Carstuck Girls: Only Stranded Hotties and Homeless People Walk.
I am told that there is a fetish site (something like carstuckgirls.com, but I am not going to go there) for perverts who seriously get off on girls whose cars are stuck in the snow/rain/what-have-you and are thus without transportation.
I can only attribute this to the human sexual fascination with people perceived as "helpless." Someone who needs help (who is powerless) is offered help by someone who has what they need (power) and there is an exchange (in porno-land, sex). The nature of the erotic lies in power exchange, or inequalities, often of an unexpected nature, as in the boss needs his underling's help, and gets appropriately charged for it, or of a serendipitous nature, as in the woman whose car is stuck and who is rescued by the handsome farmhand in a pickup truck who looks just like Hugh Jackman (the farmhand, not the truck). Yup, those poor carstuck girls. Fate really has them over a barrel, ready for the next passing hombre with a purple El Camino.
All this being weirdly connected to my day:
I am such a genius.
I decide to walk to the park today, which is only five minutes from my house. It's nice. March weather, wind, sun, blue sky, feral daffodils springing up unexpectedly from the sides of the path, all that stuff. It's also people-free, which is a bonus. I really was not in the mood for people of any sort, so an empty park was just fine with me.
Before I go on, I want to tell you what I was wearing: crappy black drawstring yoga pants, a small black tee shirt with some pink writing, and my crappy loafers. I was wearing no makeup.
Anyway, I'm thoroughly enjoying the sunshine and flowers, and I'm on my way back, when a black Trans-Am (or similar douchewad sports car) drives past an intersection, stops, reverses, honks, then comes down the street behind me. My creep-meter goes to yellow.
Then the person inside proceeds to pace me for the better part of a short block, watching me as though I am some sort of alien, like they can't figure out why I am walking. Maybe they've never seen a person walking outside before. I have no idea. My creep meter is on red, and I'm giving the person nasty glares, even several eloquent hand gestures.
This culminates at the next stop sign with them rolling the window down and me getting an offer of a ride from some guy I don't know from Adam. After they persist in following me another half-block, and after I have insisted three times that no, I really don't need a ride, they finally leave with this nasty-ass wistful expression, leaving me thoroughly pissed off.
Now, it's not that I mind being offered a lift. I get that from nice old ladies and good ol' boys all the time. But I really wasn't in a people mood -- I am still not in a people mood, please leave me the fuck alone. And the unctious way in which this person oozed along beside me, obviously either really hoping to do a good deed, or really enthralled with my rocket bod, really put me off.
If I had wanted a ride, Mr. Trans-Am, I would have accepted your first offer. A refusal is not playing hard-to-get. Thank you for being creepy and ruining my otherwise people-free walk. Also, thank you for confirming something for me: that people will now stop for me if I so much as drop a hairpin, but two years and seventy pounds ago they would not have stopped even if I had been gushing blood.
These shallow-ass people are trying to pick me up. And in the process of picking me up, are trying to pick me up. I have become a carstuck girl. Ugh.
Because, you know, it's insane for someone to be walking around just enjoying the day. If I'm walking, I must be walking because I'm desperately trying to get somewhere and I have no car. I'm powerless, all right. And I need help in the form of a man. Because only women without cars walk anywhere.
God knows that nobody does it for fun or health.
I realize that all this may conflict with my previous entry, praising the virtue of wolf-whistles, but this was more than casual ogling or an appreciative hoot. Maybe I shouldn't walk around outside looking like I do -- I seem to attract blacks and latinos, those suspicious types (I am being sarcastic).
I'm probably going to catch shit from my husband for leaving the house alone. But, Christ on a busted ladder, what am I supposed to do? Wear a burqa when I go out for a walk in the park? Get my woman friends to go with me to the well to draw water, so that no wandering man can assault my virtue? Am I supposed to take self-defense lessons and get a street license before I am good to go on a five minute walk to my neighborhood park? Fuck!
I appreciate being appreciated. Just . . . be appreciative and then please go away. If this person had pulled up at the stop sign, said "lookin' good!", and then pulled off, I would not have been merely amused. As it was, I seriously wish I had taken my knife with me.
Those murderous feral daffodils, you know.
As a last-ditch effort, I can take my dog. Nobody asks you if you need a ride when you have a dog. But mine is decrepit and old, and I don't want to drag him out every single time I want some sunshine.
