The Diamondback has made Johnny Mathias a lucky man by giving him, for who knows what half-brained reason, the opportunity to “holla at” every woman on the campus (“Waiting not-so-patiently for Skirt Day,” April 17). Now I can’t respond for every woman on the campus. Some, on the 100 percent positive gender relations end, may be flattered by the celebration of their sexuality. You say, “Work it, ladies!” They respond, “Damn right, I’m gonna work it!” Power to them.

Cool. How about the rest of us? Those of us who struggle, for instance, or at least have boundaries? I have had men yell out of their car windows at me since I was 12. I didn’t (and don’t) tend to dress in a particularly provocative way. Going to CVS because there’s nothing better to do in the suburbs at age 12 is hardly soliciting oneself. I get the stereotypical Latino guys catcalling in pickup trucks, sure, but I also get middle-aged white guys positively staring at me instead of looking at the road. Am I attracted to a balding, probably married man driving a mid-life crisis convertible? No. Did I step out of my house for the sake of his sexual gratification? Hell no. Can’t I just loosen up and take it as a compliment? Well … forgive me for being difficult, but no.

Now you listen, and you listen good: When I bare my tattooed, au natural dancer’s legs to the world, I am doing it for my sake. I choose when and where not to work my sweet thang based on my own inclination, not some universal biological cue. And when I feel compelled to attract a “mate,” I will do so on my own terms. Mathias used the word “hunt.” Another word for hunting is predation. Let me get this one thing straight, Casanova: I will not be hunted.

Finally, it was very sweet of you to suggest that any reader who didn’t find your “hot girls club” joke funny is ugly. Go get ’em, tiger. Gotta love a man who thinks he’s entitled to define female beauty and make suggestions to facilitate his exploitation of it. I will obligingly show you my middle finger, sir, and suggest to you as I have wished to suggest to so many men driving by: Go f— yourself.

Now I wonder what kind of flattery that little gesture will earn me. Bitch? Dyke? Man-hater? Ugly? Frigid? I’ve heard it all before. That doesn’t make it true. Or perhaps you’ll take the other common route: “Ooh, I like it feisty!” If that’s the case, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell you that I don’t like it feisty. If you were really trying to be a nice guy and give us all a compliment, I apologize and recommend instead that you learn how it’s done respectfully. Start by thinking of us as people with multiple layers of identity even as we shed our winter layers of clothing. Assume we all have different needs and desires. Because you know we have them, but you don’t know what they are and can’t find out by looking at our legs. You can think before you speak. Keep your appreciation to yourself, or express it with the whole woman in mind.

Speaking of whole women, I would like to quickly address something that has been grinding my and my guy friends’ gears. Lately, I have overheard different girls calling themselves fat in a disparaging tone at least three times a day. I turn around to look at who’s speaking and for the life of me can’t find the fat girl. Please, fat girls, if you’re going to announce yourselves like that, stop hiding when I turn around to gawk at you.

Otherwise, I just might have to assume that there are no fat girls, and that you are in fact skinny, healthy or moderately plump girls suffering from poor body image. Ladies (and gents): You are beautiful the way you are. I mean it. People will be mean. That’s their problem, not yours. Given all the crap you’ve ever taken about the way you “should” look versus the way you do look, it will be difficult to stop being mean to yourself. That’s okay. You’re worth the effort.

Rebecca Ogle is a sophomore English major who is a presiding officer of the Hot Girls Club. She can be reached at answer42@umd.edu.