Touché, Mr Shand...

Clearly, there are a few points I am going to have to clarify from my last blog...

While clearly, on some shallow but basically human level, EVERYBODY would be more pleased to have an attractive person check them out than an unattractive person, that wasn't what I was getting at.

I don't care if you're Brad Pitt (which is probably a bad example because I don't think he's attractive), if you're giving me that look when I'm not asking for it, I'm not happy with you.
The look I was referring to is a particular kind of look. There are appraising looks, and there are friendly looks, and shy looks, and coy looks. This is none of those. This is that look that is distinctly lecherous, distinctly dirty, designed to let you know that, in their mind's eye, you are not wearing any clothes and you're probably on your knees doing something that would make your mother vomit just to think about it. If a fat balding old man wants to smile at me, or give me an appraising look, you know what? That's fine. I'm actually perfectly happy with the fact that I'm attractive and that, now and then, people are going to notice. And if a fat balding old man - or any other variety of typically unattractive person, for that matter! - wants to 'check me out' casually while I'm on the dancefloor strutting my stuff (what a stupid expression), that is also fine. It's the particular attitude with which it is sometimes done - and I stress again, EVEN BY ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE - that gets to me, and this may not be something that men understand, because it may be that it isn't done with any different kind of attitude at all. I don't pretend to know everything about men. Perhaps that guy giving me the slitty eyed smirking look from the dark corner with his hand deep in his pocket is really a total sweetheart, thinking "she looks lovely, like she bakes a really nice sponge cake." You know? Who can know for sure. But it certainly doesn't feel like it so I'm guessing that's not the case.

On the other hand. If I am wearing something revealing, or tight-fitting, or otherwise sexy, I expect (well, not EXPECT, but you know) a lot of male attention; but I am not offended if not everybody giving it to me is up to my standards of attractiveness, because as Jase pointed out, that would just be unrealistic, shallow, and stupid. And I'm certainly not saying as long as you're easy on the eyes you have every right to treat me however you like. I won't put up with being looked at like I'm wearing a price tag by anyone; I wouldn't find it any less offensive coming from an attractive young man of my own age than I do coming from a much older and less conventionally attractive specimen.

And, as only one wise person picked up on when commenting on Jason's blog - it had a lot to do with the fact that I was standing in the rain after a hard day at work being stared down by some prick in a BMW. I mean, if you want to be viciously ogled by someone sitting in a warm expensive car while you stand in a puddle getting soaked to the skin and wondering whether to have a plate of plain pasta or a plate of plain noodles for your dinner, you be my guest.

In conclusion: if you think I'm pretty, I'm flattered. If you want to smile at me, I will smile back at you, regardless of your appearance.
But if you give me that look like you're imagining me gagged and blindfolded and tied to a dirty bed in some stinking basement somewhere... well. I'll blog about you and it'll be replied to by a Scottish radio presenter.
So, you know.

You have been warned.