Dear Guy I Met at a Frat Party,

An intoxicated man waddles up to me and says, “Damn, baby! You’re looking good. Do you have a boyfriend?”

This man was you, and even though this is normally something I brush off and ignore, you were different. Not because you were attractive -- because let’s be honest, your overall demure was not alluring -- but because you attempted to tell me what I was allowed to wear. That, my dear man, is not acceptable.

First, I applaud you for making your intentions so painstakingly obvious by asking if I was single. You clearly weren’t looking to talk about our majors or the upcoming election. You were coming up to me for one purpose only. How very typical.

You probably don’t remember the full conversation, so I’ll continue to refresh your memory.

I informed you I had a boyfriend, and you didn’t believe me. Truthfully, I’m not too sure what to make of that. Should I be insulted or should I assume you get this comment a lot? Regardless, I looked at you blankly, expecting you to go away, and of course, you didn’t get the hint.

“Well, where’s your boyfriend at tonight?” you questioned, inching closer. By the way, bring mints next time; the smell of B.O. and beer isn’t flattering on you. I began telling you about my boyfriend, slightly glancing down at my phone, trying to find a picture just to prove the fact that yes, I am taken, and yes, that means you should go try your moves on someone else. Still, you were persistent.

“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t be wearing that top if I had a boyfriend. You shouldn’t show that much cleavage.” There it was, the comment that confirmed that you were more than a drunk guy trying to pick up a girl; instead, you were an asshole.

The outfit was tasteful compared to many I’ve seen, but because I had a boyfriend -- and mainly, because I wouldn’t have sex with you -- my outfit was appalling to such a degree that you wanted to dehumanize me. As a 19-year-old woman in college, I am allowed to wear whatever I want. No one can tell me otherwise, especially you, a strange man I met at a frat party. I agree that it was a very sexy outfit, but it wasn’t for your pleasure. It wasn’t for anyone.

Immediately, I got defensive. “My boyfriend knows that I’m wearing this,” I muttered. You didn’t seem to like that either. “I still don’t believe you have a boyfriend, since you're wearing that.” You glanced down at my chest with a disgusted look as you spat the word "that" in my face. You’re lucky you were bigger than me, because deep down, I wanted to give you an earful. However, it looked like you spent more time in the gym than the library, and telling you what I thought could’ve ended badly for me. Scary how society works, right? Not like you care.

I don't know your name, and I doubt you remember mine, but I wrote this letter to tell you everything I longed to say to you the night we met.

Sincerely,

The Girl in the Bodysuit.