It seems The Letch is everywhere.
He's a client/patient/employee at your work, he's a neighbor on your block, he's an attender of your church.
You can't escape The Letch.
The Letch seeks you out if you are, female, relatively young and not severely disfigured.
He wants you to think he's charming, although he's either old or fat. I've yet to meet a Letch who is neither, and often he is both.
If you have the misfortune to be in contact with The Letch on a regular basis, The Letch hugs you. Ugh! Listen Letches, I'm not a hugger in the first place, and frankly I'd rather hug a leper than you. (Sometimes I feel like making a shirt that says, "Jesus loves you, but don't hug me.")
I usually feel common decency pressure to make small talk with The Letch. And although I'm just mostly smiling and nodding, he's hearing "she wants me."
I assure you Letches, we women, all women, do not want you. We might want to wax your back, but we do not want you.
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