No Flirting Zone

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Breaking news. I have a vagina.

It’s true. I know. Crazy.

You know what else is breaking news?

Men — well — straight men want to make sure I have one.

And, not just me, all women. They want to make sure that every woman they meet has a vagina, which is why, I think they want to get in our pants so bad.

So, that’s why today, I am breaking the news that men, especially the ones that work in government offices, can stop wondering because I indeed have a vagina in my crotch.

Draft of potential poster.

This past week, I had to visit a major seaport to obtain a government issued photo identification card. Only, the man behind the counter, a gentleman hailing from a Caribbean island that was once a Spanish colony, was more interested in my vagina print, than my finger prints.

Sure, it was completely and incredibly annoying. But that’s what a “working girl” goes through. Some men are more subtle than others, but it happens quite often. And it’s not because I’m cute – quite the opposite actually – it happens because men are men and this is how they’re socialized to be around all women.

What was completely and incredibly unacceptable was that I was in a government office, handing over all of my most personal information. Legal name, driver’s license, credit and criminal history, payment information, work history, addresses and phone numbers. And there was Rico Suave, intently staring at each piece.

Generally, women have to power to say, “No.” Like when a guy asks for your number, you can either say no or if you want to be polite give him a wrong number. But with this guy, it was like, “Here, have my number and my address, come pick me up at six. And don’t worry, I’ll pay, here’s my credit card so you can keep it in your pocket.”

I just want the illusion of professionalism and confidentiality. Just the illusion. I know all my information is probably shared between the workers and their “secure” network. I’m sure my file is either left on someone’s desk for days or in an unlocked filing cabinet for years. I know. But, just while I’m in front of your counter, reciprocate the respect I’m showing you. Even if that respect is also an illusion.

Seriously. Dudes that work in government offices and are somehow responsible for handling your personal information should be either super gay or super old or super castrated. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Either that or declare government offices a “No Flirting Zone.”

They were declared “Smoke Free Environments” not so long ago, so what’s one more sign?

Something has to be done quickly, because I don’t think I can handle much more of this crap. I mean I tried every trick in the book to shut him down, but he was relentless.

I was nice and that didn’t work. I was aloof and that didn’t work. I gave him the “I’m-a-frigid-crazy-bitch-look,” but it didn’t work. He tried to woo me with his Español, but I answered in English.

The only thing I did not mention was that I was a certified, award-winning, first-class lesbian, because, in my past experiences, this just makes them even more wild.

But, I swear to the God of Lent, if he tries that crap again next week when I swing by to pick up my ID, I’m going to ask him to show me his vagina before I show him mine.

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