Covered

A third monologue for Womenscene, an evening of original works about women (Pittsburgh, May 2008):
REVISED: December 18th, 2007

A man addresses the audience.

You’ve seen those women in the Middle East. The ones in their chadors and hijabs and burkas? American women hate that. They say it's oppressive. Sure. If I were a woman I wouldn't want to have to be all covered up all the time. Particularly if I lived in a desert. But I understand why the men make them do that. I'm not saying it's right, but I definitely understand.

See, women are distracting to men. Some men may not admit it, but I’m definitely not the only one. Watching you walk or, hell, just stand there can make it difficult to focus. Yes, I mean sex. Of course, that’s what I think about. Or maybe I just think about seeing you naked. I don’t know. It depends on my mood, and the situation, and the woman.

Go ahead. Call me a pig. Slap me across the face. Right here. Go on. You wouldn't be the first. I'm just trying to be honest here. I can’t help how my mind works. I do feel bad about it. At least sometimes. Particularly when I find myself thinking dirty thoughts about someone I shouldn't. Like women I work with. I try to treat them with respect, I really do. They deserve respect. These are intelligent and accomplished, independent women…and that, actually, makes it worse. To look at their curves under a close fitting skirt and silky blouse and know that the woman is smart too, probably smarter than me? I'm sorry, but that's hot. She’s up there talking about our client’s market penetration, and I’m thinking penetration, alright. Yes. I’m a bad man.

But I’m no pervert. I definitely don't get off on young girls or anything. That’s sick. In fact, the prospect of anyone more than 10 years younger makes me feel sort of dirty. Still, have you seen what these girls wear now? Preteens wear skirts the size of belts. Teenagers slather on make-up trying to look grown up and largely succeed. I look at them, okay. I try not to, but I look. I feel bad about it, but I look and involuntarily, thoughts come into my mind. Bad thoughts. I can’t help it. It's not fair to think that’s all my fault.

So when I see these places on the news with their faceless, shapeless, shrouded women, I think how much easier it would be to concentrate without being able to really see the women around me. How much easier it would be to avoid these guilty thoughts. But I also wonder how little it might take to distract me then. Would a glimpse of ankle do to me then what a glimpse of g-string does now? Would an errant lock of hair trigger a fantasy? I'm pretty sure my lust would adapt. Covering up probably won't keep my thoughts pure. My imagination is too good for that.

So, go ahead, ladies. Keep wearing those short skirts. Those tight tops. But when you catch me staring, and you will, know that what may seem like a creepy leer is truly meant as the utmost compliment. Honest.