I am taking today’s slot and going off-piste with it in order to flag up something which affects all of us (in potentia, at least) and about which I am increasingly concerned.
It is the levels of trolling, stalking and covert, even overt, abuse on line. It happens on Facebook. It happens on here – because we have no control over who follows us, and there are, if you’ll pardon the phrase, some f***ing sick weirdos out there – and it is something we should be resisting with a firm and unanimous, ‘No!’ a corporate yell of, ‘Never Again!’
I shouldn’t have to watch what I write, adjust my settings, hide in fear. No one should. Man or woman, the right to an abuse-free life (on or off line) should not be in doubt.
It is damned ironic: My humorously erotic pieces vanish without trace – and yet, somehow, hard-core stuff is slipping through the net, on here, and being caught, all unawares, by bloggers who have not asked for, and most certainly do not want, same.
I am not a prude – but I am sick of assumptions being made about me on the basis of some of the many things I choose to write about. Read on for my previous rant.
I will freely admit it: Today I am angry, pissed-off, tired of saying, ‘No!’ – with great clarity and elegance, though I say so myself – and being ignored. I am sick of my ‘No’ statements being seen as some kind of twisted, ‘I really mean yes…’ come-ons.
I have now made it abundantly plain, both on the blog and on Facebook, that I am not in the market for approaches by unknown men – and am certainly not up for pornographic images being shoved in my direction without so much as a ‘By your leave…’
Do I have to spell it out? I. AM. NOT. INTERESTED. And I am also not responsible for whatever fantasy life my written words evoke. Got it?
Do you really think, purveyors of phallic photography, that I will see yours, fall into a swoon and be panting for the real thing? Get real. I am old enough to be a grandmother(probably old enough to be yours) – and, given the teenage breeding rampant in some families, possibly a great grandmother.
Every day, on Facebook, I get the red symbol appearing on Friend Requests – and what do I see? Yet another bloke I don’t know from Adam asking for my friendship. Why? These buggers do not know me. We have no friends in common. What could we possibly talk about – except, presumably in their warped minds, whatever act they are convinced I will be willing and able to do for them.
Perhaps these people think I am playing hard to get. That, when I write this kind of post, I am really opening my door (and, I assume, my legs) for a bit of the old furtive carnality.
No. N. O. It means exactly what it says. It is a negative, a rejection, a statement by me that there is a deep line in the sand which you may not cross unless I give you leave, unless I decide that I want to be friends with you – and that the chances of that happening are low to non-existent.
I do not find it flattering or endearing or arousing. I find it bloody irritating and a waste of my time. If I want to meet men at any point, I will do it on my terms and in real life – not on this Cloud Cuckoo Internet Land which allows us the liberty to dream and confess, but takes away sense, reality and responsibility. Which gives men the option of sending images of their private parts to unknown women – but has no security system up to the job of preventing such invasive abuse.
I do not want followers who share pictures of their hard-ons with me, or men on Chat whose introduction leaves fuck-all to the imagination. Why the HELL should I?
Yeah, I write about sex – amongst many other topics. So what?
Get over yourselves. Grow up. Get a life – and stop pestering me.
Update: I have now changed my FACEBOOK settings, thanks to advice from a friend. Unfortunately, I have NO control over who follows me on here – and this is a very real worry. If necessary, I will make this a Private site.