I read your lips when you told the host “nice rack” after we exchanged numbers. I’ve dealt with crap like that since I was 12 years old, so here’s what’s going to happen, as is my policy toward men who disrespect women: I’m going to be the worst tease you’ve ever met. When we go out, I’ll wear a top with spaghetti straps. I’ll wear blouses with lots of cleavage. I’ll borrow a tight red sweater from my little sister. When we hug goodnight, I’ll rub against you, and my boobs will press against your chest. It’ll take maybe 45 seconds for you to fall completely for me—not me, of course, just my bustline. But you won’t know the difference. We’ll never be alone, not at my place and certainly not at yours. Eventually, you’ll grab with your paws, and I’ll react like a chaste schoolgirl. Maybe I’ll give you some double-talk about my last “abusive boyfriend” or how I’m “not ready.” You’ll bring me flowers, which I’ll put in the office break room. You’ll buy me nice dinners you can’t afford. You’ll get me perfume, which I’ll save for my next true boyfriend. After a month and several hundred dollars, you’ll figure out I’m not sleeping with you and you’ll move on. But come back in about 15 years, after children and breastfeeding and gravity have taken their toll, and see if you still want to see this rack. I doubt it.—Anonymous