After a long weekend at Comikaze, and being the regular cosplayer that I am, I thought it time to address some of those folks that make my con going experiences painfully creep-tastic.
Dearest Convention-Going Butt Photographers-
Yes, that’s right. We’ve seen you. All those times you thought you were being sneaky at snapping a cheeky shot of us in catsuits or leotards? You wish. You have relatively the same amount of stealth as a bell-wearing ninja in neon. Putting the phone to the side of your head like you’re taking a call? You know that button makes a shutter noise when you click it, right?
Look, we’ve heard the same old lines ad naseum. You’re a dude, you’re supposed to like butts. Just look at the way we’re dressed, we’re practically begging you to photograph our costumed posteriors. Here’s the sad bottom line, my friend: you are an asshole, and no amount of hemming and hawing is going to change that.
With the oodles of professional butt-shots on the internet (many of them available for free, I might add), why on Earth do you feel it necessary to capture ours? And to most often capture them on the shitty excuse for a camera that’s lodged in your mobile device? Assuming the worst in what you do with them, certainly you can find better quality, and consensual, imagery for your wanking pleasure aplenty on a little old thing we call the web.
If you’re not using the images for the worst of intentions, then what in the bloody hell are you hoping to achieve? Congrats on your, likely poorly lit, unflattering shot of my ass that you can tote about with you on your phone. Wow, and you can even back it up to the Cloud! Goodness and golly gee! The things technology can do these days!
I’m not going to lie. I make catsuits and leafy Ivy undies look good. However, when I paw through boxes of back issues at a convention, they are set at a height that requires me to bend at the waist. I do this not for your viewing pleasure, but because I absolutely have to find that copy of Batman #183 in a condition that’s hopefully short of fossilized. Just because I’m avidly seeking my treasures doesn’t mean I’m not aware of your creepy self standing behind me and acting like we’re at a photoshoot where I’m Derek Zoolander and you’re yelling “Dance, monkey! Dance!” You are the reason I keep folks around me to help shield my delicate rear from becoming one of the many in your less-than-tasteless collection. And yes, I did see when you stepped side to side, swaying like a pussy willow in the breeze, hoping to evade my own personal butt security guard.
Allow me to illustrate just how low you are on my list. The next to last entry on my list are the guys who get a little too handsy after actually asking my permission to take a photo. To find you, we have to scroll so far down the chart that we can smell the brimstone simmering near its location. In fact, the edges of my chart are tattered and seared mere fractions away from where you currently find yourself.
I am willing to bet that, with some exceptions, you are not the guy who snaps photos of women’s badonkadonks while trotting down the street on an average day. (Though perhaps I’m giving you too much credit.) Just because we happen to be in costume, this should not be misconstrued as a free pass to snap photos of whatever you like. Hate to break it to you, but there are people in them thar costumes. Women as people, what will they think of next, right?
I’ve been pretty forgiving in my convention travels, and that’s my bad. However, don’t be surprised when I loudly call you out on your behaviour the next time I catch you. I hope your out-of-focus booty shot was worth it.
Lady You-have-no-idea-how-much-I-want-to-punch-you-in-the-face esq.