I do this because I love her yeah.”
“Fuck off and go somewhere else yeah.”
It may have started there.
So ask me, am I a feminist yeah?
Should I fix my make-up and straighten my hair?
Should I took that bit in there?
I shouldn’t wrinkle or frown or stare.
But instead, smile and grin and bear.
That’s what I do best, yeah?
I can’t lose my temper, get angry or be cross.
I can’t be financially stable, or my own boss.
Really I should just shut up, look pretty and put on my lip glass.
For God’s sake baby don’t get emotional.
Be intelligent but not too intelligent.
The truth is bitches, I am my own boss.
I am emotional, I lose my shit and I fucking hate lip gloss.
My hair is long, but not because it makes me pretty.
Sometimes it straight, sometimes it curly. But to be honest I have no idea.
My tits are big and damn they’re pretty.
But not for your touch, not for your glare not for your dick, are you aware?
You better listen up boy, but first let go of your mama’s pinny.
I close the book on your demands. You should stand up tall, you’re talking to your boss, love.
I hold myself and moan with pleasure at my hand, my touch, my will, my want.
Drink your own spunk and be a fucking good boy, darling
For those who couldn’t speak.
For those who where too scared, unable to or didn’t know how to.