I find you vulgar, Sir.
And not because I am female and require a gentler approach.
You lack finesse, the finer leanings for encounters. You misunderstand subtlety. Witty little lies and innuendo elude you. Instead, you are like a bull, careless and rash, animal in your dealings. You blunder, head first, stumbling in your own path, incapable of seeing the mess you create.
It offends me, Sir, even if it does not directly revolt me. For I am used to more consideration, and your inelegance is discourteous. For you did not think to learn otherwise in order to be on surer feet.
I see you are unhappy. Maybe a little furious. Shame. For I could teach you the finer art of etiquette. I could make you cleaner and more attractive, even as a forethought.
No, alas. I like you no better than men’s unmentionables. Therefore I care not for your education.
Stand back, Sir. You stuff of dreams forgotten.