If you want a toy, buy one.

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m a human. There’s an actual person inside of this body.

I do not exist to please or entertain you.

I’m flattered that you find my appearance attractive, but I will not drop my panties over you thinking so.

I believe beauty is more than skin-deep. Access to the most intimate parts of me isn’t free. I’m worth more than you (apparently) think.

I have priorities. And getting in your bed isn’t even close to being one of them.

Congratulations, you have a penis. So does every other man out there, and I don’t need to see it. I didn’t ask.

Oh, you’re bored? When I’m bored, I feed my mind. When I’m lonely, I call my friends.

If the only thing you have to offer is an orgasm, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I can take care of that myself.

I don’t have time for your games. I’m not buying your cheap trade. Not one part of me thinks I need you—for anything.

It appears that your goal is to gain access to me, and you’re going to fail.

Nothing turns me off more than an egotistical, cocky, empty shell of a man.

Is there anything underneath that shallow exterior?