Write For Lyrics: Robin Thicke

Write For Lyrics is a thing I do when I haven’t got a clue what to post. I write flash-fiction or a poem or something entirely different based on the lyrics of a song. I give you the band, and you’re more than welcome to try and guess the song, although I imagine today’s is going to be pretty obvious. TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of sexual assault and rape.

My friends thought it would be a good idea to take me to the party.

I wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t the kind of party I went to, after all — the ones with cosplay or book giveaways or bad dancing to good music. Here… the music was as bad as the dancing, nobody was wearing enough fabric for cosplay (although one girl looked like she was trying to be Catwoman), and there was no way you could read a book with all the strobe lighting. I felt uncomfortable; I hadn’t dressed up, but somehow my favourite pair of skinny jeans felt pornographic here. None of this felt right.

And that was the point at which my friends left me leaning against the wall to go dance and have fun while I winced at the pro-rape rap music and realised that no one other than me must have been listening to the lyrics because in the rapper’s mind they would all have been ‘asking for it’.

“Hi,” someone shouted into my ear, making me jump even though he wasn’t any louder than anything else in this place. I eyed the guy — how had he got so close without me noticing. “How you doin’?”

I smirked. “Did you just quote Joey Tribiani?” I asked, wondering if maybe I wasn’t the only misfit at this party.

He just nodded blankly and let his eyes trail down my body. I shuddered and pushed off the wall, searching for my friends. I couldn’t see them for the crowd.

“Where you going?” the guy asked, grabbing my wrist to keep me where I was.

Unease began to pool in my stomach. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.” I tried to pull away.

“Come on, love. Stay a little while. You know you want to.”

I raised an eyebrow in defiance of the tremble in my hands. “I know I don’t want to, thanks.” I tugged at his hand, but he just wouldn’t let go of me.

“Let’s go somewhere private, bitch,” he snarled. “You’ll enjoy it, trust me.”

“LET GO OF ME!” I screamed over the final beats of the awful, pro-rape rap that seemed like a shitty foreshadowing job by an uncaring God.

The guy stared at me for another moment — my face, this time. I stared straight back, trying to control my breathing and the fear that surely showed.

The guy blinked and looked at the floor. “Oh God,” he muttered as the first lines of the next song — a good song, surprisingly — started. He dropped my arm and looked back up at me. “Oh my God, miss. I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

I took a deep breath and watched him speed-walk away. My nerves only began to settle when I saw him walk out of the door.

“What a great song that last one is, huh?” one of my friends asked, jumping on me from behind. “You should have come danced with us, spoilsport.”

I pushed her off and shook my head. “No. That song promotes rape. It suggests that girls always want it, and they only say no to keep up their reputation. It objectifies women and I am not comfortable with being at this party. I’ll talk to you later.” I turned around and left without looking back.

And that was today’s addition of I Can’t Even Be Bothered With A Metaphor Because I’m So Angry About This Song And That Clip I Saw Of It Being Performed At The VMAs. Thanks for reading and I’m sorry if I’ve offended anyone.


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