I might just take a snake or two with me. Guys who get off on women with snakes around their necks have got to be a lot more rare than the subscribers to carstuckgirls.com.
This is not a good thing.
link
I can only attribute this to the human sexual fascination with people perceived as "helpless." Someone who needs help (who is powerless) is offered help by someone who has what they need (power) and there is an exchange (in porno-land, sex). The nature of the erotic lies in power exchange, or inequalities, often of an unexpected nature, as in the boss needs his underling's help, and gets appropriately charged for it, or of a serendipitous nature, as in the woman whose car is stuck and who is rescued by the handsome farmhand in a pickup truck who looks just like Hugh Jackman (the farmhand, not the truck). Yup, those poor carstuck girls. Fate really has them over a barrel, ready for the next passing hombre with a purple El Camino.
All this being weirdly connected to my day:
I am such a genius.
I decide to walk to the park today, which is only five minutes from my house. It's nice. March weather, wind, sun, blue sky, feral daffodils springing up unexpectedly from the sides of the path, all that stuff. It's also people-free, which is a bonus. I really was not in the mood for people of any sort, so an empty park was just fine with me.
Before I go on, I want to tell you what I was wearing: crappy black drawstring yoga pants, a small black tee shirt with some pink writing, and my crappy loafers. I was wearing no makeup.
Anyway, I'm thoroughly enjoying the sunshine and flowers, and I'm on my way back, when a black Trans-Am (or similar douchewad sports car) drives past an intersection, stops, reverses, honks, then comes down the street behind me. My creep-meter goes to yellow.
Then the person inside proceeds to pace me for the better part of a short block, watching me as though I am some sort of alien, like they can't figure out why I am walking. Maybe they've never seen a person walking outside before. I have no idea. My creep meter is on red, and I'm giving the person nasty glares, even several eloquent hand gestures.
This culminates at the next stop sign with them rolling the window down and me getting an offer of a ride from some guy I don't know from Adam. After they persist in following me another half-block, and after I have insisted three times that no, I really don't need a ride, they finally leave with this nasty-ass wistful expression, leaving me thoroughly pissed off.
Now, it's not that I mind being offered a lift. I get that from nice old ladies and good ol' boys all the time. But I really wasn't in a people mood -- I am still not in a people mood, please leave me the fuck alone. And the unctious way in which this person oozed along beside me, obviously either really hoping to do a good deed, or really enthralled with my rocket bod, really put me off.
If I had wanted a ride, Mr. Trans-Am, I would have accepted your first offer. A refusal is not playing hard-to-get. Thank you for being creepy and ruining my otherwise people-free walk. Also, thank you for confirming something for me: that people will now stop for me if I so much as drop a hairpin, but two years and seventy pounds ago they would not have stopped even if I had been gushing blood.
These shallow-ass people are trying to pick me up. And in the process of picking me up, are trying to pick me up. I have become a carstuck girl. Ugh.
Because, you know, it's insane for someone to be walking around just enjoying the day. If I'm walking, I must be walking because I'm desperately trying to get somewhere and I have no car. I'm powerless, all right. And I need help in the form of a man. Because only women without cars walk anywhere.
God knows that nobody does it for fun or health.
I realize that all this may conflict with my previous entry, praising the virtue of wolf-whistles, but this was more than casual ogling or an appreciative hoot. Maybe I shouldn't walk around outside looking like I do -- I seem to attract blacks and latinos, those suspicious types (I am being sarcastic).
I'm probably going to catch shit from my husband for leaving the house alone. But, Christ on a busted ladder, what am I supposed to do? Wear a burqa when I go out for a walk in the park? Get my woman friends to go with me to the well to draw water, so that no wandering man can assault my virtue? Am I supposed to take self-defense lessons and get a street license before I am good to go on a five minute walk to my neighborhood park? Fuck!
I appreciate being appreciated. Just . . . be appreciative and then please go away. If this person had pulled up at the stop sign, said "lookin' good!", and then pulled off, I would not have been merely amused. As it was, I seriously wish I had taken my knife with me.
Those murderous feral daffodils, you know.
As a last-ditch effort, I can take my dog. Nobody asks you if you need a ride when you have a dog. But mine is decrepit and old, and I don't want to drag him out every single time I want some sunshine.
I might just take a snake or two with me. Guys who get off on women with snakes around their necks have got to be a lot more rare than the subscribers to carstuckgirls.com.
This is not a good thing.
link