As a woman, if you are any sort of attractive, you expect to be stared at. Whether you’ve got a cute face, a nice figure or the full package, men, and some women, are going to look at you. Intensely. Awkardly. Even creepily. No it’s not fun, but it’s part of life. People stare at things they find pretty. That’s why we sit and watch the sunset.

Most of us have learned to avert our eyes from those of our creepy admirers, ignore the eyes on our breasts and butts and just pretend that the dude’s eyes aren’t locked onto us like heat tracking missiles. All we can do is hope that the guy doesn’t muster up the courage to come talk to you, because it’s already awkward enough, thank you very much.

But lo and behold, he’s found his balls, and kudos to him, because we all know rejection is a wretched thing. He comes over, asks for your name and number, you aren’t interested and you let him know and he leaves with his head hung and his ego just slightly deflated – or completely flat depending on how fragile his self-esteem is.

Beauty comes in all sizes. Security should too.

I can’t count the amount of times I’ve had to listen to people comment on how skinny I am, always with some little twist of negativity. Either it’s, “I wish I was as skinny as you!” or “Girl you need to put some meat on those bones!” And heaven forbid I should make a complaint about my body of any sort in front of anyone with more inches than myself. Then I get, “What are you complaining about?! You’re perfect.”

Let’s just clarify a few things. Firstly, there is no such thing as perfect. Secondly, those folks telling me to eat have clearly never had a meal with me, because anyone who has knows I have the appetite of a man. Thirdly, and the whole point of my rambling thus far, it’s not always easy being skinny and every time someone of larger proportions has the audacity to tell me otherwise, my blood boils.

Gentlemen, this one’s for you.

I can’t pretend to be an expert on men and their inner workings and desires. Besides, that would require a huge amount of generalization and stereotyping, which is really not my style. But, correct me if I’m wrong, you lovely visual creatures see something you like, or even remember something you saw that you liked, and blood starts flowing South and thoughts start swirling around inside your head, and suddenly you’re on the lookout for somewhere to put your man parts, be it hands, mouth or vagina.

To my knowledge, most men are up for a good roll in the sack with a willing female participant pretty damn often. I am not going to judge you for that. Essentially humans are animals with primal desires, how can I blame you for wanting to fulfill them. As long as your sex cannot be categorized as rape, assault or violation, do your thing.

But here’s my beef, gents. If you’re going to do the do, like they teach you in sex-ed, know the consequences. While I pity those who contract a STI from a good bedding – I pity you even more if the bedding was bad – that’s not the consequence I intend to address. No my dear fellows, I am talking about living, breathing, diaper wearing, crying-in-the-middle-of-the-night consequences: Babies.