To the Woman Scoping My Junk in the Reflection of the Elevator Door

Tailored dress pants may compliment my physique, but that doesn’t make me a slut. Miss, could you kindly extend me the courtesy of ceasing your incessant staring at my crotch? Not to overstate the point, but if my penis were Medusa, you’d be as hard as I am mortified right now. Perseus would be ashamed of you.

That’s right, there’s a big head to go with the little one.

Not that you care about anything beyond the mushroom-capped tubesteak blossoming forth from my trousers, but I happen to be married. You might have noticed my wedding band if you could tear your eyes away from the impossibly symmetrical deep-v-diver loosing from my loins.

I am a father of two children for Christ’s sake, both conceived with my loving wife — and admittedly significant contributions from the groin ferret you insist upon non-stop eye-fucking. I’m more than just a coiled kingsnake in khakis; I’m a person. Surely you’re more than just a stranger visually caressing the subtle J-shaped bulge in my flat-front slim-fit slacks.

Yes, the fluorescent ceiling lights dance playfully with the shadows across my pelvic curves like a twill blanket draped over a perfectly nested all-pork sausage link — but it’s sure-as-shit impolite to stare.

At first I believed it was an ego-fueled delusion. Your eyes, reflected in the mirror-finish elevator doors, darting from your phone to my outlined artisanal baby maker. But then it happened again…and again…and again!!! Please note that I do not toss such filthy, phallic punctuation around carelessly.

Fun fact: ogling a stranger’s fully-clothed schlong takes approximately 0.07 seconds. Like staring into the sun, you should divert that unblinking gaze lest my schwanz permanently impair your vision. At the very least, have some Visine on standby. I’d retrieve my travel bottle for you, but removing objects from my pockets is difficult in this particular pair of slacks.

Honestly, I’m flattered to have an attractive fifty-something professional in a low-cut flower-print dress and ill-fitting open-toed business sandals intermittently gawp my junk for the thirty seconds we ascend as elevator mates. Sure, my wife will find this hilarious — but that fits right in with your rampant misandry.

When will society finally acknowledge the plight of ruggedly handsome, horse-hung, thirty-something white males?

To you, I’m just an unattainable wang-model providing fleeting moments of visual delight. But right now, I’m struggling to ignore the developing itch in my chinos lest such movements be construed as the deus ex machina to transform this painfully toxic elevator commute into a scene from ill-conceived erotica.

I’m thrilled that — in the competition between cock gazing and checking your Facebook newsfeed — my ankle-spanker is killing it. Perhaps you should update your status: “Ogling the shit out of a monster dong right now #sausageforbreakfast.”

Maybe snap a picture and upload it to Instagram so that when we part ways you can continue eyeballing my innocent khaki Kraken from the cloud. I’ve always wondered how many likes my X-Pro II-filtered junk would garner, despite the fact that I’m a staunch Valencia man.

Perhaps tweet it so your twenty-three followers can share in your trouser-hog-image visual despoliation. Though, fitting such magnificence into 140 characters will require some serious kerning yoga.

And another thing…oh, this is your floor? Why, thank you. You have a pleasant day as well.