DOMs

They call me Kitten. Sometimes, Doll. On a couple of instances, Little Lady. Yes, you'd be surprised as to how many people still use these pet names like we're still living in the 50s, which probably would've been endearing back then, but just reeks of innuendo in this day and age. There are those who try to get with the times, only to find themselves blocked outside the walls of civilization screaming, Uhhh, daaaaayuuuuum! In loving relationships, this is acceptable. In fact, a significant other throwing a "dayum" my way when I'm all dolled up (though more appreciated when I'm not) is encouraged. But we're talking about the average Neanderthal here, who at the mere sight of meat, slips backwards on the evolutionary scale and drools all over his bib, the worst of them being our overly friendly neighborhood gramps (or anybody over double our age).

Hey buddy, eyes up here, please.

Dirty old men make me shudder with disgust. I hate the whole lot of them--the kind who go, "woot woot" towards a skirt, regardless of whether it's hanging on a pair of legs or drying on a laundry wire; the kind who roar animal noises expecting proper ladies to somehow find it appealing enough to purr back; and the worst of all, the suits who justify looking for affairs with girls less than half their age with mid-life crisis. Seriously, the clubs are already crawling with desperate sleazeballs my age, we don't need an onslaught of drunken men old enough to be our fathers invading our personal space, spitting sweat and 80s pick-up lines in our faces.

As if that's not bad enough, but there's a whole mob of them who think that by watching shows like One Tree Hill, 90210 and Gossip Girl, they can pick up our generation's swagger and slang in a snap. But instead of looking up to the supposed heroes in these fictional settings, they end up taking on the stereotypical role of the idiotic frat-boy villain, suffering from a horrible case of Kiss 'n Tell.

Now, I've played Ice Queen numerous times. I know how to deter the seemingly predatory come-ons of older men. I can even let ogling with jaws dropped and passes at me slide (that is, if you get the picture at the first failed attempt). But if you sit at the next table bragging about your latest 20-something-flight-attendant conquest, your initiation into the Mile High Club, and your "tapping that sweet ass" experience, I swear I could hurl. I don't need the image of receding hairline, hairy beer gut, and sweaty, sagging ass swimming in my head.

I may not be the prettiest girl in the room, but I've had my share of cat calls, and I've been bombarded with disgustingly detailed May-December sexual rendezvous stories, and it's not flattering at all. It's not impressive coming from a guy my age. And it's not any better coming from a man who passed the height requirement at the carnival over 40 years ago. My advice: Unless you look like Richard Gere, David Duchovny or Hugh Grant, save your breath. There might not be a lot of it left lying around anyway.